Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  “How are you and William getting along?” “Splendidly, Admiral. He is a fine lad.”

  Of course, Chase already knew that William had taken to his new governess. Every night he had come home that week, he’d heard the boy’s laughter bubbling through the house. One particularly lonely night, Miss Dawson’s and William’s voices, accompanied by a harpsichord, had floated through the rooms like a healing balm, infiltrating the diseased walls and eradicating the death and sorrow festering within them—if only for a moment. Music and laughter, two things that had not graced this house in years. Yet why did the sound of them make Chase so uneasy?

  Shaking off the uncomfortable thoughts, he withdrew his sword and laid it upon his desk. “Does he obey you? If not, you may call upon Sebastian when I am not home.” He rubbed his chin, regarding her.

  Miss Dawson brushed a curl from her forehead and finally offered him a direct gaze. “There is no need, Admiral. I am perfectly capable of handling your son. And if I may be so bold, I believe you misjudge him. He has a kind disposition.” She hesitated. “He longs for his father.”

  “He has a father.”

  “But not one who is present.”

  Chase felt a twinge in his jaw. “I must do my job, Miss Dawson, or William will not have the food, clothing, or tutoring he needs. He is a child and does not understand such things.”

  “He understands more than you know, Admiral.”

  Chase slammed his fist on the desk.

  Miss Dawson jumped. “My apologies. I misspoke.” Her voice barely audible, she rose from her chair.

  Cursing under his breath, Chase veered around. Guilt pricked his conscience. Clearly her comments had been borne out of a concern for William. Suddenly he thought better of turning his back on her again and spun around to find her grabbing her shawl and starting toward the door.

  “If I have your permission, I will take my leave now,” she mumbled.

  Without thinking, Chase grabbed her arm, halting her. She raised her eyes to his, uncertainty and fear flickering within them. For moments, they stood gazing at each other in silence. He wanted to take her in his arms again, to comfort her, to wipe away the tears that now pooled in her eyes. Why? Confusion and fear churned in his stomach.

  “I fear you have formed a wrong opinion of me, Admiral.” She tugged her arm from his grasp and took a step back. “Perhaps like your sister you believe Frenchwomen to be naught but wanton playthings.” She drew a shaky breath.

  Chase grimaced, regretting his touch upon her not only because of its effect on him but also because he clearly had frightened her again. “I assure you, Miss Dawson, I do not share her views.” He sighed, unsure how to make her see he was not the knave his actions portrayed. He searched her warm eyes, so different from the cold, angry sheen that covered his sister’s gaze.

  “May I ask why you forgave my sister so easily? Her behavior toward you was beyond reproach.” The gracious act still baffled him. Why, if they had been men, a duel would have resulted from such a scurrilous affront.

  She pressed her shawl against her chest. “Who am I not to forgive others when I have been forgiven so much?”

  Chase grunted. He assumed she meant by God. “And what horrid things could someone so young have done that required forgiveness?”

  “ ’Tis not so much what we have done, but the condition of our hearts, Admiral. A wrong motive can be just as evil as a spiteful act.”

  Forgiveness. Chase had been taught about God’s forgiveness at church all his life, but he had never felt he was forgiven, had never witnessed anyone else receive forgiveness in a way that changed him, and had never really seen true forgiveness in action.

  Until that night.

  He narrowed his eyes upon Miss Dawson, wondering why she fascinated him so much. “And what might your motives be?”

  Her face blanched, and she shifted her eyes to the floor. “To care for William, Admiral.”

  “Yes, of course.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace as thoughts of his sister brought back his promise to attend the ball. He stopped and studied Miss Dawson. Her gaze darted to the door. It appeared the little sparrow yearned to fly away. He moved to block her path then gave her a reassuring smile.

  Attending the ball would not be so unpleasant if he could escort Miss Dawson. And it would serve another purpose, as well. Though he could not imagine any foul play on her part, her suspicious behavior did give him some pause, and this way, he could keep a weather eye upon her all evening.

  “One more thing, Miss Dawson, and then you may go.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you might do me a favor.”

  A line of wariness creased the corner of her lovely mouth. “Perhaps.”

  He chuckled at her hesitancy. “As you know, my sister has badgered me into going to the ball at Lord and Lady Billingsworth’s tomorrow night.” His throat went dry, and he swallowed, wondering at his sudden nervousness. “I smell a trap, and one I fear only you can help me avoid.”

  “Moi? I do not understand.” Her delicate brows crinkled together.

  Chase leaned toward her. “Would you do me the honor of attending the ball with me?”

  Miss Dawson’s face reddened again so quickly it reminded Chase of red and white signal flags being raised and lowered on his ship.

  “But how could that help?” she stuttered, tossing a hand to her chest. “I mean to say, non. Absolutely not. I could not possibly.” She moved to circle around him.

  He stepped in her path again. “You would be doing me a grand service.”

  She gazed up at him, her eyes shifting between his. “But your sister—surely she loathes me enough without inciting her further? And besides, what would people think?”

  “People? They would see naught but Admiral Randal escorting his governess to a dance. They will think what they will, regardless of what they see.” He shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  Miss Dawson pursed her lips and glanced away. “Nevertheless, I cannot. Now if you please.” She made a move to get by him. “May I go?”

  Chase stepped aside, disappointment expelling a huge gust from his lips. She swept past him in a whiff of lilacs and moved down the hall with a superior gait that belied the timid girl she portrayed.

  Suddenly she froze and turned around. Chase thought to make a dash into his study, not wanting her to know he had been staring at her, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the vision of her standing in the dark hall with beams of moonlight dancing around her like angels.

  “Very well, Admiral. It would be my pleasure to attend the ball with you.”

  He studied her, wondering at her sudden change of heart but afraid to press her any further. “Very good.” He bowed and watched her turn and fade into the darkness. Elated at her acceptance, he wasn’t foolish enough to think that she had agreed because of any affection for him.

  No, something else was going on with this intriguing Frenchwoman, something mysterious, something even dangerous, perhaps. Had she intended to strike him with the candlestick? He shook his head and gave a quick snort. It made no sense. Nothing about the woman made any sense. She fascinated him. And what was even more fascinating to him was that he now looked forward to this ridiculous dance with great anticipation.

  Yes, this ball would prove to be very entertaining, indeed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dominique pulled her blue muslin pelisse tighter around her neck against the morning mist swirling around her. Only in London did the fog seem to possess the unnatural ability to move through fabric as well as skin. Yet riding atop the chill, pleasant memories bounced over Dominique—memories of her mother lovingly insisting she and Marcel bring extra cloaks whenever they intended to visit the city.

  As if reading her thoughts, Larena glanced up into the gray sky. “We may actually get to see the sun today, miss.”

  Following her gaze, Dominique saw nothing but a bowl of soot capping the city, save for a few light cracks where the su
n’s rays attempted to slice through the pudding-like fog.

  “But what difference does the weather make when we are going shopping?” Larena’s crimson curls bobbed beneath her bonnet as she walked next to Dominique. “ ’Tis most exciting, isn’t it? Shopping for the ball tonight?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Dominique attempted a weak smile. Larena had jumped at the chance to accompany her down Bond Street—where all high society shopped—to the Grafton House, the only draper’s shop Dominique could afford. Apparently dress shopping was not one of the chambermaid’s normal activities, but why would it be when no lady had lived in the Randal home these past three years?

  Her exuberance was almost catching—almost—for Dominique wasn’t entirely sure she’d made the right decision in agreeing to accompany the admiral. The thought of the upcoming evening caused a tightness in her chest that had kept her up most of the night and made her ravenously hungry that morning. For breakfast, she’d consumed three poached eggs, two pieces of toast smothered with jam, sausage, and five cups of strong tea, and now she found she was hungry all over again.

  Horses clattered over the cobblestone streets, pulling elaborately painted phaetons and landaus that carried their well-dressed passengers to whatever grand events were happening that day: a horse race or cricket match or perhaps just a stroll in Hyde Park.

  Dominique edged around a peddler selling muffins, and her stomach rumbled at the sweet smell of fresh-baked dough. She pressed a hand over her complaining midsection and decided not to embarrass herself further by eating any more in front of Larena. They passed a window filled with clusters of tightly wound hair in every imaginable color and style. Dominique twirled a finger around one of her own chestnut locks as she examined the wigs, amazed at the variety and the prices.

  “If I may be so bold …” Larena gave Dominique an inquisitive glance as they continued on their way. “You should be honored the admiral asked you to the ball. He hasn’t escorted a lady to a dance since … well, since his wife died, I suppose.”

  “I am honored.” Dominique sidestepped a young lad racing down the street with an orange in his tight grip. An older gentleman followed quick on his heels, yelling, “Thief! Thief!”

  She turned and watched them coil their way through the crowd. “Poor thing. He’s probably starving.”

  Larena tilted her head and gazed at Dominique before they started forward again.

  “I do not wish to give people the wrong impression. I’m only going as a favor to the admiral,” Dominique stated.

  “A favor? Is that what he’s calling it?” Larena’s lips curved upward, lifting a small freckle at the corner of her mouth.

  “Yes, and that is all that it is.” Dominique raised a stern brow at her chambermaid, but her thoughts quickly turned to the feel of the admiral’s arms around her. That had been all she had thought about during her long, sleepless night. She had closed her eyes only for a second, not wanting to witness the candlestick bashing his head, when suddenly she’d found herself locked in his embrace—a warm, strong embrace that for a brief moment made her feel safe, secure, and cared for. A feeling she’d not enjoyed for a very long time.

  A gentleman approached, lifted his top hat at the ladies, and allowed his gaze to scour over Dominique as he passed. She recognized the look, the same hunger she’d seen in the admiral’s eyes—or was it? The admiral’s gaze had held something deeper, and the warm sensation it produced in Dominique frightened her. She must avoid him; she must do what she came to do and leave as soon as possible; and she should definitely not go to a dance with the man. But what choice did she have? If she didn’t go, he would be at the ball with the key to his study in his pocket, and she would spend another night alone in his home, banging her head against the oak barricade. Since her attempt to pummel him unconscious hadn’t worked, she saw no other option than to feign an affection for him that would bring her close enough to somehow remove the key from his person. And what better way to accomplish that than a dance?

  Larena said something, but Dominique couldn’t make it out amidst the cacophony of sounds clamoring in the streets. Well past eleven o’clock, the city seemed to instantly burst with life. Bells of street peddlers rang through the streets, echoing off the brick walls of the exquisite shops lining the avenue: jewelers, tailors, candle makers, booksellers, tea dealers, watchmakers, and purveyors of every imaginable luxury that London society could afford. A German band began to play inside a tavern, horses whinnied, children laughed, and the constant grinding of carriage wheels over the cobblestones only added to the orchestra of madness.

  “There’s Grafton House, miss.” Larena pointed to a small store several yards ahead and across the street. A wooden sign hanging from an iron post projecting from the front read GRAFTON HOUSE DRAPERS.

  Dominique nodded as the rich aroma of roasting coffee filled her nose like sweet nectar, and she glanced back over her shoulder at a quaint café.

  “A coffeehouse. They are quite popular now,” Larena said. “Would you care for some?”

  “Nay, but it does smell delicious.” No sooner had she said the words than the stench of rot and sewage ripped the succulent aroma from her nose. Coughing, Dominique turned to see a woman emptying a chamber pot from her second-story window into the alleyway below. It splattered onto the street, sending a spray of sludge into the air. Turning her gaze back onto the main street, she pressed forward.

  Brave flickers of sunlight broke through the fog, showering the scene with sparkling highlights and brightening Dominque’s spirits along with them. Gentlemen decked in tailored coats and breeches, with flowing silk cravats bunched about their necks and top hats perched on their heads, strolled about with canes in hand as if they owned the world, perusing the females as they passed. Ladies flounced by them in promenade gowns, fluttering fans and parasols through the air—though why they would need either on a day like this, Dominique could not fathom. Yes, this was the Season in London about which her mother had always spoken. The time when all the nobility flocked to the city from their country estates to see and be seen.

  A tall gentlemen, impeccably dressed, nodded with an approving smile as he passed by on Dominique’s left. Another one, across the street, held a monocle to his eye and studied her as if she were a specimen in a laboratory.

  Dominique gritted her teeth. She hated being on display.

  “Seems you are drawing a bit of attention this morning, miss.”

  “Indeed.” Precisely what she did not want to do, either on the street, in the house, or anywhere in London, for that matter.

  “When did you have your coming out?” Larena asked as they wove around three giggling ladies.

  “Coming out?”

  “Yes, your coming-out party.”

  Dominique cringed as memories fell on her like a sudden weight. “Five years ago.” Had it been that long? “I had just turned eighteen.” She remembered the excitement of having her first silk gown tailored, of the maids fawning over her before the event, bedecking her curls with jewels and applying rice powder to her face and salve to her lips, the proud look on her mother’s face, and of course, the attention she received from the young men at the ball. “You must have been quite a hit.”

  “I can’t really say. ’Twas the best and worse evening of my life.” “Whatever do you mean?”

  “We received news of my father’s death late that same night.” Dominique sighed as her heart shriveled, reliving the agony. “And my mother moved us back to France within a month.”

  “I’m very sorry, miss.” Larena gave Dominique’s arm a gentle squeeze. Her blue eyes warmed in concern. “Perhaps ’tis just as well. By the looks you’re getting today, you’d have been married off your first season, to be sure.”

  They passed an art gallery on their right, its windows stuffed with magnificent oil paintings lined in rows next to huge bronze sculptures. Horrified, Dominique tore her gaze from a statue of a naked man. She cleared her throat. “Do you disapprove of marr
iage?”

  “I disapprove of slavery, miss, which is what most marriages are.”

  Dominique blinked. She’d heard some women call their marriages drudgery but never slavery. “Is that what you thought of the admiral’s marriage?”

  “Nay.” Larena shook her head and stared ahead of them. “I discouraged Melody—I mean Mrs. Randal—from marrying the admiral, but truth be told, they were quite happy together. He loved her very much.”

  A strange twinge startled Dominique. Somehow she couldn’t picture the admiral loving anyone—or being happy for that matter. “Do you never hope to marry, then?”

  “I’m already eight and twenty, miss. Well past marrying age for a woman.” She adjusted her shawl. “Besides, I have more than proven that I can take care of myself. I don’t need a man to rule over me.”

  The words shot from Larena’s mouth with such spite that Dominique wondered what had happened to make her so opposed to what most women considered a blessed privilege. Yet her independence ignited envy within Dominique. If she had been able to take care of herself and her brother, they would not have had to depend on Cousin Lucien—and she would not be in this horrid predicament.

  “You’re far more courageous than I am,” she admitted as she stopped next to an apple cart and gazed across the busy street, wondering how they would ever cross it safely.

  The maid studied her. “Perhaps you simply have not been given the chance to prove yourself.”

  Ah, but she had been given the chance.

  And she’d failed miserably.

  After her mother had died so suddenly last year, Dominique, who hadn’t a clue how to fend for herself, had been reduced to dragging her brother through the streets of Paris, begging for morsels of food. It had proven to be the most shameful and terrifying time of her life, and she believed they both would be dead—or worse—if Cousin Lucien hadn’t rescued them. No, she had proven herself incapable of being anything like Larena.