Dominique felt a tug on the bottom of her pelisse and looked down to see a young costermonger, a boy no older than William. “Please, miss, would you buy an apple?”
Smudges of dirt marred his pale complexion. His unkempt hair sprouted in all directions. He scratched his chest through a hole in his ragged clothes and swept his bare feet through a puddle, then held the red fruit out to her with an empty, pleading look in his eyes.
Dominique knelt and smiled as her heart split in two. A vision of Marcel as dirty and unkempt as this young lad crept through her mind. He’d been the one who had done most of the begging—especially toward the end when Dominique had all but given up. “I’d love to buy an apple. How much?”
“Two pence, miss.” He coughed to the side, a raspy, moist cough that sent a chill down Dominique’s spine. He raised his glassy green eyes to hers, a tiny flicker of hope skipping across them.
Dominique opened her purse and dug out a shilling then placed it in the boy’s other hand, closing his fingers around it. When he peeked at the coin, his eyes widened, and his lips parted in a generous smile. “Thank you, miss.”
“And you eat the apple for me, will you?”
“Aye, miss.” Without hesitation, he chomped on the ripe fruit. Juice dripped off his grinning lips before he scampered away.
Dominique rose and scanned the street again. Seeing an opening betwixt phaetons, she grabbed Larena and ventured forth.
“I’ve never seen the likes of that, miss—not from a lady.” Larena shook her head as they skirted around a pile of fly-infested manure.
Dominique tossed her hand to her nose against the putrid smell as they reached the other side and stood in front of Grafton House.
Larena’s brow crinkled, folding her freckles together. “Now you won’t have enough for a decent overskirt.”
“Perhaps not, but that boy and his family will eat tonight.”
Larena’s eyes moistened, and she turned aside as Dominique opened the door to the shop.
After an hour of sifting through a multitude of fabrics and listening to Larena’s endless opinions on the fashions of the day, Dominique finally purchased a lovely maroon satin overskirt, embroidered in golden lace. Since she couldn’t afford a new gown, this would do nicely to dress up one of the gowns the last governess had left. She’d tried it on before they’d left the house that morning, and it fit wonderfully. Although the neckline was a bit lower than she felt comfortable with, it was not as risqué as most of the gowns she’d seen. She certainly didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Even with the new overskirt, it would be a plain dress by comparison to the more expensive gowns, but it suited her, and she hoped she wouldn’t bring shame to the admiral.
When she stepped from the shop, her purchase flung over one arm, she found her mood had vastly improved. Perhaps it was the patches of sun that now lit the bustling street as she and Larena made their way through the crowd.
“Do you know where St. Mary Woolnoth is located?” Dominique scurried beside Larena, who had quickened her pace.
“I believe the church is on Lombard Street.” She flashed Dominique a grin. “Not too far from here. I can show you the way another time if you’d like. But we must get home to prepare you for the ball. We haven’t much time.”
Truth be told, Dominique would much prefer a visit to see the Reverend John Newton. Although she had met him only once, her father often spoke of him as the man who had “opened the eyes of his soul” to see the truth of God. Her father told her that if she ever found herself in London in need of help, she could always go to Rev. Newton. And Lord knew, she needed help—desperately. “May I ask why it interests you?”
“My father and the rector were good friends, and I wish to visit him while I’m in town.”
“Well, you shall have plenty of time to do that, miss. I do believe the admiral intends to keep you in his employ. Surely he cannot help but see the change in William already.”
“Truly?” Dominique had no idea if she was benefiting William. The boy seemed to enjoy her company, but then, he would enjoy anyone’s company in light of his father’s continual absence.
“Can you not see it?” Larena’s wide eyes were aglitter. “Why, I’ve not heard that boy laugh in years. And sing?” She shook her head, sending her red curls fluttering in the breeze. “Not since his mother died. You are just what William needs. And it warms my heart, Miss Dawson.” She gave Dominique’s arm a tender squeeze. “Truly I’ve come to love that boy as if he were my own.”
Dominique’s heart felt strangely heavy. As soon as she could get her hands on the information Lucien wanted, she’d have to leave—leave dear sweet William all alone in the world again without a mother, and from what she’d witnessed, without a father, as well. Surely they would find another governess for William, and no doubt a lady far more suitable than she. She tried to console herself with that thought as they toiled through the crowd. She raised her face to the sun, relishing its warmth while trying to avoid the leering gazes of the men who brushed past her.
The sound of angry male voices up ahead startled her.
“How dare you? I will not stand for such an affront, sir,” one man bellowed.
“You’ll not only stand for it; you’ll take it like the weasel you are and scurry away.”
Someone chuckled, and a crowd began to form around the men, who had obviously carried their altercation out into the street from a club up ahead.
Gentlemen nudged ladies behind them in a protective gesture while inching forward, craning their necks for a better view of a grand diversion in their otherwise humdrum day.
Larena halted, her face pinched in alarm. The crowd pressed in on them. “We should not go any farther until this is settled.” She squeezed in front of Dominique and craned her neck to watch the fisticuffs.
Strong fingers gripped Dominique’s arm.
A short, burly man dressed in a silk overcoat and gaudy purple cravat dragged her away from the mob. Her throat clamped shut. She tried to scream. No sound came from her lips save a few feeble sputters.
The man gave her a stern look before he pushed her down a narrow alleyway. He slammed her trembling body against the cold brick wall. A rough hand that smelled of tobacco and fish stifled her scream under a crushing hold to her mouth. Terror gripped her in a cold sweat.
“Avez-vous les documents?”
Wide-eyed, Dominique shook her head as the man lowered his hand from her mouth. Perspiration trickled down the back of her gown. She could no longer feel her heart beating.
“Pas encore,” she replied in a squeaky voice. Her gaze darted to the street. People dashed by, rushing to view the altercation. She could still hear the men fighting. Yet she could not call for help. If she did, this man would surely expose her for the spy she was.
If anyone heard them speaking French, they’d no doubt be brought before the constable. “En Englais, monsieur, s’il vous plaît.“
He scowled. “Do you have the documents?”
“Not yet,” she repeated in English. “I need more time.” Dominique rubbed her sore arm and met the man’s slick, narrow gaze. His hair hung in greasy strands to his shoulders. The stink of human waste rose from the ground around him like a poisonous vapor.
With an evil sneer, the man dropped his other hand from her arm. “You have been here two weeks, mademoiselle.”
“He keeps the documents behind a locked door.”
A rat scampered through the puddles of sludge around their feet, and the man kicked it aside with a fiendish snicker. His sinister gaze locked on her. “Your brother’s blood cries out to you, mademoiselle. Do not forget him.”
“His blood?” Panic pounded in her chest. “Is he all right? Is Marcel all right?” She felt light-headed again. Oh please, Lord. Don’t let me faint. Not here, not with this man.
“For now.” He slid a finger over his oily mustache and sneered at her “You must bring me something to ensure his safety.” He glanced toward the street. “
By Monday night.”
“But I cannot.” Dominique sobbed. “That’s only two days. I need more time.” How could she possibly accomplish in two days what she’d not been able to do in two weeks?
“Tuesday morning at the first hour. There’s a tavern, the Last Stop, on Cecil Street, off Strand. Come alone.”
“Miss Dawson.” Larena’s worried voice filtered through the crowd that now seemed to be dispersing.
Dominique’s knees nearly gave out, and she gripped the wall behind her lest she topple to the ground. The cold, moist brick bit into her hands like sharpened gravel. “But, monsieur, I cannot possibly get away that late at night.”
“J’en ai assez!“he barked. “If you do not come with something we can use, your brother will pay for your disloyalty with his blood.”
CHAPTER 9
Chase poured himself another swig of brandy, grabbed the glass, and tossed the golden liquid to the back of his mouth. It slid down his throat like fire and plunged into his belly, radiating a pleasant numbness to his agitated nerves.
“Sir, should you be partaking quite so much before the dance?” Sebastian asked.
Chase spun on his heel and glared at the butler as the slender man brushed off Chase’s navy frock and ensured the gold buttons on the cuffs were snug. He knew the man was right, but ever since dinner that evening—dinner he had reluctantly consumed in the company of both his son and Miss Dawson—he had been unable to stifle a rising tide of trepidation.
The conversation had flowed well enough, and the food had been delicious as always, but Miss Dawson’s alluring smile, the ease of her intelligent conversation, and the way she interacted with William had caught Chase off guard. The boy beamed in her presence as if a part of him had been brought back to life, that part within Chase that he preferred to remain dead and buried.
Unfamiliar confusion stormed through him as he stomped across his bedchamber. He hated these blasted balls, should be furious that he’d been finagled into going, should dread the whole event. Then why did he find that a small part of him sparked with anticipation? The unwelcome sensation kindled a burning fury, and that, coupled with extreme unease, had led to his drinking. Why couldn’t he be out upon his ship where life was simple and straightforward? He hunted the enemy and then blasted that enemy with his cannons. Here in London, he had no idea whom his enemy was. Everything was muddled beneath pretensions, etiquette, peerage, and treacherous courtship rituals. Even his own feelings betrayed him.
“Why did you never marry, Sebastian?” Chase huffed as he plopped into a chair and shoved his foot into a leather boot. Sebastian had been with him for seven years, but Chase felt he barely knew the man. He had only recently learned of his butler’s French heritage on his mother’s side, something that, as a British admiral in wartime, he should have known. He cursed himself for his negligence and eyed Sebastian with suspicion. Yes, indeed, why hadn’t the man taken a wife?
The butler raised one gray eyebrow and disappeared into the dressing closet, reappearing within seconds, a white silk cravat in hand. “I have always believed, sir, that marriage is naught but a prison that serves only to keep a man from achieving success.”
“Indeed?” Chase thrust his other foot into his boot, surprised at the butler’s declaration and wondering if it were more of an excuse than the truth.
Sebastian cleared his throat, his cheeks purpling as if he were suddenly afraid of Chase’s anger. “ ’Tis only my personal belief, sir. I know it was not the way of things with you and Mrs. Randal.”
“Never fear, Sebastian. I do not fault you for it. In fact, I find myself quite in agreement with you these days.” Chase stood and tugged the hem of his blue navy waistcoat, wondering why his thoughts had drifted to marriage in the first place.
Sebastian gave him a curious look. “But surely you did not …” He dropped his gaze. “Forgive me.”
“You may speak freely, Sebastian.”
“Surely you did not believe so with Mrs. Randal?”
Chase cringed at the second reminder of his wife. Why did everyone in the country have to mention Melody? Wasn’t every inch of this house enough of a reminder? Even this room—this room they had shared. His gaze took in the massive Italian oak bed, and a sinking feeling consumed him. He needed another drink. His eyes shifted to the bottle of brandy sitting on his desk, beckoning him. No, he must keep his wits about him tonight. He would need them to guard against the conniving chicaneries of his sister.
He gave Sebastian a stern look. “Mrs. Randal is gone. Do not mention her again.” Chase snatched the cravat from Sebastian and flung it about his neck as the butler’s jaw tightened. Sebastian took a step back, and a distant, impassive expression descended on his features. Perhaps Chase had been too harsh. He examined his butler. Tall, slender, always impeccably attired in a white ruffled linen shirt beneath a double-breasted black waistcoat and dark wool breeches, Sebastian had the bearing of a stately prince. And although his butler was now fifty and well past the age of marrying, Chase had always wondered how the successful, well-groomed man had been able to resist the more alluring gender. “Did you ever have a lady love, Sebastian?”
“No,” the butler replied staunchly, stepping forward to fold the neck cloth in the usual Gordian knot. “My aim has been to oversee the home I am employed in with the utmost efficiency, and to do so affords me little time to pursue other activities.” He stepped back to examine his work, and the lines around his mouth folded into a frown. “No, this will never do … never do.” He hurried forward and engaged in another battle with the silk cloth.
Chase raised his chin, allowing the man to work. Sebastian had done a fine job, especially since Chase had fired his steward recently, forcing Sebastian to take over those duties, as well. But had Chase ever complimented the butler on his exemplary work? Had he ever spoken to him outside of an order? Chase opened his mouth to voice his long-overdue approval, but the high-strung butler kept fidgeting with his cravat, jerking Chase’s neck and sending annoyance rather than approbation speeding through him.
He hated being fussed over, even by Sebastian, who prided himself on every detail of the Randal home—including the faultless attire of his master. Though Chase didn’t know the man well, surely Sebastian’s loyalty for so many years precluded any possibility of duplicity. The light scent of cedar rose from the aged man as Chase examined a fleet of gray hair atop his head surrounding a last stubborn squadron of brown. Was the man happy with his choice?
“There is something to be said for achieving success in one’s career,” Chase began as Sebastian finished with the cravat and held out Chase’s frock. “But do you ever long for anything more?”
Sebastian snapped his head back. His brows sprang up, and Chase wondered whether he was surprised at the question or at the fact that Chase had bothered to ask. “More, sir?”
Chase thrust his arms into the coat then eased it over his shoulders. Had the man wanted love? He harrumphed. “Family.”
“Nay, sir, I came from a rather large family.” Sebastian handed Chase his pocket watch and key. “Ten children in all. We had barely enough to eat. My mother died trying to take care of us while my father was away at sea. No, sir.” He shook his head and scratched his bushy gray sideburns. “I find family, even love, vastly overrated.”
Even love. “Your father is a seaman?” Chase realized he knew nothing about his butler.
“Yes, sir. Was. A petty officer aboard the HMS Bristol.“
“Indeed, I had no idea. But you said was?”
“He died of the scurvy, sir.” A flicker of malice cooled Sebastian’s gaze.
Slipping the watch and key inside his topcoat pocket, Chase studied his butler, curious at his quick change of manner. Did he harbor bitterness about his childhood, and if so, toward whom? In Chase’s employ, the man had never lacked for food or shelter, but in all those years, Chase had yet to see him smile.
Leaning forward, Sebastian adjusted the collar of Chase’s frock and han
ded him his service sword.
“What are your thoughts about Miss Dawson?” Chase asked as he strapped on the sword.
“William seems quite fond of her. But she is a bit skittish, sir, and she often has the cook up in arms.”
“Really. How so?”
“She seems to be consuming large quantities of food, sir.” Chase chuckled. “You must be mistaken, Sebastian. The woman is as tiny as a mouse.”
As Chase examined himself in the gilded looking glass perched by the dressing room, a wave of disgust passed over him. He looked like a navy dandy. He would much rather be wearing the uniform he wore aboard ship than this frock with the stand-up, gold-fringed collar matched in opulence by the gold bullion of his epaulettes. In fact, he would much rather be walking across the weathered deck of his ship at this moment than walking out onto a dance floor at Lady Billingsworth’s ball. But he had already given his word to his sister, and a gentleman never goes back on his word.
Chase shrugged off the sudden concern about his appearance.
“You look splendid, sir.” The butler took a step back and nodded. “You’ll have all the ladies swooning, to be sure.”
“That is not my desire, Sebastian.” Yet Chase wiped an unintended smile from his lips as his thoughts drifted to Miss Dawson.
Inhaling a deep breath of the misty, chilled air in front of the Billingsworth house, Chase proffered his hand to assist Miss Dawson from the landau. She laid her delicate gloved fingers in his, and her eyes met his briefly. Volumes spoke from within their amber depths, and Chase felt weakened in their wake.
When Miss Dawson had descended the stairs that evening, a heated clot had formed in Chase’s throat. It wasn’t the simple but elegant dress she wore or the way she had arranged her hair in a bouquet of chestnut curls around her face. No, there was an aura about her, a sweet spirit that drifted over her—a vulnerability, an innocence that pulled on him with the force of a summer squall, and he’d suddenly regretted inviting her. What had he been thinking?
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 9
