Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  To his left, past the stairs, the dark rectangle of Miss Dawson’s door broke through the gloom. Chase rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t seen her since that morning. After she’d returned from church—late—he’d remained in his study and had not joined her and William for the noon meal or for supper. Then, after inquiring of Sebastian, he’d learned that she’d gone to her room, professing a stomachache, and had not emerged since. ’Twas no wonder with the amount of food she ate. He snickered.

  His thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d had with Mr. Atherton earlier that day. The pompous man had paid a call simply to inform Chase of Miss Dawson’s innocence in the scandalous incident at the ball. Chase gritted his teeth as a cord of distress tightened around him. The embarrassing mishap no longer bothered him, for he had already suspected foul play on his sister’s part. What grated him now was that Mr. Atherton had the audacity to ask Chase for permission to court Miss Dawson. Of course, it was her decision. Chase was not her father. Besides, why should he care whom she bestowed her favors upon?

  The tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall clipped over his nerves. A horse and carriage rumbled by on the street.

  Chase blew out a sigh as he remembered the other equally distressing event—the missing Admiralty documents. But he was taking care of that. Yes, that mess would soon be cleared up, and the culprit would be caught and receive his due punishment.

  A flutter of soft words floated over him, muted yet melodious and pleading. He shook his head, thinking he’d finally gone mad. Was he now hearing the voice of his dead wife when fully awake? Holding his breath, he listened and turned toward the source. Miss Dawson’s door. The hint of a glow sliced the darkness underneath. He inched forward, cringing at the creaking of the floorboards, and leaned his ear against the oak barricade. Fervent words poured from within. To whom was she talking? Who would dare to be in her chamber at this hour?

  Perhaps he had been wrong about her, after all. The bile of jealousy rose in his throat, tempting him to burst into the room and expose the shameless lovers. But if he was wrong, he would risk appearing a complete scatterbrain. Hesitating, he slid his moist hand around the polished handle and eased it down. The latch clicked, but Miss Dawson’s voice did not cease from within. Pushing ever so slightly, he opened the door just a crack. Did he dare peek inside? Surely it was not proper, but he had to know who was in there with her. He peered through the opening.

  Miss Dawson knelt beside her bed, hands clasped before her and head bowed. A lustrous glow covered her in golden light, shimmering over her white nightdress and setting her long tresses aflame. Chase swallowed. The light seemed to come from above her, and Chase craned his neck to find its source but could not determine it through the narrow opening. An open book sat upon her fleece coverlet, and she laid one hand upon it as she continued whispering.

  Praying.

  She was praying. Amazement sped through him, and though he knew he should afford her privacy, he turned an ear toward the opening.

  “Father, I seek Your wisdom. I seek Your favor this night. Please reveal Your will to me. Please strengthen me as You did the men of old. Forgive me for my weakness and especially for my lack of faith. If only I could believe … if only I could believe You are with me.” She laid her head into her hands and appeared to be sobbing, and Chase resisted the urge to run in and comfort her. What was distressing her so much?

  “Lord, please watch my brother. Please protect him and keep him safe until I can see him again.”

  Chase huffed. Her brother. How selfish of Chase not to realize she must miss him terribly.

  She gazed up, and the tears slipping down her cheeks sparkled in the light. “Father, please bless little William.”

  Chase blinked and tried not to move.

  “Help him to grow up loved and nurtured and knowing You. Provide a woman who will love him and fill the gaping hole left by his mother’s death.”

  Warm regard and a burgeoning affection burned Chase’s throat. She was praying for his son.

  “And the admiral.” She bowed her head once again.

  Chase leaned closer.

  “Please comfort him in his loss. He seems so … so lonely, so empty, so cold. Help him to open his heart once again to his son and to You.”

  Of all the—lonely? Empty? Cold? Chase jerked and accidentally bumped the door. A tiny creak echoed through the darkness. One peek inside told him Miss Dawson had heard it. She stood, wrapped her arms around her chest, and headed his way.

  Dominique crept toward the doorway. Had she left it open? Her heart climbed into her throat as she pushed the door aside and squinted into the shadows of the hallway. Nobody. ’Twas probably just the wind. She closed the door and latched it, then returned to her prayers. Picking up her Bible, she read aloud the two verses the Lord had shown her:’ “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him,’ “and her favorite, “ ‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.’”

  She sighed. The promises of God—if only she could believe them. She had been praying for hours but felt no surge of power or strength, and her faith seemed as faulty as ever. She began to shake whenever she thought about the task she must perform the following night. What kind of spy am I? What kind of Christian am I, Lord?

  Closing the Bible, she laid it back on the side table and crawled into bed … and waited. An idea popped into her head from God. At least she thought it was from God; she hoped it was from Him—for it was the only thing she knew to do.

  Creeping out of the kitchen door in the basement of the house, Dominique flipped the hood of her cloak over her head and tightened it around her neck. A light mist sprinkled over her, glazing the stairway as she cautiously made her way up to the street. Her heart hammered a vicious beat within her chest. She had never ventured out in public without benefit of escort, and she suddenly felt naked. Even after her mother had died, Marcel had always been by her side. Through the dirty, perilous streets of Paris, he had always been there. But not tonight; tonight she not only must make her way through the dangerous streets of London alone, but also must negotiate with a murderous villain for her brother’s life.

  Blood pounded in her ears as she opened the iron gate and stepped onto the street. First things first—making it to the tavern in the middle of the night without being accosted. Then she would worry about her meeting with the French contact. She patted the documents folded in the pocket of her cloak and heard their reassuring crackle. Hard to believe that a wad of papers could save someone from certain death.

  Hugging the iron fences lining the street, Dominique avoided the circles of light cast onto the cobblestones from the brass lanterns. An odd chill crept up the back of her neck, and she stopped and looked behind her. The dark silhouette of a man halted then slid behind a town house across the street. Strange. Perhaps one of her neighbors returning from a soiree. Shaking off her uneasy feelings, she pressed onward. Lights appeared ahead, jostling as if they floated in midair. The clomp of horses’ hooves soon followed, and Dominique dove into the shadow of a bush near the walkway. A carriage ambled by, its passengers blasting a ribald ballad from the windows. Drunken noblemen.

  Resuming her course, she picked up her pace and tried to remember the streets she’d memorized from the map of London Larena had shown her. Dominique had said her interest stemmed purely from curiosity about the layout of the massive city, and the chambermaid had happily complied, pointing out where she grew up near the east docks and where her family now resided and, of course, the Mall, the Queen’s Palace, and Piccadilly.

  Sweet Larena, such a strong, independent woman. Dominique wished she could send her on this frightening errand in her place. She’d probably relish the adventure of it, instead of quaking in her shoes like Dominique. Yet Dominique feared for the chambermaid. Larena believed in God, had attended church with Dominique, but s
he trusted the Almighty no more than she trusted men. Dominique bit her lip. Yet did she really trust God? Surely the quivering of her knees proved otherwise. How could she be sure God was with her in this traitorous task? Did He care about nations and their wars or only the hearts of men? Confusion stormed through her, multiplying her terror.

  Making her way down several small streets, Dominique tried to avoid the larger thoroughfares where people would no doubt still be bustling about, attending soirees and men’s clubs. As she left the quiet neighborhood behind, the city twinkled with lights as far as she could see. Bursts of laughter and song rose from the distance.

  Approaching Broad Street, Dominique hovered beneath a birch tree and waited for two coaches to pass. Several gentlemen decked in black trousers and coattails sauntered her way. Holding her breath, she tried to still her trembling as they passed within twenty feet of where she hid. Memories resurged like demons—memories of her nights spent on the streets of Paris, hiding in the shadows, clinging to Marcel. Finally, their gleeful voices, slurred with alcohol, faded into the night. When no one was in sight, she dashed down the main street for a block then turned down Andrews. She flitted from shadow to shadow as music and laughter from Leicester Square, a few blocks to her right, teased her ears, making her feel all the more alone on her treacherous errand. Gathering the collar of her cloak in her moist fist as if it could protect her, she pressed on.

  Turning a corner, Dominique kept her gaze downward as she prayed and forced her wobbly legs to keep moving. Coarse voices halted her. A huddle of slovenly men littered the porch of a tavern a few feet ahead. Dominique peered about wildly, looking for an escape. It was too late to turn around. Saying a silent prayer, she inched her way across the street away from the men. But one of them saw her. He elbowed his friend.

  “Look what we have here, gents. A lady out for a bit o’ fun.”

  The other men turned around and staggered to the edge of the porch. “Where? I don’t see nothing.”

  Gathering her skirts, Dominique darted for a cluster of warehouses across the way. Maybe she could hide among them and make her way to the Strand through the back alleys. Oh Lord, protect me. I must live to save Marcel. Please, Father.

  “There she goes! Let’s be after her!” Deep voices roared behind her.

  The clacking of boots on cobblestone, accompanied by heated grunts, chased her through the night. A cold sweat pricked her skin. Her hood flew off her head and flapped behind her. The misty air struck her face like a slap of death. Vulgar laughter and jests stabbed her ears. She glanced over her shoulder. The grinning mob closed in on her. Images of another assault—a man in a dark alley in Paris—filled her terror-stricken mind. She could feel his cruel hands upon her, the grip of a madman determined to get what he wanted.

  Oh Lord. Not like this.

  Dominique dashed forward and slammed into a large man. She bounced off his thick chest as if he were made of brick. Stunned, she shook her head and jerked to the side to weave around him, but he reached out with one hand and held her in place.

  Her heart sank. He was with them. She was trapped.

  “Let me go!” she screeched and tried to yank loose from his grip, which, although tight, did not pain her arm.

  The crunching of boots behind her ceased. Dominique’s breath stuck in her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut against an onslaught of dizziness, she awaited her fate.

  But instead of anxious voices in pursuit, instead of lewd comments tossed her way, only curses and grunts of disappointment spilled from the mouths of her attackers.

  Dominique dared a glance over her shoulder. The odious gang of men scratched their bearded faces and peered into the night as if she did not stand nigh ten feet before them.

  She gazed up at the man who held her, wondering how one man could frighten off a band of twenty ruffians. His oversized top hat hid the features of his face beneath its shadow, while black clothing concealed his body. He did not look at her but kept his gaze locked on the drunken men.

  “Where’d she go?” one man shouted.

  “Why, if I’m not the King’s uncle, I ain’t seen that before.” “She just disappeared.”

  “Told ye we shouldn’t ’ave drank that tawdry brew.” Another laughed. Then one by one, they turned and swaggered away.

  The dark-clad man released her arm.

  Dominique’s mind scrambled through a thousand explanations for what had just happened but finally settled on a cloud of impossibility that floated through her mind, leaving her cold.

  What did this man intend to do with her now? “I owe you a huge debt, sir. I am most grateful.” She hoped to appease him with her appreciation.

  He only nodded.

  She should have been frightened, but for some odd reason, she felt more peace than she had all evening.

  Flipping her hood back atop her head, she started down the street. He made no move to stop her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Yet one glance behind told her he followed her.

  She swung her face forward again. Odd. She did not hear his footsteps—even now.

  “There’s no need to follow me, sir. I’m quite all right,” she shouted back at him while continuing to walk.

  He said nothing.

  “One o’clock on a misty morning and all is well,” a charlie cried in the distance. Where had he been when the band of villains had chased her? Then again, she hadn’t really needed him, had she?

  Dominique quickened her pace. She was late. Would the French rat wait for her? Dampness broke out on her palms.

  As she neared the Strand, the stench of human excrement and rotten fish nearly drowned her. She gagged and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. The Thames. She was almost there. Her breath came in rapid spurts. She turned down Chandois, hoping to avoid the crowds on the Strand for as long as possible. No such luck. A phaeton sped by, its iron wheels squealing over the stones. She ducked beneath the overhang of an inn. The large man in black halted on the street. When she proceeded, he fell in behind her.

  Why was he still following her? Blood drained from her face. Perhaps he’d been assigned to spy on her. Perhaps the admiral suspected her. Clutching her cloak, she swerved around. “Sir, I beg you. Please leave me be.”

  Still he said nothing. But this time he did not stop. With a brief nod, he glided past her and proceeded across Bedford Street up ahead—the same direction she planned on going. Movement caught Dominique’s eye, and she glanced to her right. The shadow of a man slid into the gloom of a cluster of trees. She swallowed. The night seemed to be crawling with villains. Dominique hastened behind the dark man who had saved her, keeping her distance.

  No sooner had she passed over the street than two men appeared out of nowhere, kicking dirt up with their boots. Their chortles rang in the air like sirens. Dominique froze beneath the halo of a streetlamp. She had no time to dash into the shadows. The towering man in black appeared alongside her and stood in silence. How had he retreated so quickly? Dominique gazed up into his shadowed face but still could not make out his features.

  As the men passed by, one of them looked straight at Dominique. She returned his gaze, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to pounce on her. He moved so close beside her, she could make out the color of his eyes—ocean blue. But no sooner had their gazes met than he turned to his friend and continued his story as if she weren’t there. Dominique glanced at the large man. Her breath caught in her throat as a warmth that belied the cool night blanketed her. Who was this strange man who cloaked her in invisibility? Why didn’t he speak to her? Why couldn’t she see his face? She pressed a hand over her pounding heart and opened her mouth to ask him, but he proceeded forward in silence.

  After turning down Southampton, she followed the man across the Strand to Cecil. Halfway down the avenue, the Last Stop loomed like an eerie fortress. The man in black halted at the foot of the stairs.

  How did he know where I was going?

  Guttering lantern light cast dark fingers ont
o the porch and stairway, beckoning poor souls to the debauchery within. To her left, the Thames licked the docks as if anticipating her demise. Movement flashed in the corner of her eye, and she stared down the gloomy street. The dark shadow of another man lumbered toward her then abruptly turned and disappeared across the avenue.

  Sucking in her breath, Dominique inched up the steps, casting a glance over her shoulder. The man in black stood like a statue. He wouldn’t go in with her. Why? The sudden loss overwhelmed her and sent her head spinning again. Raising her hand to her forehead, she shoved herself through the doorway.

  The putrid stench of stale alcohol and tobacco struck her, stealing her breath. A rat scampered across the wooden floor and wove around a maze of tables and chairs before disappearing into a dark corner. Dominique tightened her cloak under her chin and scanned the room for the Frenchman. A tall, bony man with huge eyes and a hook nose stood behind a counter, pouring drinks into mugs. Three sailors lined the bar, their backs to her. To her right, two men at a table entangled their arms in a fierce wrestling match as a group formed around them, shouting and thrusting fists in the air. The Frenchman was nowhere in sight. Was she too late? What would happen to Marcel now?

  “Scads, gents, ’tis a lady!” a muddied voice blared her way.

  All eyes shot to her. Even the two battling men halted, though they did not release their stranglehold on each other’s arms.

  The door opened behind her, admitting the stench of the Thames in a chilly blast that fluttered her skirts. One glance over her shoulder told her a willowy man in tan pantaloons and blue topcoat had entered. Ignoring her, he slid into the shadows of the tavern toward the right. Not the Frenchman.

  She faced forward, allowing her eyes to search the corners of the tavern one last time.