“I’ve known Randal for years, Miss Dawson. I am not mistaken,” Mr. Atherton whispered in her ear.
“I believe ’tis obvious his affections are toward Lady Irene,” she retorted as he guided her through the line of dancers.
“Bosh…pure bosh, Miss Dawson. Look at his face.”
Dominique allowed Mr. Atherton to spin her around until she found the admiral just a few yards from them. Their eyes met. His were ablaze with an emotion that startled her—not a happy emotion, nor an amorous one. It seemed more ravenous than anything.
Mr. Atherton led her away.
“He’s always in a bad humor,” she said.
“Not when he was dancing with you.” He smiled with a lift of his eyebrows.
After the dance finished, Dominique was barely able to catch her breath before another gentleman, a Lord Wilbert Hensley, stepped in for Mr. Atherton. She remembered him as one of the men who had requested a dance earlier that evening. After their dance, several more gentlemen took their turns spinning her around the floor. All the while, she spotted the admiral perched in different spots about the room, glaring at her with the beady eyes of a falcon. She wondered where Lady Irene had gone off to.
Finally, out of breath, she refused the last gentleman and made her way off the floor for some lemonade. The admiral appeared at her side. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, thank you,” she returned, baffled at his accusatory tone. She sipped the cool liquid and tried to avoid the admiral’s gaze as the sour taste puckered her mouth. “And you?” she studied his topcoat pocket, where she believed the key to his study was hidden. She must focus on only that, not on the towering strength of his presence, not on the strong cut of his jaw, and not on the regard that more oft than not flickered across his gaze.
“Truthfully, I hate these affairs.” He glanced across the room. His jaw flexed, sending a ripple over the slight stubble that shadowed it while his mahogany queue brushed the back of his navy jacket. “Would you like to get some air?” He offered his elbow.
Nodding, she set down her glass and took his arm. This might give her the opportunity she had been looking for.
A blast of cool air struck her as they inched through the crowded door and took the stairs down to the courtyard.
Confusion raked over her. “You don’t have to watch over me simply because you are my escort. I am sure you would rather spend your time with some of the other ladies. I see the way they look at you.”
“You do?” He chuckled as he escorted her around a carriage and across the cobblestone street. They came to an iron fence that enclosed a small garden. Dark, fuzzy shadows of trees and bushes stretched before them like sinister watchmen—or spies.
“I am grateful you came, Miss Dawson.” He shifted his boots on the gravel. “What I meant to say, of course, is you have helped me out of a jam with my sister’s matchmaking schemes. Consequently, I do not intend to leave you at the mercy of London’s worst knaves.”
Knaves? “All the men I danced with appeared to be naught but gentlemen, Admiral.” Was he jealous?
“Yes, they do appear so, do they not? but you are quite naive concerning the ways of London society.”
She glanced up at him, but he refused to meet her gaze. He stared out across the darkness as if searching for something. Music drifted over the town house, along with bursts of laughter and voices raised in chaotic banter. Above the admiral’s tall frame, inky blackness blanketed the sky. She tried to envision her hand sliding up his chest, searching for the key to his study, and shivered.
He finally faced her. “Are you cold, Miss Dawson?”
“No.” An idea sped through her mind. “I mean yes, I am a bit.” she rubbed her shoulders.
The admiral unbuttoned his topcoat and slipped it from his shoulders. “This will have to do. I have left my frock inside.”
The warmth from his body poured from his coat over her arms and down her back like hot bathwater, sending a tingling through her legs. Spices and cigar smoke swirled around her, intoxicating her with his scent. She tugged the coat over her chest and ran her fingers over the pocket, feeling the lump within. She must pull it from its hiding place before she gave the coat back to him. But how?
She darted her eyes wildly about. Her nerves coiled together in frozen thickets. A crazy idea popped into her head.
“Upon my word, look, a shooting star!” she pointed at the sky behind him, and as soon as he turned, she plunged her hand into his pocket, groping for the cool feel of a silver chain. Her finger entangled in a loose thread. She tugged on it, but the fiber seemed to wrap around her like a spider’s web ensnaring its prey. The more she pulled, the more entwined she became.
The admiral spun back around.
CHAPTER 10
Terror spiked through Dominique. The admiral’s eyes narrowed in confusion. With her hand still entangled in his topcoat pocket, she twisted and bent over, forcing herself to cough as vigorously as she could. With continued hacks and barks that she prayed sounded authentic, she stumbled toward the fence. Her searching fingers touched the chain. Cold silver circled around her hand. She yanked it from the pocket, ripping the fabric. Had he heard the ripping sound? Clenching the prize, she blundered forward. What should she do with it? He would surely see it in her hand.
“Miss Dawson, are you all right?” His concerned voice sounded behind her.
Boot steps crunched the gravel. Dominique leaned one hand on the cold iron fence and did the only thing she could think to do. She stuffed the pocket watch and key down the front of her gown. The icy metal snaked behind her petticoats and in between her breasts, sending a chill through her. She spun to face him, holding a hand to her mouth.
Skepticism coursed through his eyes. “Are you ill?”
“Nay, forgive me, Admiral. I am not sure what came over me.” Her breathing came out hard and ragged.
“Perhaps ’twas this fanciful star you saw?” He lifted a mocking brow. “A shooting star, Miss Dawson? in London? We are lucky to see the sun during the day, let alone a star at night.”
She swiped the back of her hand over her forehead “On my word, I could have sworn I saw something.” she sighed, hoping to divert the cause of her obvious fear. “It frightened me.”
He enfolded her hand in his. Warmth spread through her gloves and up her arms. The chain shifted and slid beneath her stays, jangling as loudly as a gong. But he did not seem to hear it. “You are quite safe, I assure you.” He gave her a reassuring smile that stole the remaining breath from her.
Her gaze flickered between his chocolate brown eyes, and she wished with everything in her that what he said were true.
“You appear to be coming down with something. Perhaps we should venture in from the cold?”
She nodded, distracted by a myriad of thoughts as she plotted her next step. She must somehow leave the ball without the admiral and make her way home. If they left together, he would surely take notice of the missing key, and once they were home, she’d have no opportunity to search his study. Even at night, the admiral never seemed to sleep. And his unexpected roaming through the house would not afford her the time she required.
“I must admit, I am feeling suddenly weak,” she said as they braided their way through the crowd and climbed the stairs to the house. She wasn’t lying. The close proximity of the admiral and the taut feel of his muscles beneath her hand had a dizzying effect upon her.
“Perhaps I should escort you home, Miss Dawson.” He halted and started to turn around. “Frankly, I have no desire to remain any longer.”
Alarm pricked her heart. “No…no.” she tugged on him. “ ’Tis far too early, and you promised your sister, remember?”
He groaned in acquiescence.
“Perhaps I simply need some refreshment.”
“Yes. I daresay ’tis been at least an hour since you last ate.” He chuckled and gave her a sly look.
Dominique gritted her teeth as a flush of embarrassment flood
ed her face. Squinting against the bright candlelight, she squeezed through the door as the admiral bowed right and left to acquaintances who addressed him. Music and laughter wove among the aromas of strong perfumes and sweet cakes. Slipping off the coat, she handed it back to the admiral with a smile. His gaze wandered over her in a tender caress, giving her pause. Wasn’t it only a few hours ago that he had abruptly dismissed her to dance with Mr. Atherton?
Donning his topcoat, he led the way to the buffet against the far wall, and Dominique prayed he would not notice the missing watch and key. Plucking a glass of punch from the table, she scanned the sea of dancers flowing back and forth in waves of sparkling colors.
Mr. Atherton stood across the way, drink in hand, leaning against a door frame with one booted foot crossed over the other. Though favoring the lady who addressed him with an occasional nod or smile, it was obvious his interest lay elsewhere. Dominique felt sorry for the woman, who seemed to be trying her best to attract the handsome member of Parliament. His gaze locked upon Dominique’s, and he smiled. Perhaps she could feign a sudden illness and convince Mr. Atherton to escort her home. She glanced up at the admiral. A scowl twisted his features as he noticed their exchange.
“I’m so furious, I could…I could—ah!” Lady Irene clenched her fists until her manicured nails bit into her skin, while managing to smile sweetly at the passing Lord and Lady Hemmings. She turned a cold eye on Mrs. Barton, who stood beside her. “I thought you said I’d have him all to myself tonight.”
“Indeed, that was my plan.” Mrs. Barton patted her pearl-laden coiffure. “How was I to know he would invite that French tart?” she spat through her teeth. “I thought he would have released her by now.”
Lady Irene eyed the petite beauty standing beside the admiral. The young governess smiled at something he said then took another sip of her punch. “My word, but if that girl isn’t always eating or drinking something. She’ll no doubt end up a fat cow someday,” she snickered then moaned in despair. “Look at the way he looks at her.” she allowed her gaze to wander over Chase, the broad expanse of his shoulders perfectly filling out his gold-embroidered uniform, his handsome Roman face, the commanding way he stood amidst the crowd. Yet he gazed down at that infernal governess as if she were the only woman in the room. A deep yearning consumed Lady Irene. “Why doesn’t he look at me that way? What is she compared with me?”
“You are the most fetching woman here, irene,” Mrs. Barton snapped. “Force his attentions upon you. He’s a man, after all.”
“I have poured every ounce of my charms upon him tonight, but to no avail,” Lady Irene sobbed. “He never even noticed my new gown.” she swirled around, her mood brightening for a second as she delighted in the sweep of ivory silk. “I spent a fortune to have it tailored just for this evening.”
“You mean your father spent a fortune.” Mrs. Barton’s eyes glinted with humor.
“What difference does it make?”
“Never you mind, dear.” Mrs. Barton patted her arm. “Men are such fools. And my brother the chief of them. He does not know his own mind. He will be no happier with her than he would with a common strumpet from the docks.”
Lady Irene snorted. “She is no better than that, to be sure. An orphan with no dowry. A woman who must work to provide for herself. Why, she has no right to even be at this soiree.” A gentleman approached Lady Irene with an expectant gaze, but she waved him off. She had no time for admirers when her very future was at stake.
“She’ll no doubt grow bored and run off with the first man who catches her eye—and break my brother’s heart.” Mrs. Barton’s normally poised face hardened beneath flaming cheeks. “I must do something.” Her fiery gaze shot to Lady Irene’s. “We must do something. I will not have my family name sullied by another French miscreant, I tell you. I will not.”
Lady Irene found Mrs. Barton’s fury both contagious and exhilarating, but it did nothing to ease her fears. Where every man swooned over her attentions, the admiral showed no interest. “But what can we do?”
Mrs. Barton tapped her fingers across her chin. “In time she will prove herself every bit the tramp we know she is.” A shrewd grin twisted the corners of her mouth. “We must simply hurry along the inevitable. We must force her to compromise herself in front of the admiral. Then he will see that I have been right all along.”
Lady Irene nodded, not understanding what Chase’s sister had in mind, but a sudden excitement lifted her hopes. “I’m so grateful to have you as my friend, Mrs. Barton.”
“ ’Tis I who should be grateful to you. I know you’ll make a good wife for my brother. We just have to do a bit of orchestrating to help him see that, as well—and before the night is through. Now I have a plan.” She pursed her lips. “We must first speak with Mr. Atherton.” she lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned toward Lady Irene. “This is what you must do.”
Dominique set down the empty glass and glanced at Mrs. Barton beside her. Only minutes earlier, the admiral’s sister had approached them in an agitated flurry, informing the admiral that Vice Admiral Hyde Parker wished to speak to him immediately in the parlor. After excusing himself, the admiral had marched in haste from the room, leaving his sister behind. Dominique couldn’t understand why the woman who hated her so much remained by her side. She wished she could excuse herself, as well, so she could find Mr. Atherton and move forward with her plan to leave the ball. She scanned the room, looking for him, but he was nowhere in sight. Her heart felt as though it would burst through her chest. She had to leave as soon as possible. Father, please provide a way. Although she hadn’t truly felt God’s comforting presence since she had arrived in London, she hoped He still heard her prayers. Perhaps He disapproved of her mission. Her heart sank. If God were against her, then surely she would fail. Lord, please don’t let Marcel die. Please tell me what to do.
“Miss Dawson, I must beg your forgiveness.” Mrs. Barton faced her with what appeared to be the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “My behavior toward you has been most unbecoming.” she coughed and seemed to be choking on her words. “ ’Tis plain my brother is fond of you, and I hope we can start over and be friends.”
Dominique studied Mrs. Barton’s brown eyes—so much like her brother’s—hoping to find sincerity there. Could it be the woman truly wished to be friends? Dominique had not had a close friend since childhood, and the thought of having one now—of not feeling so alone—brightened her spirits.
“Oh, there is Lady Irene.” Mrs. Barton waved the young beauty over, and Dominique felt a sudden twinge of queasiness. Perhaps Mrs. Barton had overcome her hatred of the French, but Lady Irene? Even as she approached, the forced smile on her lips belied the contempt shooting from her icy blue eyes.
Lady Irene flounced beside Dominique in a puff of French parfum that nearly overwhelmed her. “Lovely gown, Miss Dawson,” the woman said without looking at her.
The hairs on the back of Dominique’s neck bristled. “So nice of you to say.”
“The punch must be delicious. I believe you’ve had three glasses, have you not?” She picked up one of her own from the table. “I do so love a sweet wine punch, don’t you?”
Dominique wasn’t sure what to make of Lady Irene’s sudden need for idle conversation—especially when she had barely said a civil word to her since they’d met—so she simply nodded.
After casting a suspicious glance at Mrs. Barton, Lady Irene tipped her glass to her pink lips and grinned as if she knew a big secret.
Dominique spotted Mr. Atherton by the door. “If you will excuse me.” she nodded at both Lady Irene and Mrs. Barton, thankful she had a reason to escape the awkward situation.
“But, Miss Dawson.” Lady Irene suddenly shifted and bumped into Dominique, leaning her full weight against her.
Dominique struggled to keep from falling while the blond beauty continued to bumble forward.
“I must tell you…I must…” Lady Irene stuttered.
Before Domini
que realized what she was doing, Lady Irene barreled into her again and tipped her glass onto Dominique’s gown. Maroon liquid slid down the silky fabric, the stain expanding as it went. The crowd of people around them ceased conversing and pointed with stifled gasps.
Lady Irene covered her mouth. With wide, laughing eyes, she stared at Dominique.
Mrs. Barton nudged Lady Irene aside. “How could you?” she retrieved a cloth from the table and patted Dominique’s gown. “How clumsy of you. Look what you have done. Oh, you poor dear. I know just what to do. Follow me.”
Still in shock from the assault, Dominique stared at Lady Irene as Mrs. Barton escorted her from the room into an entrance hall, then up a flight of marble stairs and into a small chamber on the second floor. “Lady billingsworth has prepared this lovely room just for such emergencies,” she prattled.
Dominique gazed over the room. A pine dressing chest with swing mirror stood against the far wall, and two porcelain washbasins sat atop marble consoles to her left. A leather chaise sat in the center of the room along with two high-backed sofas.
“Take off your gown, and I will use this water to clean it.” Mrs. Barton gestured toward the carved oak screen perched next to another door on her right. “Never fear, I’ll have it as good as new.”
Dominique’s stomach tightened. “Why are you being so kind? You’ve made your feelings toward me quite clear.”
“As I told you, I wish to make amends, my dear.”
“Please do not take me for a fool.” Dominique clasped her hands together. “Lady Irene’s mishap was obviously deliberate.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was. My apologies for her behavior. I’m afraid her jealousy gets the best of her at times.”
“And you did not put her up to it?”
Mrs. Barton’s jaw dropped. “Of course not. What purpose would that serve?”
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 11