Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  She raised her thick lashes and glared at him, eyes glowing with indignation. “If your interest lies in my warming your bed, Admiral, then I fear you will find many a cold night ahead.”

  “Nay, that is not my where my interest lies.” His lips quivered with the effort of not grinning at her like a besotted schoolboy. “But I thank you for your concern regarding the warmth of my bed.”

  A flush of maroon flooded her face, visible even in the shadows, and she dropped her gaze.

  Why did I say that? Why did he enjoy taunting her? Chase cleared his throat. “I believe I shall give you another chance to prove yourself. But I must warn you, Miss Dawson. ’Tis best to stay out of a man’s bedchamber at night. Most would not be as chivalrous as I.”

  “I shall keep that in mind, Admiral.” She turned and began to fumble with the latch of her door and finally opened it, casting a suspicious glare at him the whole while.

  He couldn’t tell whether or not she was pleased about not being dismissed.

  “Until tomorrow, then.” He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded.

  “Yes, Admiral, thank you.” The thick oak slab nearly struck his nose.

  Unaccustomed to having doors slammed in his face, he spun on his heel and stomped down the hall. Confusion waxed through him at the unusual events of the evening and the most unusual Miss Dawson.

  He exhaled mightily. Perhaps he should have dismissed her as he had planned. But in all fairness, for what reason? She’d not yet had a chance to prove herself as governess. And he could not bring himself to believe she was a thief—not the daughter of the great Admiral Stuart Dawson. Regardless, he would have Sebastian keep an eye on her just in case.

  It wasn’t so much her weakness, nor her presence in his chamber, that disturbed him. She’d awoken something within him, something long dead, something he preferred to keep protected behind thick walls.

  And it terrified him.

  Perhaps the best thing to do would be to avoid her as much as possible. To throw himself into his work. Yes, he must stay away from Miss Dawson at all costs.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chase leaned back in his chair. The aged oak creaked beneath his weight as he glanced over the naval officers and noblemen who flanked the long mahogany table centered in the Admiralty boardroom. He rubbed his temples where a headache brewed and then glanced at the dark oak wall clock hanging next to the doorway. Only eleven o’clock. How was he to endure another six or seven hours of this brazen and fruitless pontification? At the head of the table, leaning forward in his big armchair, the First Lord of the Admiralty, Admiral Sir John Jervis, Earl of Saint Vincent, pounded his fist on the table, shaking the feathers of the silver quill pen idly resting in the hand of the First Secretary, Sir Evan Nepean. The First Lord then pointed his bony finger at William Eliot, the second Earl of St. Germans.

  “I tell you, sir,” he yelled, his pendulous jowls swinging. “The Naval Academy at Portsmouth is naught but a sink of vice and abomination!”

  Lord Eliot offered a retort, but Chase refused to give it any credence. The man was a politician and therefore not qualified to decide naval policy. That civilians were allowed to sit on the Admiralty Board baffled Chase—men like James Adams, who sat across from him, a look of utter boredom tugging on his sallow skin, and William Garthshore, who would be asleep at Chase’s right if it weren’t for his ongoing battle with a nagging fly droning about his head. At least there was Admiral John Markham, who, with elbows firmly planted on the table, bravely entered into the argument with all cannons blazing. And of course Sir Thomas Troubridge. Although Chase admired Admiral Troubridge, he couldn’t help but be angry at the man for suddenly becoming ill and forcing Chase into this landlocked hell.

  “What say you, Admiral Randal?” Admiral Jervis, or “Old Jarvie” as he was called by most seamen, turned a sharp eye upon Chase, blasting him from his mindless thoughts.

  Chase sat up in his chair and rubbed his chin, hoping his lack of attention had not been evident. “Truth be told, your lordship, I am more concerned with Napoleon at the moment than with our Naval Academy or the conditions of our dockyards, as horrendous as they might be.”

  “Here, here, good man.” Admiral Markham gave Chase an approving nod.

  “Indeed?” Lord Jervis raised an eyebrow long since deprived of its hair.

  “He has invaded Switzerland,” Chase began, feeling his ire rising, “and refused our admonitions to withdraw. He persists in pursuing his French empire overseas in Haiti, the territory of Louisiana, and India. And now this scathing report in his Moniteur insulting our forces in Egypt and claiming he can easily retake the land. Why we tolerate his threats and blatant affronts to our honor is beyond me.”

  Garthshore abandoned his skirmish with the fly and turned toward Chase. “Addington believes the Peace of Amiens will hold, Randal.” He sniffed and withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Napoleon will not risk a war with us when he knows he will surely lose—especially upon the sea.” He blew his nose, and a whiff of stale brandy reached Chase’s nostrils.

  “I beg to differ with you, sir.” His upper lip twitching, Chase sat rigid in his chair. “Prime Minister Addington is weak, a proponent of a wishful peace that will never exist as long as that French madman taunts us from across the channel. Anyone with any sense can see that Napoleon is using this time to build up his fleets.” Chase faced the Lord Admiral and slammed down his palm on the table. “If we do not act now, he will succeed, and then we may very well lose the war at sea.”

  Lord Jervis blew out a spray of spittle onto the table. “Napoleon victorious against His Majesty’s Navy? Absurd! It will never happen.”

  “Very well.” Chase shrugged, trying to mask the fury roiling in his belly. “I am but one voice among your many worthy ones.” He gestured in mock deference at the men circling the table.

  “You are not the only voice of reason, Admiral Randal,” John Markham added. “And Troubridge will have the same opinion upon his return; I am sure if it.”

  Oh, do give Sir Troubridge a speedy recovery. Chase made the silent supplication to no one in particular, since he no longer believed in God.

  “I trust, Randal”—Lord Jervis shot an accusing glance his way—“that you have taken the necessary precautions in your home?”

  “I have, indeed.” The subtle accusation that an enemy lurked among his household staff made Chase shift in his seat, more determined than ever to prove the report false.

  “And the charts are in place?”

  “They are, your lordship.”

  “Very well.” Old Jarvie peered down his superior nose at the men surrounding him. “Then we have naught to fear and would therefore be remiss if we did not use this time of peace to address the poor conditions aboard our ships. We must provide vaccinations against the pox for all our seamen and see that our ship’s doctors have the appropriate medicines. What good would a shipload of sick men be should war break out with France again?” His mouth curved in a taunting smile directed at Chase while Garthshore and Adams chuckled like obedient puppets.

  Slumping back in his chair, Chase folded his hands across his navy coat and returned to his perusal of the room—anything to pass the time and avoid enmeshing himself in an argument that would surely result in his losing his temper and possibly his career along with it.

  Against walls painted the blue, gold, and white of the Admiralty, brass candle lanterns surmounted by royal crowns flanked a painting of Horatio Nelson. Chase wondered what the naval war hero would think of the nonsensical ramblings that went on behind his back while he risked his life patrolling the dangerous seas. Chase clamped his jaws together. He would do anything to join Nelson upon those seas this very moment.

  Across from him, a massive oval compass mounted on a map of the world hung above a marble fireplace, whose simmering coals only added to the heated exchange in the room. His gaze shifted to the right of the compass and around the room at the maps and charts lining the walls.
Pins marked the location and size of the British fleets across the world. What Napoleon wouldn’t give to have one glimpse of the information within this room—and duplicated on documents locked securely within his study. In the French First Consul’s power-hungry hands, that information could very well turn the tide of the war that Chase knew would soon resume.

  His thoughts drifted to his new governess. It had been nearly two weeks since he had seen Miss Dawson, yet the time had done nothing to erase her from his mind. Ever since that night he had caught her in his bedchamber, he’d been quite successful at avoiding her company. Whenever he had heard her gentle steps in the hallway or her laughter flowing from a room, he had turned the other way, unwilling to face the odd feeling that welled within him in her presence. But what was the cause of it? Though certainly attractive and educated, she possessed no other extraordinary qualities. In fact, she reminded him of a timid sparrow flittering here and there, startled by the slightest movement. So unlike Melody. His wife had faced life—and death—with a stalwart courage he rarely saw, even among his crew at sea. She had never backed down from a challenge, always stood her ground in defense of herself and her family.

  Yet he could not deny there was something within Miss Dawson’s shimmering amber eyes that attracted him—contradictions that baffled him, a hope despite her circumstances, a peace that defied her outward nervousness, and a strength that belied her weakness. Miss Dawson was a mystery, indeed.

  “No, William, try again,” Dominique urged the young boy as they sat together on the sofa. “The word is maison. It means house. Maison. Like the one you live in.” She gestured around the morning room in which they sat—the coziest room in the pretentious town house, and her personal favorite. Cushioned high-backed chairs, armed settees, and the plush arch-backed sofa she sat upon with William made it a comfortable place for family gatherings—except it was always empty. So in the past week, Dominique and William had taken over the room for their studies.

  The young boy gazed up at her, a perplexed look on his angelic face. “May son,” he uttered with all seriousness.

  Dominique giggled. “Very close. Much better. We’ll have you speaking French in no time. Now try another one.” She took the tablet in her lap and wrote garçon. “Garçon. It means boy.”

  “Like me?” William flashed her a set of sparkling white teeth.

  “Yes, just like you, William.” She smiled and couldn’t resist putting her arm around the boy and drawing him near. He smelled of fresh linen and innocence. How could he have become so dear to her in only two weeks? Yet there was something special about William. His exuberance for life, his unconditional need to give and receive love. And even though he had lost his mother and then apparently several governesses after her, he had opened his heart to Dominique in a way no one ever had, child or adult. He reminded her so much of Marcel—naive, untainted by life’s cruelties, and filled with enthusiasm for everything around him.

  “Gar sin,” the boy shouted, his face glowing with pride.

  “Close, William. Watch my mouth as I say it. It sounds like gar sohn.“She pointed to her face and exaggerated the correct position of her lips. “Practice this shape, then try again.”

  While William contorted his tiny mouth into all sorts of shapes, Dominique gazed out the french doors that led to the small garden in the back of the house and thought of the admiral. Evening shadows crept over the last rays of the sun, and she tugged her shawl up over her shoulders. Only a few embers still glowed in the fireplace, and she wished one of the servants would come and spark the coals—and her courage along with them.

  She had not seen the admiral in two weeks, though she had heard the creak of the floorboards as he wandered the halls at night. She had nearly run into him once on her way to check the door to his study. Well past three in the morning, she’d thought everyone would be asleep, but after inquiring of Larena the next morning, the chambermaid informed Dominique that the admiral rarely slept through the night.

  Which made Dominique’s task all the more difficult.

  However, he seemed to be avoiding her, as well. After that horrifying and embarrassing night when he’d discovered her in his bedchamber, he had left early each morning to the Admiralty, only to return late in the evening, taking his supper in his chamber. Why, he’d not even spoken to his son. And of course, every time she got up the nerve to check the door to his study, it was locked. They’d had no visitors. She had heard nothing about naval plans, and she was beginning to think she was wasting her time while Marcel’s was running out.

  “Garçon,” William spouted with glee.

  “Very good, William. You sound like a true Frenchman.”

  “What’s this I hear?” a screeching voice blared from the doorway, and in stomped Mrs. Barton in a flurry of lace. “Did you say a Frenchman?” Her normally creamy skin flushed a deep red, and her dark eyes sent out more sparks than a crackling fire.

  Dominique’s stomach clenched. “I’m teaching William French, Mrs. Barton.” She rose and pressed the blue and white folds of her skirt, mainly to keep her hands from shaking. “ ’Tis important he knows more than one language.”

  “Teach him Latin, then.” She snorted and stalked to the fireplace. “And what on earth are you still doing here?”

  “He needs to know a spoken language, milady. French would be quite useful.”

  William tossed the tablet to the side and scooted to the edge of the sofa, his eyes wide.

  “ ’Tis all right, William.” Dominique gave the boy her most comforting grin.

  The boy timidly looked at Mrs. Barton. “Auntie, why are you so angry with Miss Dawson?”

  “Never you mind, child. I’m not cross with you.” She snapped off her gloves and warmed her hands by the fire. “I declare, where are those lazy servants? This fire needs tending. Why, they should all be dismissed at once!” She glared at Dominique, her chest heaving with fury, and then at William.

  William, whose normal disposition was warm and inviting, remained frozen in place on the sofa, his pleading eyes shifting to Dominique.

  Mrs. Barton adjusted her chignon in one of the gilt oval mirrors that flanked the wooden mantel, then swerved about. “I asked you what you are still doing here. My brother informed me you were to be dismissed.”

  Dominique drew a shaky breath. “I suppose you will have to ask him.”

  “Ask me what?” The admiral’s baritone voice charged into the room even before his masculine frame filled the doorway.

  Dominique’s heart jumped at the sight of him in his uniform. A blue coat with a stand-up, gold-fringed collar stretched over his broad chest. Long lapels, edged with gold braid and nine buttons—her face heated as her gaze lingered to count them—ran down to his white breeches, where a service sword hung at his side. A gold-fringed epaulette, complete with one embroidered star, perched on each shoulder. William slipped off the couch, hesitated, then rushed to his father and grabbed onto his breeches.

  Instead of brushing the boy aside, as Dominique expected, the admiral patted William on the head but offered him no other acknowledgment. His dark, rich gaze scanned over Dominique with a flicker of unknown emotion and then landed on Mrs. Barton. He cocked a curious brow. “Are you frightening my son again, dear sister?”

  Mrs. Barton cocked one hand on her hip. “Why have you retained this French trollop?”

  The admiral’s posture stiffened. He gave his sister a stern look before pulling on the tapestry ribbon hanging to the right of the door frame. A bell jingled somewhere in the house, and soon the housekeeper’s footsteps clapped down the hallway. “Please take William upstairs,” the admiral directed Mrs. Hensworth.

  “But, Father, can’t I stay with you?” The blond-haired boy tugged on his father’s navy coat.

  “Not right now, William. Go with Mrs. Hensworth.”

  Dominique’s heart sank at the dejection that dragged the hope from William’s expression.

  After William left, the admiral marched tow
ard his sister, hand gripping the silver hilt of his sword. “I will not tolerate that language in front of my son.”

  Katharine flattened her lips. “I am sorry, Chase, but you know how I feel.”

  “And you will apologize to Miss Dawson at once.”

  Dominique blinked. Is he standing up for me?

  “I will not.“Mrs. Barton’s eyes simmered with indignation. She shot a spiteful glance toward Dominique.

  “You will”—the admiral crossed his arms over his chest—“or you will not be welcome in this house.”

  “Surely you do not mean that, Chase.” Abruptly she wilted and began to blubber, but Dominique got the impression it was only a charade. “You would choose this … this Frenchwoman over your own sister?”

  “Nay. But I choose not to have my employees suffer the brutality of your tongue. In addition, I choose for you to behave as the lady you claim to be—if not in Miss Dawson’s presence, at least in your nephew’s.”

  “My word, Chase, has she mesmerized you with her French charm?” Mrs. Barton flung a hand at Dominique as if she were dismissing her very existence, then sashayed behind her, circling her in a ring of disdain. “That is what they do. They lure you in with their tantalizing perfumes and sweet words. ‘Oh,’ “she mocked in a theatrical yet poorly executed French accent, “ ‘je brûle du désir. Oh, je t’aime, mon chou.’ “

  Anger surged within Dominique, overtaking her fear. How dare this woman accuse her of such slanderous behavior?

  The admiral snapped his fiery gaze her way. “That’s enough, Katharine! Apologize or leave this house at once.”

  Dominique wanted nothing more than to cross the room and throttle Mrs. Barton silent. But instead she closed her eyes.

  Oh Lord, help me to love this woman who hates me without cause. Help me to see past her anger into her wounded heart.

  Dominique opened her eyes to find the admiral plunging toward his sister, fury pouring ahead of him like waves surging over the bow of a ship.