“I do appreciate it, Mrs. Barton, but I should go home.” Dominique blinked and lowered her gaze, still confused by the woman’s sudden kindness. “I know you wish your brother to remain. Won’t you ask Mr. Atherton if he’ll be so kind as to escort me?” Although Dominique was certain Lady Irene had soiled her gown on purpose, she perceived it as a blessing in disguise, for she now had a perfect excuse to leave the ball.
“Perhaps ’tis best, my dear. But please, allow me to scrub your dress before the stain sets in. It would be a shame to ruin your new gown.”
Dominique reluctantly slid behind the dressing screen and removed her dress, handing it to Mrs. Barton.
She heard the click of the woman’s mules over the floor and then a splash of water. More clicking. Dominique hugged herself against the sudden chill creeping over her bare arms and glanced down at her petticoats. Pristine white and fluffy lace. At least the punch had not soaked through her dress. Pressing her fingers over her rigid stays, she felt the key still snug within.
Silence enveloped the room. No sound of water, no click of heels, and no more of Mrs. Barton’s incessant sighs.
“Mrs. Barton?”
Nothing.
Dominique peeked out from behind the dressing screen and allowed her gaze to drift over the room. No movement. No sound. “Mrs. Barton?” She eased from behind the screen and inched toward the center of the room, peering into the dark corners. A chill struck her.
Mrs. Barton was gone—and so was her dress.
With a crash, the door beside the dressing screen burst open and in flew Mr. Atherton, tottering across the floor with a drink in hand.
Horrified, Dominique froze and stared at the young member of Parliament who stood between her and the dressing screen. A rush of shame heated her, and she flung her hands up to cover her chest and arms.
Mr. Atherton instantly sobered. His jaw dropped, and he gaped at her as if he’d never seen petticoats before.
“How dare you?” Dominique finally managed to say, her eyes darting to the dressing screen.
“My apologies, miss.” His look of shock dissolved into one of roguish cupidity. “I was told I would find a collection of exotic liquors in here, but I believe I have discovered something even more tantalizing.”
“You will avert your eyes this instant, Mr. Atherton,” Dominique stormed, her chest heaving.
“Alas, I cannot.” He grinned and took a slow sip of his drink. “I fear the good Lord has graced me with very little self-control.” He sauntered toward her.
Dominique took a trembling step back.
Mr. Atherton raised his handsome brow. “But since we find ourselves alone, and you”—he took her in with a sweep of his sultry gaze—“already without your clothes.” He shrugged playfully. “Why waste the moment?”
As he continued his approach, Dominique saw no maliciousness in his eyes, and her fears subsided. “The moment you seek will never occur, Mr. Atherton.” She nodded toward the open door behind him. “Now if you will please leave.”
He spanned the distance between them and gave her a crooked grin. “Of course. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“On the contrary, I believe you rather enjoyed doing just that.”
He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and placed an innocent kiss upon it.
The other door squeaked on its hinges. Dominique released a huge sigh. Mrs. Barton must be returning with her dress—finally. She tugged on her hand, but Mr. Atherton would not release it.
Admiral Randal, hand on the hilt of his sword, marched into the room.
CHAPTER 11
Chase halted in midstride. His gaze swept over Miss Dawson, noting her bare arms and formfitting petticoats, then darted to Atherton, who had turned to face him. His friend jerked one hand away from the governess, while the drink in his other one slipped and shattered on the floor in a burst of glass and golden liquid. Chase’s heart shriveled.
“I was told you were in some distress, Miss Dawson.” He stared at her, taking liberties with his gaze and enjoying the way she flushed. He knew a gentleman should avert his eyes, but the pain in his heart forbade him to behave like a gentleman at the moment. He turned to Percy. His friend stared at him wide-eyed and began shaking his head. “But I see Mr. Atherton has things quite under control.” Chase regarded his longtime friend and clenched the polished hilt of his sword. “Atherton, you have my permission to escort Miss Dawson home. She informed me she did not feel well, and I can see why. She has no doubt caught her death of cold.”
He spun on his heel then stomped from the room as Atherton shouted, “You misunderstand, Randal,” behind him. He bounded down the stairs two at a time, ignoring the complacent look on his sister’s face as he passed her.
“I am sorry, Chase, but I thought you should know.” Her smug voice followed him into the ballroom and trailed him like an annoying insect through the throngs of giddy people. But her words fell muffled on his ears. He no longer cared what she had to say.
He reached the buffet, searching for a drink. Nothing but lemonade. He needed something stronger. A sword of betrayal cut him in half as visions of Miss Dawson’s disrobed body standing beside Percy in the chamber—alone—blasted through his mind. Now their flirtatious exchanges and the way she had gazed at him during their dance began to make sense. The scar on Chase’s cheek burned, and he rubbed it. He had thought Miss Dawson was special—different from the ravenous women who used their seductive charms to win men of power and wealth—men like Percy Atherton.
What a fool he had been. He slammed his fist on the table, sending spoons and bowls clanking and drawing curious glances from those nearby. Why did her betrayal affect him so? After all, he was not seeking to court her. The last thing he wanted was to marry again. He had allowed the romantic allure of the evening to infect him, and like a disease, it had rotted away his sense of reason. That was it. And nothing more. He hung his head. How he longed to go back to sea.
A soft hand lay upon his arm, and he looked up to see Lady Irene, her usually provocative gaze now demure. She looked much more beautiful than he remembered.
“Is something wrong, Admiral?” Her long lashes fluttered above a look of genuine compassion. “Can I be of some help?”
Chase swallowed against another vision of Miss Dawson in her lacy petticoats. “Yes, I believe you can, milady. May I have this dance?”
A cold drizzle pelted Dominique as she stepped from the curricle Mr. Atherton had rented for their ride home. She tightened her shawl around her, but it did nothing to prevent the chill from shooting icicles through her skin. What had begun as the most glorious evening of her life had ended in shame and disaster. She glanced down at her stained gown that Mrs. Barton had tossed at her with a snort after the admiral had left, then down to the puddles forming around the edges of the stones that made up the walkway. She started to gather her skirts but dropped them. Perhaps it was more fitting that she allowed them to drag in the mud along with her heart.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Atherton announced, hopping out behind her.
“That won’t be necessary. I am sure Sebastian will be up awaiting his master’s return.”
After instructing the coachman to wait, Mr. Atherton smiled and offered her his elbow. “Nevertheless, miss.”
Atherton hadn’t spoken a word during the ride to the Randal home, and despite his many blatant affaires de coeur, Dominique sensed his discomfort at the evening’s turn of events. Somehow the value he placed on the admiral’s friendship endeared the gallant rake to her, and she felt sorry that he had most likely lost that friendship.
“I cannot impress upon you how sorry I am for what happened, Miss Dawson,” he began as they made their way over the moist walkway. “I had no idea you were in that chamber. Mrs. Barton informed me the room contained Lord Billingsworth’s collection of fine brandies, you see … and, well, I could hardly resist a sample of them for myself.” One of the corners of his mouth tipped in the beginnings of a grin. �
��And then I saw you.”
Dominique’s chuckle faltered on her lips. Truly, she did believe his motives for entering the room to be pure. For all his faults, he hardly seemed the type to barge in on a woman’s boudoir and force himself on a lady. Though he had toyed with her, he had accepted her refusal with honor and certainly would have left the room had not the admiral entered at just that moment.
“I do not fault you, Mr. Atherton. I fear I was duped by the admiral’s sister. I thought she wanted to make amends for her behavior when instead she wished to tarnish my reputation and ruin my employment.”
“Ah, yes—dear, sweet Mrs. Barton. The vixen.” He spat the word with a harsh chortle. “Never fear. I shall set things straight with the admiral come first light.”
Dominique’s thoughts sped to the images of the admiral dancing across the marble floor with Lady Irene when she and Mr. Atherton had left for the evening. Why had the sight of them enjoying themselves caused every ounce of Dominique to cringe? Isn’t that what she wanted—the admiral otherwise engaged, allowing her to come home and get the documents she sought … to save Marcel?
“Nay, Mr. Atherton. Clear your own name if you must, but it matters not to me what opinion the admiral forms from such a foolish incident. Besides, he seemed quite taken with Lady Irene when we left.” A vision of the admiral and Lady Irene going through the steps of the Roger de Coverly on the dance floor slithered once again through her mind.
“Oh, bosh, and you well know it.” Mr. Atherton led her up the stairs and dashed beneath the covering, doffing his top hat. Flickering light from a lantern hanging by the door played upon his handsome features.
“I thank you for the escort home, Mr. Atherton.”
“My pleasure, miss.” He bowed and leaned toward her with a devilish grin that made her see why all the ladies swooned at his feet. “Truthfully”—he raised his brows—“I believe Mrs. Barton’s insidious plan will topple back into her lap. Did you see the admiral’s face? Egad, what a sight!”
“Yes.” Dominique did not find the same pleasure in the remembrance, for not only shock, not only anger, but pain had burned within the admiral’s eyes. A pain she had inadvertently caused. “He was angry, to be sure. I thought for a moment he would slice you in two with his sword.”
“Nay, ’twas far more than anger. Jealousy, Miss Dawson. Pure raging jealousy—and the fact that he felt it will surely assist him in recognizing his feelings for you.”
“Mr. Atherton, let me make myself clear. I neither elicit nor desire the admiral’s affections.”
“Indeed?” He scratched his chin, a taunting look in his eyes.
Dominique huffed. “Why are you so intent on forcing a courtship between us?”
“Because Randal has been alone far too long. And because I’ve never seen him shine so brightly as he does when he is with you—not since Mrs. Randal.”
Though the statement made her heart skip, she shifted her wet slippers over the cold stones and her thoughts to another topic—the conversation she’d overheard in the dining room. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Atherton?”
“Of course.” He leaned his shoulder against the front wall of the house and folded his arms across his chest.
“Do you never wish to marry?” Dominique felt her stomach tighten, surprised at her own boldness. She glanced at the coachman perched atop the curricle. No doubt he could hear every word they said, but she hoped his presence would not deter Mr. Atherton from speaking the truth.
“Ah, but you are changing the subject, Miss Dawson.” He chuckled, a playful glimmer skipping across his blue eyes. “Marry? I fear I would get bored with one woman. Marriage is so restrictive. A man like myself must have freedom.”
“But there is a price to pay for such freedom, is there not?”
“A price?”
“You will never enjoy having a companion through life, someone who understands you, who knows you, who loves you and promises to stay with you, come what may.”
“If such a love exists, miss, I have yet to see it.” He shrugged. “The notion is overrated, I’m afraid.”
Dominique clasped her hands together. She knew she ought to get inside as soon as possible and retrieve the documents, but something in Mr. Atherton’s eyes, a weary emptiness, gave her both pause and the incentive to continue. Besides, the admiral was no doubt occupied with Lady Irene and wouldn’t be home for hours. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Atherton?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Yes, of course. And I thank Him for providing so many wonderful things for my pleasure.” He grinned.
Dominique swallowed. Lord, please give me Your words. “Is that the only purpose of your existence, to please yourself?”
He snapped his head back and laughed. “Am I to assume you find my lifestyle frivolous, Miss Dawson?” He pressed a hand over his heart. “This vexes me greatly.”
Pleased to see he took her question in good humor, she forged ahead, asking, “Have you no grander purpose in life, no higher calling?”
“I give my opinion at Parliament. It is enough.” He waved a hand through the air.
Dominique shook her head. “Truly, if I lived to please only myself, I would find life infinitely boring, not to mention restricting, yet you seem to find freedom in it. It baffles me, sir.”
“Indeed. And I am equally baffled by your sudden temerity. You had me fooled into thinking you were meek and cowardly.”
“Forgive me.” Dominique lowered her lashes. “I have overstepped my bounds.”
He leaned toward her, and the aroma of spicy wine wafted around her. “I meant it as a compliment.” He snapped his top hat upon his head and took a step toward the stairs. “I have made a decision, Miss Dawson, and I won’t take no for an answer. We shall play a coquettish game, you and I, and drive the admiral mad with jealousy.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “Then he will see his true affections for you.”
Horror gripped Dominique. “I beg you not to, sir, for my sake.” If she could obtain the information she needed tonight, she would leave within days. She cringed. But if she failed and must stay longer … A sudden heaviness tugged on her heart.
Mr. Atherton chuckled and tipped his hat before sauntering down the glistening pathway. “We shall see, Miss Dawson. We shall see.”
Dominique slid the iron key into the lock of the admiral’s study, and with a quick twist and a clunk, the bolt released its tight grip. A candle in one hand, she pressed on the handle with the other and lightly pushed the door. The hinges creaked through the dark, sleeping house like warning bells. Dominique froze. When Sebastian had admitted her into the house, he’d informed her that the rest of the staff was asleep. Only he remained awake until the admiral returned.
“Oh Lord, I pray You close Sebastian’s ears,” she whispered, though unsure whether God would answer the prayer of a spy.
Once she’d slipped inside the study, she closed the door and leaned against it, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart. Her head grew light, and the room began to spin. She pressed a hand to her chest. If she were caught in this room, no foolish excuse of sleepwalking would save her this time. She would be sent to the gallows for treason. This was it. She had to either steal the documents and betray the country she loved or scurry like a frightened mouse back to her room and allow Marcel to die.
Images of his cheerful face flowed before her in happy memories from another life. After their father had died, their mother had been too grieved to offer her children any comfort, and Marcel and Dominique had become inseparable. Then when poor Mama had abandoned them, as well, they had clung to each other for dear life.
She pictured his curly brown hair and beaming green eyes—eyes just like their father’s—smiling at her, encouraging her when they’d had no food to eat for days. Being the eldest, Dominique had assumed the role of protector and provider, but Marcel had been the strong one. Though barely sixteen at the time, he possessed more courage than most grown men she’d known. “Don’t cry, Domi
nique. We shall make it. We will find food. We will again be a great family.” At the time, she’d attributed his hope to youthful naïveté, but now she began to realize he had his father’s strength and courage—neither of which she had inherited.
She scanned the admiral’s study. Save for the tiny circle of light afforded her by her candle, most of the chamber loomed over her in monstrous shadows. Blood hammered through her temples. She closed her eyes as one final image of Marcel jarred her from her terrified stupor. He staggered, held from behind. His wide, pleading eyes gaped at her as a knife pricked his throat, releasing a trickle of blood.
“I will save you, Marcel. This time I’ll be the strong one,” she whispered.
Forcing herself from the door, she crept across the room to the admiral’s desk. She set the candle down, listening for any movement in the hallway. Only the sound of her ragged breathing reached her ears. Lying atop the imposing desk were piles of neatly stacked papers. She began to sift through them, deciding to take only the most important documents from each pile so as not to draw immediate suspicion. But how was she to know which ones contained the most valuable information? With a sigh, she examined a document covered with charts and figures that made no sense to her. She would have to do her best—and she would have to hurry.
Minutes later, she emerged from the room with a stack of nearly fifty papers, all stamped with the Admiralty seal and, from what she could surmise, containing lists of various fleet sizes and locations, firepower, battle strategies, commanding officers, and number of crewmen. As she made her way up the stairs to her room, she prayed it would be enough to procure Marcel’s freedom. After stashing the documents in her valise, she tiptoed across the hall to the admiral’s bedchamber and deposited the key chain on his writing desk, hoping he would assume he had forgotten to take it to the ball. Before leaving, she paused to gaze across his dark room, the huge oak bed, the chest of drawers as tall and broad as its owner, the rectangular window framed in maroon velvet curtains. Heat engulfed her as she remembered the way the admiral had caught her hiding behind them, his bare, muscled chest gleaming in the candlelight, and the way she had felt so close to him. She breathed in his masculine scent and caught herself smiling, wishing for a moment that she could remain William’s governess. But her smile faded as quickly as it had come. She could entertain no further thoughts of the admiral or of his precious son. Soon she would be gone and never see either of them again.
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 12