Chase entered the house, tossed his frock at Sebastian without a word, and tried to shake off the brandy fogging his thoughts. He had indeed found a stronger drink than the lemonade, but he was now beginning to regret his overindulgence. He had hoped the liquor would keep his thoughts off Mr. Atherton and Miss Dawson, but it had only increased his anxiety. As much as he enjoyed Percy’s company, Chase didn’t trust the man—especially not with a beautiful woman—and he regretted sending them off together.
“Did Miss Dawson arrive safely?”
“Yes, sir, nearly an hour ago.”
Chase released a long-held sigh. He wanted to ask the butler if Mr. Atherton had brought her to the door and what exactly had transpired between the two, but all he asked was, “No other problems, then?”
“I believe Master William had a nightmare earlier, sir. He was screaming.” Sebastian’s tone was as dull and colorless as the shadows drifting across his face.
Chase knew William had dreams about his mother from time to time, though he had never been home to experience one firsthand. “Did Mrs. Hensworth attend to him?”
“I believe Miss Dawson came to his aid. He is asleep now, sir.”
“Very well.” Chase took the stairs up to William’s room just to make certain he was all right. Besides, Chase wasn’t sure he wanted the unscrupulous Miss Dawson so close to his son anymore, not until he determined just what had occurred between her and Mr. Atherton at the ball.
As he approached the boy’s nursery, gentle snores reached Chase’s ears. Tiptoeing around the corner, he leaned against the door frame and peered inside, allowing his blurry gaze to wander over the shadows in the room until it alighted upon one that melted his heart. Stretched across the chaise lounge that sat next to William’s bed lay Miss Dawson, her chestnut curls tumbling over her silk robe. Beside her, William pressed against her bosom, his chubby little arms around her waist. Both of them were sound asleep. Hazy light from the window drifted over them in an ethereal glow that reminded him of a holy portrait of Madonna and child.
Chase tore off his topcoat and tossed it in the corner of his dark bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. He tried to shake the vision of William so peacefully asleep in Miss Dawson’s arms, her hand over his forehead in a gentle caress. He did not want to think kindly of her right now, not after her wanton display with the charming Percy Atherton. He felt like spitting but instead ripped through the buttons of his waistcoat and flung it to join his topcoat. Stomping to the fire, he grabbed a bronze poker and jabbed at the smoldering coals, remembering the two of them leaving the ball arm in arm. No doubt that was Miss Dawson’s plan all along, and he had been too foolish to see it. All the ladies clamored for Atherton’s attention—charming, personable, intelligent Percy. The sort of gentleman who always knew the right thing to say at the right time and who with one look could cause the staunchest female to swoon.
Chase held none of those engaging qualities. He was a navy man, more comfortable at the helm of his ship than at a society gathering. He lacked the social graces of a London dandy—was too harsh and authoritative with women, he had been told, and had no idea how to pay a lady a compliment. Melody had never expected one. She had been content with Chase as he was. It was one of many things he had dearly loved about her. And he had believed Miss Dawson possessed a similar quality, but perhaps not. He hung his head. No, there would never be another woman for him besides Melody.
He had left the party early despite the rather resonant and avid protests of his sister and Lady Irene. They normally stayed at those ridiculous balls until well past one in the morning. Chase was in no mood to tolerate any more of the bombastic chatter of his peers, nor to escort the doting Lady Irene across the dance floor. When Miss Dawson had left, she had taken all the enjoyment of the event with her, leaving him with only emptiness inside and the haunting vision of her in her petticoats standing by Atherton’s side, their hands interlocked. He wanted to remember that scene, for it kindled the anger burning within him, and forget the tender one he had just witnessed between her and his son. He wanted to be angry with her. He wanted to dismiss her. He wanted to strangle the strange feelings rising within him whenever she was around.
Kneeling, he stabbed at the coals until warmth radiated over him. He knew his sister had some involvement in the scandal, but he did not know to what extent. Certainly she was not conniving enough to force Miss Dawson to disrobe in front of Atherton. That he could be sure the governess had done quite on her own. Nevertheless, he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss.
Blast! He stood. He would dismiss Miss Dawson first thing in the morning. He would not stand for a woman of questionable morals governing William, no matter the boy’s growing affections for her.
Dropping the poker in the rack, he forged into the darkness toward his dressing room and plunged into the bedpost, jarring his forehead upon the hard oak. Swearing, he groped his way to his writing table and felt across the grainy wood for the candle. His fingers landed on something cold and round. His pocket watch? Couldn’t be. He remembered dropping it in his topcoat pocket. He picked it up. The smooth silver chilled his fingers as they slid over the watch, the chain links, and finally the cold iron key. Finding the candle, he made his way back to the fireplace, lit the wick, and stared at the watch and key in his hand. His thoughts took him back to the moment Sebastian had handed it to him as he was preparing for the ball.
Or had he?
Perhaps that had been another evening—a different time. He’d had a few glasses of brandy. The scar on his right cheek itched, the memory of the betrayal behind its acquisition adding to his discomfiture. He rubbed it. It was not like him to be so careless. Better to check his study just to be sure.
Flinging open the door, he headed down the stairs, candle and key in hand. Once inside his study, he waved the flickering light over the room. Nothing appeared out of place. He sat down at his desk and began scrutinizing each pile of documents he had so carefully laid out.
A grim smile curled upon his lips.
The rat had taken the bait.
CHAPTER 12
Pain throbbed like war drums in Chase’s head. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and grimaced as he took the stairs down to the dining room. Why the headache? He had not overindulged more than usual the night before, though he had most assuredly wanted to. Perhaps his body finally had mutinied against him for continually denying it the sleep it required, for he had wandered the halls again until well past three in the morning before crumpling to his bed in a heap. Only one thing would give Chase satisfaction this day—dismissing his tart of a governess. But not before he ascertained whether she’d pilfered the documents from his study.
As he took the last step, hoping for a cup of the coffee whose exotic fragrance taunted him from the dining room, the annoying cackle of laughter pierced his skull. Turning toward the irritating noise, he made his way toward the back of the house to the morning room, intending to silence the offenders immediately.
But as he neared the open door, William’s hearty laughter both warmed his soul and sent a spike of guilt through him. The boy never laughed like that with Chase. But why would he? Miss Dawson’s soothing voice followed in the wake of his son’s gleeful outburst, eliciting another giggle from him.
Chase cast a disgruntled gaze past the edge of the door.
Miss Dawson sat on the wooden floor beside his son playing a game of jacks, her gold satin skirts encircling her like a halo. She leaned over and planted a kiss upon William’s head and wiped the hair from his face. The lad gazed up at her, his eyes sparkling with more love than Chase had seen in them in years. A huge smile broke upon William’s lips. “Can we play again, Miss Dawson? I know I can beat you this time.”
“Oh, you can, can you?” She laughed. “Well, perhaps one more game before church.”
Chase allowed his gaze to remain fixed upon William—something he rarely did. The boy’s thick blond hair shifted like sand in every direction whe
never he moved his head. Those vivid forest green eyes bursting with energy and life. The exact replica of his mother. A dark heaviness settled on Chase. He turned to leave, unable to bear the sight, when his boot scuffed over the wood, alerting them.
“Father!” William looked up, his dimples deepening beneath rosy cheeks. He sprang to his feet.
“Sacre bleu,” Miss Dawson uttered with a glance over her shoulder. She scrambled to rise as William darted toward his father. Refusing to turn around and face Chase, she struggled to her feet and pressed down the folds of her skirts. “Forgive me, Admiral. I was told you arose late on Sunday.”
William reached Chase and was about to grab ahold of his breeches when Chase gave him a stern look. The boy froze, but hopeful exuberance glittered in his eyes as he looked up at his father. “William, a gentleman always assists a lady to her feet.”
William’s gaze darted to Miss Dawson, and he took off again with greater zeal. Although she was already standing, he grabbed her arm and tugged it as if to aid her with the last step. Yanked off balance, she tipped to the side, flapping her arms through the air, then stumbled, let out a tiny shriek, and began to topple backward.
In two strides, Chase reached her and wrapped an arm around her waist, hoisting her effortlessly off the ground. A wayward jack lay on the floor where her feet had been. He carried her to the rug in the middle of the room. Her hair tickled his chin as waves of lilac caressed him like gentle swells upon the seashore. Something deep within him stirred. She felt as light as a feather in his arms, and her body’s warmth seeped through her gown onto his skin and, like a spark to dry coals, enflamed him. He plopped her down—albeit a bit too hard—and backed away. Egad, he had intended to dismiss her, not fondle her.
“See, I helped her, Father, didn’t I?”
Chase exchanged a glance with Miss Dawson, who gave him a lopsided smile before she looked at William and broke into a chuckle.
“Yes, you did.” He rubbed the boy’s head, stifling the laughter that threatened to rise and join theirs, afraid of the effect it would have on him.
William beamed, appearing to rise in stature, and within Chase burned a longing to be a real father to this boy he loved so much.
Chase raised his gaze to Miss Dawson. A crimson flush burned her cheeks, and he wondered whether he had the same effect on her as she did on him. But no, he shook the thought from his mind. More than likely, ’twas remembering the sordid incident of last night that shamed her.
As well it should.
But why had thoughts of it vanished from his mind the instant his arm had wrapped around her? He silently cursed himself. Why did he allow this woman, this mere strumpet, to affect him so ardently? It was not like him at all.
He crossed one arm over his waist and rubbed his chin with the other, studying her, enjoying the way she shifted uncomfortably and dropped her gaze under his perusal.
Guilty. Yes, guilty.
His sister had been right all along.
“Admiral, about last night,” she began in a timid voice he could hardly hear.
“I do not wish to discuss it.” He held up a hand. “William, please pick up your jacks and put them away.”
“Yes, Father.” Keeping an eye on the couple, the boy plodded to the haphazard pile on the floor and knelt.
“But I believe you misunderstood what hap—”
“You mistake me for a dimwitted buffoon, Miss Dawson,” he stormed. “I know what I saw, and that is the end of it.” His voice blasted through the room louder than he intended. William’s frightened gaze met his and then skittered to Miss Dawson as if he were looking for protection.
Miss Dawson’s chest rose and fell in rapid convulsions.
A tense moment of silence hovered over the room. The woman was far too skittish. Chase should be glad he had put her in her place, but instead he felt like a fiend—a fiend who enjoyed bullying women and children.
Miss Dawson slowly raised her eyes to his in a trembling effort that must have taken all of her miniscule courage. “Will you be joining us at church?”
“I do not attend anymore.” He shook his head, angered at the introduction of a topic that only annoyed him further.
“May I ask why?”
With narrowed eyes, he shot her a look of warning. “Though I fail to see how it is any of your business, I no longer believe in God.”
William uttered a tiny gasp.
“Je suis désolée.” She glanced at William, her hands clasped before her.
“I am not sorry, Miss Dawson.” He saw her flinch at his understanding of her French. “But at least I am no hypocrite.”
Miss Dawson bunched her fists at her sides. “I beg your pardon.”
Chase turned to his son, who had placed all his jacks within the leather pouch and stood staring at him, fear darting across his eyes. “Away with you now, William. Go find Mrs. Hensworth and have her ready you for church.”
“But I am rea—”
“Now!”
The happiness of the morning drained from William’s face and formed a puddle of despair at his feet, where the boy now stared as if praying it would jump back upon him. Slowly he scuffed across the room, avoiding Chase’s gaze but casting an apprehensive glance at Miss Dawson over his shoulder before he left. Chase grimaced and swept his gaze to Miss Dawson.
“Are you implying that I am a hypocrite, Admiral?” she snapped.
“I am, indeed, Miss Dawson.” He tugged on the lacy cuffs of his white shirt and sauntered to the window. Rebellious rays of morning sun had broken through the barricade of fog and sifted through the panes of the french doors, providing a warmth against his sudden chill. “You attend church, espousing a belief in God and His moral code, yet clearly you do not live out those same rules elsewhere.” He did not turn around, desiring neither to see the effect of his harsh words on her face nor to have her witness the emotions he tried so desperately to hide upon his.
“Since you will not afford me the courtesy to explain myself,” she responded behind him, her voice shaky, “I fear my only answer to your accusation is that you are also a hypocrite, sir.”
Chase spun around—incredulous at her comment, angered, even, but at the same time amazed. Did she never fail to surprise him? Finally, he let out a coarse chuckle.
“Continue.” He waved her on. “I anxiously await your explanation for such an affront.”
Miss Dawson bit her lip and glanced down. “If you do not believe in God, then surely you do not believe there are such things as morals.”
“And why would I not?” He clasped his hands behind his back, not daring to draw any closer to her, fearing the caldron of conflicting emotions fuming within him, fearing he would close her mouth with either the press of his hand or the press of his lips.
“If there is nothing outside of ourselves, no divine authority, then who is to say what is right and what is wrong? By whose standard do you judge me?”
Her words struck a chord of reason within him. He furrowed his brow. “I suppose by the code of our society.”
“And who is to say that is right?” She placed a hand over her stomach then raised her tremulous gaze to his. “You are angered and most likely want to dismiss me because you found me in my petticoats with Mr. Atherton.” She gulped and hesitated, and Chase wondered whether the memory shamed or thrilled her.
“Regardless of what you believe happened,” she continued, “you judge me on the basis of what society says is correct behavior for a lady—though I daresay the same behavior is not held as a standard for men.”
Chase snorted and rubbed his chin, astounded by her sudden dive into philosophy. He had not thought her intelligent enough to consider such deep matters. For that matter, he had never taken the time to ponder these things himself.
Miss Dawson locked her gaze firmly upon his for the first time during the conversation. “Therefore, if you do not believe in God, then you have no right to judge my actions, Admiral, as long as they have done neither you
nor your family any harm.” The words were incisive, but the tone was as soft as the cooing of a dove.
Harm? He’d barely been able to sleep a wink last night, but that was not for her to know. Yet he could not deny the woman made sense. How could he judge her, indeed? Or anyone, for that matter? Without God, was there any right and wrong other than what men dictated according to their whims? Then why was he so furious with her? “I have no right, you say?”
She swallowed and wrapped her arms around her stomach.
Ignoring her obvious dismay, he continued. “Egad, woman, I have every right. My concern is for my son.”
“Do you intend to dismiss me?” she asked without looking up.
“I am considering it.” Chase braced his hands on his hips and sighed. “If only for William’s sake.” But he knew that was a lie. From what he had witnessed, Miss Dawson had done wonders for his son.
“I assure you I have no intentions of showing William my petticoats.”
Chase swung back toward the window, hoping to hide his traitorous grin. He ran a hand through his hair. Truth be told, her behavior did not match that of a woman caught in a tryst; it was more that of a woman scorned, a woman mistreated.
A woman misjudged.
Regardless, he liked the effect it had on her, for it emboldened her tongue. He faced her again and sauntered toward her.
“Speaking of Mr. Atherton, when did you arrive home last night?”
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