One of the sailors at the bar sauntered toward her. His brown trousers hung loosely on his thick frame. A red jacket barely covered his stained, checkered shirt. A seaman, not an officer, not a gentleman. But she wouldn’t expect to find a gentleman in such a place. “Can I help ye, missy?” A blob of spittle perched at the corner of his lips like a cannonball ready to fire.
“Quit your slobbering. She’s with me.” The Frenchman emerged from the shadows on her left and took her by the elbow. She winced under his clawlike fingers as he led her to a corner table by the back wall. Grunts of disappointment followed on their heels. Dominique felt as if she’d escaped a pit of vipers only to be thrust into a lions’ den.
“I knew you would come.” He kicked out a chair and plopped down. The light from a lantern perched in the middle of the table set his features in a sinister glow. Amazingly, he hid his accent well beneath a forced Irish brogue.
“Of course, monsieur; you have my brother,” Dominique replied.
“Asseyez-vous.” He motioned toward a chair beside his. Spilled ale pooled atop the table and dripped over the side. Something brown and crusty oozed over the wooden seat.
“I’ll stand.”
“Do you have the documents?”
“Oui.” She glanced around cautiously, hoping no one had heard her French. “Yes.” He held out his hand.
Reaching into her cloak, Dominique grabbed them and tossed them his way, praying she had chosen only those papers that gave away the least damaging information. She’d spent an hour sorting through all the documents, carefully choosing these five.
As he perused them, his gleeful expression soured. “C’est tout?” He rubbed his lips. “Is this all you have?”
“No, I have more.” Dominique’s knees began to quake. “I have all the information my cousin will ever need to defeat the British at sea.” She clenched her jaw, hoping that wasn’t true, praying she’d never have to give up everything to this slimy rat.
The burly man shot to his feet, plucked a knife from his belt, and stepped toward her.
“It is not with me, sir,” Dominique stuttered, trying to still her pulsating breaths.
He halted, and his dark eyes slithered over her.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, hoping her terror was not as evident to him as it was to her. God had shown her that it would be foolish to give them everything they wanted. As long as she held on to the most vital information, she had the power. But for some reason, as this greasy man eyed her like a snake, she felt as powerless as a mouse caught in a trap.
She swallowed an explosion of fear. “And you will not get the rest of the documents until you bring Marcel to me alive and well.”
“How dare you threaten me?” He booted a chair aside and shoved his face into hers. The odor of ale and sour meat filled her nostrils and stifled her breath. “I ought to drag you back to His Excellency and let him kill both you and your brother.”
“But then you wouldn’t get the rest of the information you desire, would you?” Her voice came out in cracked pieces, but her intent was clear.
He snarled, and Dominique shrank back, momentarily closing her eyes, expecting him to strike her.
“Lucien will not like this, I assure you.”
“Nevertheless, you will relay to him my terms.”
“He is not a man to take terms, mademoiselle.” The Frenchman took a step back and slid a finger over his oily mustache. “En fait, he will most likely kill Marcel and be done with you British dogs.” He spat to the side.
Dominique gasped. Her legs trembled, and she grabbed onto the back of the chair to keep from falling. She must keep her wits. She must maintain her control. Lord, help me.
“I don’t believe you, sir. Lucien needs information only I can give him. He will do as I say.” She nodded in an assurance that was sorely lacking within her. “You will bring Marcel back to this same spot in two weeks, and I will return with all the information Lucien demands.”
“Who are you to demand anything from His Excellency!” His bark silenced the crowd for a moment before they resumed their carousing. “You,” he continued in a seething whisper, “will bring the rest of the documents to me tomorrow night, or as sure as I stand before you, Marcel will die.”
CHAPTER 14
After Dominique fled the horrible tavern, the man in black led her all the way home, never once looking back. When she arrived at the Randal house, he had simply kept going. She crept to her bedchamber and eased the door shut. Even at nearly two o’clock in the morning, the creak of wooden floorboards echoed through the house. Who would be up at this hour? Leaning against the door, she rubbed her forehead and tried to make sense of an evening that now seemed more like a nightmare than reality.
Tossing off her moist cloak, she fell onto her bed and noticed her open Bible upon it. Had she left it there? She couldn’t remember. Lighting a candle, she glanced over the pages. Her eyes latched upon one verse that glowed brighter than the others: “For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.”
Dominique froze. Her hands began to shake. She set the candle down upon the night table and stood beside her bed, wrapping her arms around herself. “Lord, could it be? Did You send an angel to protect me?”
Even as she said the words, all the tears she had withheld during the harrowing evening, all the tears brought on by her fears and heartache, filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. She fell to her knees, trembling, and leaned her head in her hands, humbled by the love of God.
Warmth bathed her as the terror of the night spent itself in gut-wrenching sobs. She had done it—she had done what she’d set out to do, but she had not been alone. God had been with her. He had protected her. He had sent an angel to watch over her. Why, she could not understand, especially when her task reached beyond legal boundaries.
“I believe You, Father. I believe You are who You say You are. I believe You are all powerful and that You are with me.” She rocked back and forth, praising Him and basking in the knowledge that He loved her and would never leave her.
No sooner had the fearful storm within Dominique begun to quiet than the Frenchman’s threat rose like a black thundercloud upon her peaceful waters. He had said Lucien would kill Marcel if she didn’t bring all the documents to him tomorrow night. But how could she? What motive would they have to keep him alive if she delivered everything they desired?
A knot formed in her throat. Had she not just declared her faith in the power of God? And yet not a second later, she shriveled in fear.
Forgive my weakness, Lord. Please tell me what to do.
But she already knew. She must hold out and stick to her plan. She must remember that now she had a card to play in this treacherous game of life and death. But what she didn’t know was how she would survive the following night—how could she force herself to sit and do nothing, all the while thinking that at that very moment she might be causing Marcel’s death?
A tap on his chamber door jarred Chase from his half sleep and sent him fumbling to answer it. He admitted the tall midshipman and quickly shut the door behind him. Though a waning candle still flickered on his desk, Chase could barely make out the young man’s features. “What news, Franklin?”
The man shifted his boots across the floor. “He went to the Chaucer down by the river.” Chase knew the tavern, one of the nicer taprooms where untitled men congregated to have a drink or perhaps solicit female companionship. “Ah, yes, to meet someone, perhaps?” “I cannot say, Admiral.”
“You cannot?” Chase’s ire rose like a flame. “You are being paid to say, Franklin. Did he or did he not meet someone?” “He spoke with several people.” “Did he hand off the documents?”
Franklin shook his head. “I never saw him hand anything to anyone save for a shilling to the barmaid for a drink.” Chase rubbed his chin. “Permission to speak, Admiral.”
“Yes,
of course.” Chase waved a hand through the air.
“Are you sure you are correct in your assumptions? I watched your butler for more than two hours, and truth be told, he appears to be naught but a lonely old man in need of a drink and some companionship.”
Chase huffed and massaged the back of his neck. “That will be all, Franklin. Keep a weather eye out every night as instructed.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.” Franklin saluted and marched from the room.
Chase began to pace. As much as he hated to place suspicion upon Sebastian, as much as he had denied the Admiralty’s insinuations that someone in his own home was a spy for France, Chase could come to no other conclusion. The old butler fit the description given the Admiralty by their sources abroad: British born but with French ties; someone close to Chase—a servant, a relation; someone with access to his study; and someone with a need to improve his station in life.
Chase hung his head. He had hoped with everything in him that he had been wrong. But then the documents had gone missing. Who else could it be? He allowed his mind to scan the list of household servants once again. None with the brains, none with the motive and access, and none with the ties to France like Sebastian. Save Miss Dawson—Chase chuckled at the thought of an admiral’s daughter spying on Britain. Hogwash. Pure rubbish.
Katharine pushed her way past Sebastian as soon as he opened the door. Lifting her skirts, she gave Lady Irene, who sped in behind her, a smug grin and headed up the stairs.
Sebastian grunted. “Mrs. Barton, allow me—”
“Never mind, Sebastian, I will find him,” she shot back over her shoulder.
Laughter drew her to the drawing room, and without so much as a knock or an announcement, she thrust open the doors and burst inside in a swish of lace. What she had to tell her brother could not wait another minute, nor could it wait for propriety. But the vision displayed before her halted her in her tracks and sent icicles through her veins.
Candlelight flickered across the room, setting it aglow with a golden warmth that kept out the descending gloom of evening. Miss Dawson presided on the flowered divan, William snug by her side, their smiling faces pressed within a book. Across from them sat Chase, one leg perched upon the other, reading the Spectator. A sensation of rapport, of affection, swept over her—a sensation of family. Something she hadn’t felt in quite some time.
It only incensed her further.
After she had exposed the tawdry woman’s promiscuity to Chase, he dared to sit in the same room with her? She had heard he had not released her yet, but this was beyond reprehensible.
Grabbing Lady Irene’s hand, she brought her alongside. “Chase, I must speak to you immediately.”
The enchanting scene was shattered, and they raised their heads, seeming just now to notice her. William’s beaming blue eyes widened. The young boy stood, bowed, but made no move to greet her as he usually did. No doubt the French vixen had poisoned the young lad’s mind against his own aunt. He quickly reassumed his seat beside her.
Chase set down his paper and gave her a look of annoyance as he stood. “Good evening to you, dear sister, Lady Irene.” He bowed. “A pleasure to see you both.” The smile that lifted his lips did not reach his eyes. “Now pray tell, what has you so overwrought?”
Katharine ground her teeth together. Why did he always have to patronize her? “I must speak to you alone, if you please.” She shot a fiery glance at Miss Dawson, who merely looked back at her with those fawn-colored eyes of innocence. Innocent, indeed.
“You may speak freely here.” Chase folded his arms across his chest.
Lady Irene tensed beside her. “If I may, Admiral. I believe you should hear what your sister has to say. ’Tis a matter of grave importance.”
“Ah, no doubt.” Chase nodded and cocked a brow. “Some new scandal is afoot? Or perhaps some poor beau failed to swoon at your feet, Lady Irene, as expected when you graced him with one of your sultry glances?” He snorted, and Katharine heard Lady Irene groan beside her. “Or perchance you wish to invite me to another ball? The last one was quite entertaining, to be sure.” He sauntered toward the windows, where a setting sun splattered blood red over the panes.
“ ’Tis none of those things, Chase, I beg you.” Katharine’s news pranced upon her tongue like a herd of wild horses longing to be released from their corral. Raising her chin, she glanced at Miss Dawson, and a smug triumph cushioned her rapidly beating heart. Surely now her brother would release the French miscreant and find a wife among the haut ton, a loyal British noblewoman who would treat him as he deserved—someone like Lady Irene. She gave her friend a victorious smile. Chase would no doubt thank Katharine later, when he realized she had saved him from certain devastation.
The admiral spun around. “Very well, I shall listen to you, sister, but mark my words, if this is another of your conniving plots to sully Miss Dawson’s reputation, I will not stand for it.”
Katharine blinked. So he knew about her part in the incident at the ball? No doubt that loose-lipped fop Atherton had failed to keep his mouth shut. Well, no matter, it wouldn’t make any difference—not after Chase heard what she’d come to tell him.
“Ah, yes.” He moved to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel. “Mr. Atherton explained the situation quite clearly to me. And I believe you both owe Miss Dawson yet another apology, do you not?” He nodded toward the governess, who had turned a bright shade of scarlet to match her wanton heart. “You not only ruined her gown, but caused her a great deal of embarrassment, as well.”
Chase straightened his blue waistcoat and shifted his stern gaze betwixt her and Lady Irene. Why did he always have to wear that blasted navy uniform? Fear squeezed Katharine’s stomach at the thought of losing him. Aside from their aging parents, Chase was all she had left. How she longed to see him happily married and settled in London. But not with this Frenchwoman, who would surely break his heart and send him sailing out to sea.
William shifted in his seat and whispered something in Miss Dawson’s ear. Setting the book down, she took his hand in hers and held it in her lap. Katharine cringed at the affection between them and elbowed Lady Irene, motioning with her eyes toward the boy. In spite of Lady Irene’s protests, Katharine had instructed her friend to warm up to the lad, to converse with him, read to him, play with him, whatever it took to prove herself a worthwhile mother in Chase’s eyes.
Lady Irene slid onto the divan beside him and offered him one of her sweet smiles reserved for her favorite gentlemen.
It did not have the same effect on William. Cringing, he sank back into Miss Dawson as if a giant viper were after him. He wrinkled his nose against what Katharine assumed was Lady Irene’s overabundant perfume.
“William, what are you reading?” she asked.
The boy gave her a sour look and glanced up at Miss Dawson. She nodded at him with a smile.
“Tom Thumb,” William whispered, staring down at his book.
“Oh, Tom Thumb!“ Lady Irene screeched and bounced up and down on the divan, shifting her gaze to Chase to see if he noticed her exuberance. Her outburst seemed to frighten William further, and he inched closer to Miss Dawson. Katharine sighed. Clearly she needed to spend more time on Lady Irene’s mothering skills.
Chase’s brow wrinkled; then he looked at Katharine. “Enough of this. I await your apology.”
Miss Dawson slowly rose. “Admiral, I beg of you. There was no harm done. Let us simply forget the incident.”
Katharine narrowed her eyes upon the governess. Very clever. See how she plays the charming saint, the forgiving victim. Fury burned within her. And one glance at her brother told her ’twas obvious he’d fallen for the ruse. He gazed at Miss Dawson, and she at him, and in that brief second what Katharine saw in their exchange sent spikes of terror to her bones. She must act, and she must act quickly.
“Chase, I beg you.” She gave him her most pleading look—the one that always seemed to win him over. “May I have a word with you in p
rivate?”
No sooner had the admiral and his sister left the room than a chill struck Dominique. When she looked up, it was to Lady Irene’s icy blue eyes boring into her from the other side of the room.
“Mr. Atherton tells me you are very committed to Christian principles.” She tilted her head and allowed her gaze to wander over Dominique as if she were studying her through a microscope.
“That is true. Are you not?” Dominique clasped her hands in front of her, uneasy in the presence of this high society lady who obviously harbored only hostility toward her.
“Humph. I suppose.” She tossed her head, sending her golden curls quivering, and glided across the room. “You aren’t one of those Methodists, are you?” She scrunched her nose.
William tugged on Dominique’s gown from where he still sat on the divan. “What is a Methodist, Miss Dawson?”
Dominique smiled at him. “I will explain later, William.” The last thing she wanted was for the young boy to witness any more quarrels. He had already heard far more caustic words that evening than was prudent for one so young. Her thoughts sped to the admiral and Mrs. Barton, and fear swirled in her stomach. Whatever she had wished to discuss with him, it involved Dominique; of that she could be sure. The woman had never looked so supercilious before, as if she gloated over some assured victory.
“The Methodists,” Lady Irene began, “dare to say that people of high rank and good breeding are no better than the common wretches that crawl on the earth.” She reached the window and gazed out, her peach gown aglow in the last rays of sunlight. “Absurd.”
As much as she wanted to, Dominique couldn’t leave without responding to this grossly inaccurate belief that ran rampant through the British society. “I believe we have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, milady.” She extended her hand to William, thinking it best if she left Lady Irene to her ill-humored musings. “Come, William, let us retire to your room.”
Mrs. Hensworth appeared in the doorway. “There you are, William.” The plump housekeeper’s gaze scanned over Lady Irene and ended in a smile when it reached Dominique. “I’ll take him upstairs, miss.”
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 16