Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  “In his study, I believe, Mrs. Barton.” The slender man raised his bushy eyebrows and nodded. “Would you care to wait in the drawing room while I inform him you are here?”

  High-pitched, mismatched voices floated down from above through the front hall in a sweet melody Katharine had not heard in years.

  “What is that noise?” Though somewhat pleasing in an odd sort of way, Katharine found that it tweaked her nerves.

  “That is Miss Dawson and William singing upstairs,” Sebastian remarked, folding her coat over his outstretched arm.

  Ah, that devious cat. Katharine clenched her jaw. That was why the tune disturbed her. ’Twas the sound of the siren’s call luring her brother and her nephew into a deadly trap. She gave Sebastian a look of annoyance. “Is this a common occurrence?”

  “Yes.” Sebastian dared to look her straight in the eyes as if in challenge of her acrimony. “It has been quite nice to hear music in the house again.”

  Katharine narrowed her eyes. “Yet I did not ask for your opinion, did I?”

  The butler did not respond, but he also did not lower his gaze.

  Impudent servant. Grabbing the banister, Katharine headed upstairs, hearing Sebastian’s footsteps behind her. “You are dismissed, Sebastian. I am family and can find my way around this house without escort.”

  “Very well.” She heard the man huff his retreat down to the hall.

  Purpose drove her onward as she slinked up the stairs like a cat on the prowl. She had arrived a few hours before they were to attend the play with one goal in mind—to spy on that French tramp, to gather some ammunition against her while she was unawares, while she was alone and not putting on a righteous act in front of Chase.

  As she neared William’s chamber, his cheerful, melodious voice, interrupted only by deep laughter, floated from within. Is that not what she had always wanted? A good mother for the lad? Someone who would love him and take care of him just as Melody would have wanted? She clutched the polished wood of the banister and paused. Despite the sound of William’s happiness, she mustn’t forget this Frenchwoman was an imposter, a vixen, a liar, and no matter what Katharine saw or heard, Miss Dawson’s involvement in this family would end up only in heartache. Good heavens, she had already caught Miss Dawson venturing out at night doing God knows what, more than proving she was not who she said she was. And Katharine could not bear to see her brother suffer the same agony, the same degradation, the same humiliation that she had experienced when her own husband betrayed her at the hands of a Frenchwoman.

  A vision of Gage, her husband, flashed before her. Tall, handsome Lord Barton—Colonel Barton, as he preferred to be called. Decked in his military reds, the tips of his brown hair curling from under his cocked hat, and those flashing green eyes that tore straight into her soul. Just the thought of him still sent her heart skipping—despite his betrayal. She still had the letter he had mailed her from France—the one telling her he had fallen in love with a Frenchwoman and was never coming home. Her eyes misted as she took the last flight of stairs to William’s bedchamber. Not only had Gage betrayed her, but he had betrayed his country, as well, and he had defamed both of their families’ names. She would be dead and buried before she would ever allow that to happen again—especially to her brother and his son.

  Halting outside the open door, she listened to the playful chatter and intermittent songs emanating from the room. She peeked around the corner. Miss Dawson and William sat side by side on a couch, a plethora of open books spread out on the table before them.

  “How about this one?” Miss Dawson pointed to one of the books.

  “I do not know that one.”

  “Never you fear. You follow the words, and I will try to remember the tune. Shall we?”

  William grinned and gave Miss Dawson a look of such adoration it startled Katharine.

  “All hail the power of Jesus’ name, let angels prostrate fall!” Miss Dawson began in a booming voice that was slightly out of tune.

  Katharine ducked behind the door frame and leaned against the wall. Religious songs. No doubt hymns from some dissenting church. As she listened to William join in the chorus, a vision of the stained glass, tall columns, and massive baroque canopy of St. Mary’s Cathedral loomed in her mind, along with the reverence, the awe she had felt standing in the presence of God while the choir sang His praises. She had not attended church in years, and a sudden emptiness stretched like a vacuum within her.

  One more peek revealed Miss Dawson with her arm around the shoulders of a beaming William as they flung their hands through the air, conducting an invisible orchestra.

  Why couldn’t Lady Irene be the motherly type? Katharine had encouraged her on many an occasion to spend more time with William, to take him to the park, to read to him, but the young beauty never seemed interested. Truth be told, William had always cowered in the noblewoman’s presence.

  Katharine shook her head, trying to jar the deceiving thoughts firing into her resolve. She would not be counted among the fools taken in by this woman. Miss Dawson had gone out that night— alone—to a questionable tavern to meet a questionable man. Although the woman had not braved the act again, Katharine was sure that at some point the French strumpet would return to the slime from which she had come. How could she not? It was her nature.

  Their song ended in a burst of giggles that grated like knife blades down Katharine’s back.

  “Miss Dawson, do you like Mr. Atherton?” William asked.

  Katharine leaned her ear toward the door. Mr. Atherton and Miss Dawson’s excursion to the park was all over town, and tonight they would attend the play together. Perhaps she could discover Miss Dawson’s true feelings for the flagrant member of Parliament.

  “He is a kind man and a good friend of your father’s,” the governess replied.

  “He is very funny, don’t you think, Miss Dawson?”

  “Yes, he is quite amusing, William.”

  “Do you like him more than my father?”

  “I like them both very much.”

  “But you like Mr. Atherton more? You are going to the play with him tonight.” There was a hint of sorrow in William’s voice. A long silence ensued.

  “Mr. Atherton and I have much to discuss,” Miss Dawson finally said. “Shall we sing another song?”

  As the duo began another hymn, Katharine clenched her fists. Much to discuss? Mr. Atherton never discussed anything with a lady past arranging a tryst. Surely Miss Dawson could see that Chase held some affection toward her—misguided as he may be. That she not only played the flirt with his best friend but dared to flaunt it right before his eyes was proof enough of her insidious ways.

  Withdrawing from the door, she slipped down the hall, determined more than ever to catch Miss Dawson in one of her nefarious night excursions.

  “Enter.” Chase heard the door to his study open as Sebastian stepped inside.

  Chase studied his butler. How could this slight man who had been a loyal member of his staff for seven years be a spy? But there was no other explanation for the missing documents. And Chase’s career, his future, and the very future of Britain were all teetering precariously on the yardarm of this man’s deception. The stakes were too high to gamble upon—too high to allow for the slightest error.

  Anger thrashed within him. Perhaps he should just have Sebastian arrested on the spot to appease Lord Jervis. Yet a search of the butler’s quarters had revealed no documents, no evidence of traitorous activities. And Chase would not condemn a man based on naught but flighty and fearful accusations.

  He finished the calculation before him and looked up from his work. “Yes, Sebastian.”

  The butler cleared his throat. “I thought you should know your sister has arrived, sir.”

  “This early? The play is not for another three hours.” Chase rose and rubbed the back of his neck. “Where is she?”

  “She insisted on wandering through the house on her own, sir.”

  “Oh
, she did? Always up to something, that one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chase chuckled. He had not expected an answer from his butler but found it amusing the man agreed with his assessment. No doubt, his sister would be found spying on Miss Dawson, waiting for the governess to make one tiny blunder so she could run to Chase and report her infraction. Well, he would tell his sister tonight she had nothing to fear. Miss Dawson had obviously set her sights upon Percy. Why should he be surprised? Percy was everything that Chase was not: charming, agreeable, extremely wealthy, and romantic.

  Chase studied his butler. The man had gone out three more times since the last report, always to the same tavern, always only to drink and socialize. It made no sense. What had happened to the documents? Since the night they had gone missing, Sebastian had been followed every time he had left the house.

  “Is Miss Dawson in her chamber?” Chase decided to belay the topic temporarily, hoping to set Sebastian at ease with futile conversation.

  “No, sir, she is still with William upstairs.” A hint of a grin lifted the old man’s thin lips, and the shock of it took Chase aback. “You smiled.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Sebastian scuffed one shoe over the floor then brushed a speck from his breeches.

  “That is the first time I have seen you smile. And ’twas at the mention of Miss Dawson.”

  “If I may, sir,” Sebastian began, “she is quite good with William and very agreeable.” He opened his mouth to add something then slammed it shut.

  “Please continue.” Chase found he was most interested in Sebastian’s opinion of Miss Dawson. After all, the man had probably spent more time with her than Chase had. Perhaps he had some waggish tale to tell that would shed some light on her true character.

  “She often speaks with the maids, the footmen, the cook, and the entire staff. She treats everyone with equal importance. Everyone in the house has grown quite fond of her, Admiral.” He tugged on his waistcoat. “In addition, she gives half her wages to the beggars who come to the servants’ door.”

  Chase jumped to his feet. “She does? You don’t say.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced. Baffling woman. Why would she do such a thing? The candle on his desk flickered in agreement, sending the sting of beeswax to his nose.

  “Yes, sir. I have never seen the likes of it. She has indeed brought joy back into the house.”

  Chase cursed beneath his breath. Sebastian’s opinion of Miss Dawson had only served to endear her more to him. Did the blasted woman ever do anything selfish or deceiving? Egad, what was she, an angel? No wonder his sister could find naught to bring against her.

  Confusion curdled in his belly—confusion and terror as the realization struck him that Miss Dawson had most assuredly stolen a piece of his affections. This he could never allow. Already the agony of losing her bared its ugly teeth within him. No. No. No. She was not right for him. Despite her admirable qualities, she was not Melody and never would be. Weakness, fear, and timidity. These were not the qualities he sought in a wife. Wife? What was he thinking? Besides, any woman who pursued Percy certainly did not possess the character and intellect of a lady of quality.

  Sebastian cleared his throat. “Will that be all?”

  Chase halted and stared at the butler, suddenly remembering why he had asked him to stay. “Speaking of joy, Sebastian.” Chase skirted his desk and leaned against it. “Are you content here?”

  “Sir?” Sebastian blinked.

  “Are you happy in my employ, in this house?”

  “I am most grateful for the position.” Sebastian lowered his gaze—out of respect or guilt?

  “You may speak freely, Sebastian. I truly wish to know.” Even as he said it, he doubted the butler would be forthright. Why would he? Until recently, Chase had barely said anything to the man, save to order him about.

  Sebastian’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Are your wages satisfactory?”

  “Of course, sir,” Sebastian replied then gave Chase a perplexed look. “May I ask what this is about?”

  “It is about loyalty, Sebastian,” Chase barked in a voice harsher than he intended. “Loyalty to the Randal home and loyalty to Britain.” Frustration stormed through him. He must catch the spy in his midst—if there was one—and be done with this sordid business, or he might never get back to sea.

  Sebastian’s lip quivered. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “You have always had my loyalty, Admiral.”

  Chase nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. Clearly the butler was distraught, but for what reason? “I will not stand for betrayal, not on my ship and not in my home.” Chase took a step toward him. “I would hope, Sebastian, that as my butler all these years, should you come across someone in my employ who proves to be otherwise, you would bring that person to my attention immediately.”

  Sebastian nodded, his gaze darting around the room.

  “That will be all,” Chase said, and Sebastian bowed and exited, closing the door behind him. Pouring a swig of brandy, Chase tossed it to the back of his mouth as he pondered what to make of Sebastian’s reaction. Either the man was indeed the spy, and his jitters were a result of his fear of being caught, or he was simply distraught at having his master imply the accusation. Either way, time would tell. Either way, Chase would have his spy soon.

  Dominique stepped into the entrance hall of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane and was instantly accosted with a thousand sights, sounds, and smells. The haut ton of London, dressed in their finest, floated across the room in a flurry of conversation and high-pitched laughter—the ladies swishing about in their silk gowns, the gentleman sauntering beside them in their fashionable tailcoats. An orchestra played in the distance. Candlelit chandeliers, hanging from a domed ceiling gilded in gold leaf, showered ethereal light over the scene. Adding their sparkling glow, lanterns hung all around them on walls papered in colorful patterns of roses and tiny cherubs.

  Dominique thought of the mysterious man who had protected her through the streets of London. He’d looked nothing like the fat little baby angels decorating the walls. Had he really been an angel? Why had she begun to doubt the miracle she had believed so adamantly only a week ago? Oh Lord, please help my weak faith to grow.

  Blasts of French perfume coupled with the reek of strong drink struck her nose as they made their way through the crowd. She gripped Mr. Atherton’s arm a little tighter and took a deep breath. This was her first play. She should be beset with excitement, but despite the splendor, her insides were a jumbled knot. It had been a week since she had given her ultimatum to the Frenchman, and she had not seen him since. With the passing of each day, terror grew like a deadly disease within her, eating away her faith, her hope, and her resolve until she had begun to believe Marcel must truly be dead.

  What little hope that fought to remain within her now prodded her to keep her eyes alert for the Frenchman’s repugnant face. Despite her terror, she would happily tolerate the sight of him if only he would make contact and confirm their arrangement.

  “Quite a splendid affair, wouldn’t you say?” Percy leaned toward her and spoke above the clamor.

  “Indeed, yes.” She tried to smile, but everything inside her wanted to scream. Not only for Marcel, not only for her betrayal of her country and friends, but for the man whose footsteps she heard stomping behind her.

  The admiral.

  He had barely said two words to her all evening, even when she had been forced to endure a dinner with him and his sister. Dominique had expected Mrs. Barton not to speak to her, although the woman’s frequent looks of disdain spoke volumes enough, but the admiral? Perhaps he was still angry about the sword. At least William had been present to offer her some jovial conversation.

  And of course, the tension had done little to stop her voracious appetite from consuming everything on her plate and then some. She pressed a hand to her churning stomach, where it seemed those last two helpings of r
oast beef were beginning to protest.

  Adding to this quagmire of stress, Lady Irene and her father, Lord Markham, had joined their party, making any hopes of a pleasant evening nigh impossible. Lord Markham had already spent considerable time allowing his licentious gaze to slither over Dominique as if she were next in a line of tasty treats he had reserved for himself. Lady Irene, a picture of loveliness in her shimmering jewels and flowing lace, had fawned over the admiral all evening. Dominique’s only consolation was seeing the admiral’s face bunch into tiny knots of annoyance at the lady’s constant pufferies.

  “Have you ever seen one of Cibber’s plays, Miss Dawson?” Mr. Atherton asked.

  “No, I am afraid not.”

  “I daresay you are in for a treat.”

  “I doubt she has seen any plays, have you, miss?” Lady Irene chirped from behind them.

  “Quit being such a shrew,” Mr. Atherton shot over his shoulder, giving Dominique a sly smile. Though she heard no retort, she could just imagine Lady Irene’s face a red mask of fury.

  “Ah, there he is. Come, my dear,” Lord Markham announced. “I see Lord Wichshur, the man who asked for an introduction.” He tugged his daughter’s arm from the admiral’s and dragged her off through the crowd toward a particularly handsome man standing off to the side, conversing with two other well-dressed gentlemen.

  “I wonder what all the fuss is about.” Mrs. Barton came alongside Mr. Atherton and stared after them.

  “No doubt another potential amour, dear sister.” The admiral accidentally brushed against Dominique—or was it an accident? A tingle warmed her arm, and she gazed up at him. His chocolate brown eyes found hers for a moment, and the adoration that glowed within them startled her.

  “I know Lady Irene,” Mrs. Barton huffed. “Her heart has always been completely yours, Chase. Never fear.”

  “Fear is not the term I would use.” The admiral cocked a brow at his sister.

  Dominique turned her face away before he could see the smile that unavoidably appeared on her lips.