“I have met the man,” Mr. Atherton announced, still staring at Lady Irene and Lord Markham as they halted before their victim. “He is a duke in possession of a huge estate in Bedfordshire—a massive land holding. Worth quite a bit, from what I hear.”
“You should be jealous, brother.” Mrs. Barton smirked.
“Jealousy is not an emotion I feel very often.” His dark gaze snapped to Dominique and lingered there again, warming her with its intensity.
“Speaking of …” Mr. Atherton tilted his head toward the admiral. “Perhaps you would like to escort Miss Dawson to her seat. I feel the need for some liquid refreshment.”
“Speaking of what, Percy?” The admiral snorted as Mr. Atherton took Dominique’s gloved hand from his arm and placed it onto the admiral’s.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Atherton leaned an ear toward the admiral. “You really should speak up, Randal. I cannot hear you over the clamor. Nevertheless”—he waved a hand through the air—“if you will excuse me.”
Before the admiral could protest, Mr. Atherton scurried away.
“Very well, then, ladies, shall we?” The admiral offered his other arm to his sister.
Without looking at Dominique or saying another word, he led her and his sister up a curved staircase and down a hallway, nodding at acquaintances along the way. Then, brushing aside a set of heavy velvet curtains, he ushered them into a first-level seating box, as yet devoid of any patrons.
Dominique smiled at him as he escorted her to a chair toward the front, but he did not return her regard, and she found herself hungering for another glance from those deep brown eyes. She quickly chastised herself for the desire.
Instead of sitting, the admiral moved to the wooden railing and gazed down upon the milling crowd below. A large, curtained stage spanned the end of the massive room toward Dominique’s right, and across the way, four long rows of seating boxes stacked one upon the other reached all the way to the arched ceilings above. People began filling them, some taking their seats while others hung over the edge, waving at acquaintances below. Dominique carefully scanned the crowd for any sign of the Frenchman.
“I wonder where Lady Irene and Lord Markham are,” Mrs. Barton said to no one in particular just as Mr. Atherton stumbled in, drink in hand. He winked at the admiral and took a seat beside Dominique, then ran a hand through the stylish tawny curls at his collar. The admiral’s gaze scoured over them before he stomped out of the box.
“Now where is he off to?” Mrs. Barton said.
Dominique cringed at the look of pain she’d seen on the admiral’s face. Was she the cause? Was it Mr. Atherton’s silly game? No, she did not wish to believe that, for then she would have to admit the admiral was indeed jealous, and if he was jealous, that meant he must harbor some affection for her. Dominique threw a hand to her chest. Why did her heart leap at the thought? Perhaps she should ease his pain by disclosing the true nature of Mr. Atherton’s flirtation. But no, if she did, and the admiral did care for her, then he would be free to pursue her, and she could not allow that to happen—she could not allow it because deep down she feared she would not be able to resist him. Besides, how could she entangle herself with a man she intended to betray? It would only cause both of them pain and end in disaster. And the admiral had suffered enough in his life. Dominique would not be the cause of more pain than she was forced to inflict upon him by her deception.
As soon as she exchanged the documents for Marcel, she and her brother must leave London and start a life somewhere else—far away from the admiral and far away from William. Just the thought of it made her heart shrivel, but she had no choice.
The curtains parted, admitting Lady Irene and Lord Markham. Dropping into her chair, Lady Irene let out a dreamy sigh and smiled as she withdrew her fan and waved it over her flushed face.
“Whatever is the matter, dear?” Mrs. Barton leaned over the seat between them and placed a hand on her arm.
“Why, nothing is the matter. Nothing save I have just been introduced to the handsomest, wealthiest, and most eligible man.” Her blue eyes sparkled like the sea on a sunny day.
Katharine gave an unladylike snort, pursed her lips, and snapped her hand back. “What is he to you? What of my brother?”
“He is trying to arrange it so he can sit with us. Is that not marvelous?” Lady Irene replied as if she had not heard Mrs. Barton at all.
“Yes, marvelous.” Mrs. Barton withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her neck.
That Lady Irene had switched her affections so easily did not surprise Dominique nearly so much as it seemed to shock Mrs. Barton. Perhaps now the two of them would cease their conniving matchmaking and their continual assaults on Dominique’s character.
With a grunt, Lord Markham squeezed past Mrs. Barton and slid into the chair on the other side of Dominique. She faced forward, her heart dropping into her stomach, only further agitating the moiling caldron within. She had hoped the admiral would sit beside her, for no other reason than that she always felt safe by his side—and tonight she needed to feel safe. Lord Markham, however, had the opposite effect. He brushed his leg against her skirts, sending an icy chill over her. “You are truly a bright rose among many weeds, Miss Dawson.”
She smiled, nearly choking on the bile rising in her throat, and turned to Mr. Atherton for protection, but the young member of Parliament was absorbed in a flirtatious exchange with a lady in the seats below them.
Finally, she heard the familiar thud of the admiral’s boots and sighed. The scent of spice and brandy wafted over her shoulder as he sank into the chair behind her. Though she could feel Lord Markham’s gaze snaking over her, Dominique forced herself not to look at him, not wanting to acknowledge his interest, not wanting to give him the slightest excuse to continue his crude dalliance.
As if knowing she needed some comfort, the admiral leaned toward her from behind. She knew it because she sensed his strong presence long before he spoke. “You look quite lovely tonight, Miss Dawson.” His warm breath caressed her neck and sent delightful ripples down her back.
Dominique turned her head slightly to respond, shocked by his compliment, but he had already retreated. Was it the brandy that spoke for him? Why would he say such a thing when he had ignored her most of he night?
One by one, the lamps were blown out, and the theater began to dim. As the orchestra started a new concerto, people scrambled to their seats, and the chattering ceased. Dominique settled into her chair, grateful that at least for the duration of the play, she could escape from these maddening people around her and from the maddening feelings within her and even from the maddening task before her.
But no sooner had that comforting thought begun to soothe her mind and the first actor appeared onstage, than out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man slink in through the curtains and take a seat in the left corner. She felt the man’s gaze upon her and turned briefly to see who it was.
Even in the shadows, she recognized the slick mustache and the sordid smirk beneath it.
CHAPTER 18
Dominique’s heart ceased beating. She crumpled in her seat, gasping for air.
“Are you quite all right, my love?” Mr. Atherton asked.
Dominique nodded and brought herself upright. “Please forgive me.” She tried to smile and shook out her fan, holding it over her trembling lips. Another glance to her left told her that she had not seen an apparition. The Frenchman sat no more than two yards from her, grinning like a leopard, a spotted leopard about to pounce on his prey.
Another actor emerged onto the stage, his blaring voice echoing through the massive theater, but by the time his soliloquy reached Dominique, it fell muffled beneath the mad rush of blood through her ears.
The contact’s presence must surely mean that Marcel still lived! A wave of hope suddenly poured over her heart, becalming the frenzied beating.
Something humorous occurred onstage, and Lady Irene’s and Mrs. Barton’s laughter blaste
d over Dominique from behind to join Mr. Atherton’s beside her.
She glanced over her shoulder at the man whose piercing eyes were still upon her. He jerked his head back toward the curtains twice and then nodded, a threat etched across his harsh gaze.
How would she be able to speak to him alone? She doubted she could leave the box without an escort and, even more so, doubted she could slip away unnoticed. She shook her head and turned back around. But when she glanced back to somehow relay this information to him, he was already gone.
Horrified, she turned forward. Her fan slid from her sweaty grip and landed on Lord Markham’s lap. Without thinking, she grabbed it, accidentally brushing her fingers over his breeches. Instantly she felt his slimy gaze snap in her direction. She did not have time to deal with the lecherous man. Leaning toward Mr. Atherton, she tapped his arm. “Please excuse me. I shall return shortly,” she whispered.
Tearing his eyes from the play, he examined her quizzically. “Where are you going?”
With a shake of her head, she slowly rose.
“I shall accompany you,” Mr. Atherton huffed as he scooted to the edge of his seat.
“Non,” she responded a bit too loudly. All eyes shifted to her. “That will not be necessary. Thank you. Enjoy the play. I shall return presently.”
Atherton nodded with a look of apprehension, but fortunately he slouched back into his chair, no doubt believing she needed to relieve herself. Without gazing at the admiral, Dominique barreled through the curtains and out into the hallway.
The Frenchman was nowhere in sight.
Taking a few steps, she clasped her hands together and glanced about wildly. Where had he gone?
Tiny needles of fear pricked her skin. Why would he simply disappear without speaking to her? What sort of heinous game was he playing? Gathering her skirts, she darted to the top of the stairs and peered down into the front entrance where several patrons meandered about in flirtatious conversations. A quick scan of the crowd revealed the Frenchman was not among them.
The hope that had risen at possibly hearing news of Marcel dwindled. With a heavy sigh, she began trudging back to the box seat when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Frenchman gesturing to her from deep in the hallway. No sooner had she started to follow him than he turned and trotted away. Even though only a few people ambled about, Dominique had a hard time keeping up with him as she wove between them. Finally, he halted, looked both ways, and slipped behind thick curtains to his right.
Halting before the maroon draperies, Dominique held her breath. Oh Lord, help me and give me courage. She wrung her hands together, trying to calm her raucous heart. Brushing aside the velvet hangings, she slid though the opening.
A rough hand seized her by the throat.
The Frenchman tossed her into one of the chairs in the back of the empty chamber and released her. Choking, Dominique rubbed her neck where his thick fingers had threatened to squeeze the life from her and stared up at the stocky man. With a snicker, he adjusted his satin-trimmed, ruby red coat and flexed his hands before him as if he were readying them to attack her again. Dominique sped her gaze across the small room, looking for a possible escape route. It appeared to be some sort of anteroom that led to a much larger chamber stuffed with stage supplies. Lantern light from the larger room flickered through the open door, making the Frenchman appear even more sinister in half shadows.
“What of Marcel?” Dominique found her voice, though it sounded as though a jagged rope were stuck in her throat.
“Il vit.” The man spat on the floor. “He is alive, for now, although your tromperie cost him a few days sans food or water.” He snorted. “I tell you I would not want to be locked in His Excellency’s prison.” His lips twisted in an evil grin. “A most horrid place.”
Dominique swallowed but found that her throat had gone completely dry. Visions of Marcel’s emaciated body clinging to life amidst rats and filth in some French cell caused the remainder of her dinner to heave into her throat. Somehow she kept from spewing it upon the Frenchman, though the idea was not without some appeal.
“His Excellency was most displeased with your bold demand.” He flung his loose, greasy hair behind him and gave her a look of complacent superiority. “I tell you he was quite overcome with fury and thought to have the boy’s throat slit immédiatement.“
Dominique gripped the sides of the chair until her fingers ached. “Obviously,” she began, speaking slowly so as not to reveal the tremor in her voice, “he has decided against that course.” A flicker of victory sparked within her at the way the Frenchman’s upper lip curled. She knew Lucien wanted the documents more than he wanted Marcel dead. Her gamble had paid off. Thank You, Lord.
“Oui, pour le moment.” He raised his hand and stared at his fingernails. “We will meet you at one o’clock in the morning, Tuesday next. Same place.”
“And you will bring Marcel?”
He nodded.
“Alive?’
“Naturellement. What do you think we are, les barbares?” He gave her an incredulous look then gripped the chair arms on each side of her and shoved his face into hers.
“And you will bring all the information we require.”
“As I have said.” Dominique pressed against the back of the chair and turned away from the man’s foul breath.
“Très bien.” He released the chair with a snap. “There is one more thing.”
Dominique tensed.
“The documents must contain enough valuable information to be worth the purchase of your brother’s life.”
Sacre bleu. Dominique shook her head and gave the man a gaping stare. What more could they require of a simple girl? A sudden fear gripped her—fear that they could hold Marcel’s life over her indefinitely, feigning dissatisfaction with whatever she brought them, a fear that this nightmare would never end. But what choice did she have? If she could at least get Marcel upon British soil, then perhaps they could escape somehow, some way. “I tell you I have retrieved all I can from the admiral’s study.”
“You’d better hope so, mademoiselle.” He eased a finger over his mustache.
“After you peruse their contents, you will let us go?”
“Oui, but of course.”
“May I have your word on that?”
“You have my word as a Frenchman.” He lengthened his stance and stood regally, looking off into the distance as if posing for a painting.
She didn’t think it would matter if she told him that the word of a Frenchman meant nothing to her.
“Maintenant, allons, allons.” He grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. A spike of pain shot through her shoulder. He gestured toward the curtains. “Return before your people grow suspicious.” Even as he said it, Dominique heard her name filtering through the hallway.
The Frenchman slunk into the shadows against the far wall.
“Miss Dawson. Miss Dawson.”
The voice was neither Mr. Atherton’s nor the admiral’s, and the sound of it sent the hairs on the back of her neck springing to attention. She mustn’t let Lord Markham or anyone else see her with the Frenchman. She dashed across the antechamber toward the supply room in the back. Her foot struck the hard leg of a chair. It crashed to the floor with a loud thud as a sharp pain rose up her leg.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Dawson.”
Dominique slowly lifted her gaze as Lord Markham parted the curtains and entered the room. The reek of alcohol saturated the air.
She shifted her eyes to where the Frenchman had stood, but only the fluttering of curtains evidenced his passing.
Dominique gazed back at Lord Markham, and the look in his eye turned her blood to ice. “How did you find me?”
“Find you? Why, ’twas quite obvious that you wished me to join in your little game of cat and mouse.” He staggered and grabbed the back of a chair.
“I beg your pardon.” Terror gripped Dominique. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Come now, Miss Dawson, let us not play innocent.” He licked his fingers and dabbed at the silver-streaked hair on each side of his face. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, the way your hands grazed my leg when we were in the seating box.”
“That was an accident, I assure you.” Dominique inched around the fallen chair, hoping to make her way to the other side of the room where there was a clear path to the curtains. “And I look at you no differently than any other man.”
“Oh, brava, brava.” He clapped. “Your acting is superb. Perhaps you should be onstage, my sweet, rather than those atrocious actors. Nevertheless”—he sauntered toward her—“I find I am up to the challenge.”
One glance over her shoulder told Dominique it would be best to avoid the storage chamber, where she would no doubt be trapped. The only way out was behind Lord Markham’s massive swaying body. Since his faculties were not presently at their sharpest, she might be able to catch him off guard and dash past him.
As if he read her thoughts, a wicked grin writhed upon his lips. “Splendid. You are going to make this interesting, are you? I do so love games. What roles should we play? The conquering war hero and the captive slave girl? The wealthy lord of the manor and the innocent but seductive chambermaid?” A devilish twinkle flickered across his glazed eyes.
Dominique swallowed and pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. “How about the noble gentleman and the lady who leaves this antechamber untouched?”
“Hmm.” Lord Markham scratched his chin. “I daresay that doesn’t sound like much fun.”
Continuing to edge toward the other side of the room, Dominique kept her anxious gaze upon Lord Markham. Surely this noble gentleman—this earl—would not force himself on a lady. Once he realized her disinterest, he would no doubt stand down. “Lord Markham, I apologize if I have given you the wrong impression, but I assure you, sir, I have no interest in a liaison with you.”
A slight grin parted his lips but fell away as his brow wrinkled. A hue as dark as the maroon curtains behind him splattered over his swollen cheeks. “Impossible. Do you know who I am? Do you realize what I am worth, what I could do to improve your station?”
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 21