The Falcon and the Sparrow (19 page)

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?”

“As you are aware, Admiral, we left the ball around midnight. I arrived home twenty minutes after that.”

“Did Mr. Atherton walk you to the door?”
Kiss you? Take liberties he should not have?
He knew the overdressed fop had probably tried.

Miss Dawson shifted her stance and played with a tiny ringlet that had slipped from her bun. “Yes, he walked me to the door. But he behaved the complete gentleman, if that is what you wish to know.”

“Why should I wish to know that?” He huffed with a shrug of his shoulders. “Since you were so late to your bed, Miss Dawson, I’m wondering if I might ask you a question.”

She nodded, casting a glance at the door as if she wished to flee.

“Did you hear or see anyone roaming about the house at that late an hour?”

Her eyes widened then lowered. Was that a shudder that ran through her? “No. Why do you ask?”

“Something was stolen from my study.”

“Stolen?” Miss Dawson spun around and skittered to the fireplace. “How could that be?” She held her hands out to lifeless coals then quickly snatched them back. “Don’t you keep your study locked?”

Chase regarded her skeptically, wondering how she was privy to that information. “Yes, that is what makes it all the more puzzling.” He approached her. “And I carry the key on me at all times.”

“Indeed?” Miss Dawson wrung her hands together, still staring into the cold fireplace.

“In fact, I had it with me last night.” He closed the gap between them, careful not to make a sound. He wanted to see the truth in her eyes when she faced him.

She turned around and flinched. “Perhaps you were mistaken and left it in the house.” She shifted her gaze over the floor by their shoes as if searching for something. A gurgling sound rose from her stomach.

Guilt poured from her every movement. Chase had seen it dozens of times before when he had questioned disobedient crewmen. “You seem quite agitated, Miss Dawson. If I were a gambling man, I would wager you to be the thief.”

She flung a hand to her breast. “Me?” Her chest heaved. “Forgive me, Admiral. I am simply terrified.” Finally, she lifted her gaze to his, her lips quivering. “The thought of a thief rummaging through this house at night, why, it frightens me so.”

Of course. Chase chided himself. How could he have suspected this timid sparrow of such a crime? He longed to take her trembling hands in his, longed to assure her of his protection. Instead, he clasped his own behind his back. “It is I who must beg your forgiveness, Miss Dawson. I should not have mentioned it.”

She nodded and looked away.

“Rest assured you are quite safe within these walls.”

Thanking the altar boy, Dominique slid her hand over the cold banister and inched down the stairs leading from the right of the sanctuary to the church offices below. The service at st. Mary Woolnoth had encouraged her. Hearing the Word of God read aloud reminded her that she needed to spend time reading the Bible on her own. Each powerful word had stormed through her, charging her with supernatural strength—a strength she very much needed.

Guilt pressed upon her like a heavy burden. She had lied to the admiral. Right to his face. What kind of person did that make her? But what choice had he given her? If she had told him the truth, he would have arrested her. As it was, she had just one day left before she turned over the documents to the Frenchman—before she could save Marcel.

The sermon had not been given by John Newton, the current rector of the church, and as soon as the service had concluded, Dominique inquired as to his whereabouts. Much to her solace, she discovered that although he was not feeling well, he was willing to see her. She must speak to him. She must discover if God found
favor with her present course or whether she was out of His will and doomed to failure. More than anything, she needed comfort from someone who cared.

After sending William and Mrs. Hensworth home, she asked the footman to wait outside while she headed downstairs.

Now as she emerged into a huge dark hall lit only by candlelight flickering from an open door at the end, she wondered at her sudden nervousness. Perhaps it was due to her not having seen Mr. Newton in years. How could she know whether he could be trusted? How much should she tell him?

The musty smell of aged wood, mold, and incense emanated from the nearly one-hundred-year-old church walls, enhancing the feeling that she walked toward her own inquisition. Resisting the urge to turn around and dash from the church, she made her way forward, remembering her father’s words.
“John Newton is a dear friend who will never turn you away.”
Dominique needed a friend, a friend who could offer her godly advice—especially after the admiral had accused her of stealing documents from his study. He seemed to believe her tale of fabricated fear, but how long could she keep her secret from such a cunning officer?