The Falcon and the Sparrow (2 page)

She couldn’t.

Several minutes later, a young couple with a baby climbed in, shaking the rain from their coats. After quick introductions, they squeezed into the seat beside Dominique.

Through the tiny window, the coachman stared at them and frowned, forming a pock on his lower chin. He muttered under his breath before turning and snapping the reins that sent the mail coach careening down the slick street.

The next four hours only added to Dominique’s nightmare.
Though exhausted from traveling half the night, rest was forbidden her by the constant jostling and jerking of the carriage over every small bump and hole in the road and the interminable screaming of the infant in the arms of the poor woman next to her. She thanked God, however, that it appeared the roads had been newly paved or the trip might have taken twice as long. As it was, each hour passed at a snail’s pace and only sufficed to increase both her anxiety and her fear.

Finally, they arrived at the outskirts of the great city capped in a shroud of black from a thousand coal chimneys—a soot that not even the hard rain could clear. After the driver dropped off the couple and their vociferous child on the east side of town, Dominique had to haggle further for him to take her all the way to Hart street, to which he reluctantly agreed only after Dominique offered him another three precious shillings.

The sights and sounds of London drifted past her window like visions from a time long ago. She had spent several summers here as a child, but through the veil of fear and loneliness, she hardly recognized it. Buildings made from crumbling brick and knotted timber barely held up levels of apartments stacked on top of them. Hovels and shacks lined the dreary alleyways that squeezed between residences and shops in an endless maze. Despite the rain, dwarfs and acrobatic monkeys entertained people passing by, hoping for a coin tossed their way. As the coach rounded one corner, a lavishly dressed man with a booming voice stood in an open booth, proclaiming that his tonic cured every ache and pain known to man.

The stench of horse manure and human waste filled the streets, rising from puddles where both had been deposited for the soil men to clean up at night.

Dominique pressed a hand to her nose and glanced out the other side of the carriage, where the four pointed spires of the Tower of London thrust into the angry sky. Though kings had resided in the castlelike structure, many other people had been imprisoned and tortured within its walls. She trembled at the thought as they proceeded down Thames street, where she soon saw the massive London Bridge spanning the breadth of the murky river.

Her thoughts veered to Marcel, her only brother—young, impetuous Marcel. Dominique had cared for him after their mother died last year of the fever, and she had never felt equal to the task. Marcel favored their father with his high ideals and visions of heroism, while Dominique was more like their mother, quiet and shy. Marcel needed strong male guidance, not the gentle counsel of an overprotective sister.

So of course Dominique had been thrilled when a distant cousin sought them out and offered to take them both under his care. Monsieur Lucien held the position of
ministère de l’intérieur
under Napoleon’s rule—a highly respectable and powerful man who would be a good influence on Marcel.

Or so she had thought.

The carriage lurched to the right, away from the stench of the river. Soon the cottages and shabby tenements gave way to grand two- and three-level townhomes circled by iron fences.

Dominique hugged her valise to her chest, hoping to gain some comfort from holding on to something—anything—but her nerves stiffened even more as she neared her destination. After making several more turns, the coach stopped before a stately white building. With a scowl, the driver poked his open hand through the window, and Dominique handed him her coins, not understanding the man’s foul humor. Did he treat all his patrons this way, or had she failed to conceal the bit of French in her accent?

Climbing from the carriage, she held her bag against her chest and tried to sidestep a puddle the size of a small lake. Without warning, the driver cracked the reins and the carriage jerked forward, spraying Dominique with mud.

Horrified, she watched as the driver sped down the street.
He did that on purpose.
She’d never been treated with such disrespect in her life. But then, she’d always traveled with her mother, the beautiful Marguerite Jean Denoix, daughter of Edouard, vicomte de Gimois, or her father, Stuart Dawson, a respected admiral in the Royal Navy. Without them by her side, who was she? Naught but an orphan without a penny to her name.

Rain battered her as she stared up at the massive white house,
but she no longer cared. Her bonnet draped over her hair like a wet fish, her coiffure had melted into a tangle of saturated strands, and her gown, littered with mud, clung to her like a heavy shroud. She deserved it, she supposed, for what she had come to do.

She wondered if Admiral Randal was anything like his house—cold, imposing, and rigid. Four stories high, it towered above most houses on the street. Two massive white columns stood like sentinels holding up the awning while guarding the front door. The admiral sat on the Admiralty board of His Majesty’s Navy, making him a powerful man privy to valuable information such as the size, location, and plans of the British fleet. Would he be anything like her dear father?

Dominique skirted the stairs that led down to the kitchen. Her knees began to quake as she continued toward the front door. The blood rushed from her head. The world began to spin around her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she swallowed. No, she had to do this.
For you, Marcel. You’re all I have left in the world.

She opened her eyes and took another step, feeling as though she walked into a grand mausoleum where dead men’s bones lay ensconced behind cold marble.

She halted. Not too late to turn around—not too late to run. But Marcel’s innocent young face, contorted in fear, burned in her memory. And her cousin Lucien’s lanky frame standing beside him, a stranglehold on the boy’s collar.
“If you prefer your brother’s head to be attached to his body, you will do as I request.”

A cold fist clamped over Dominique’s heart. She could not lose her brother. She continued up the steps though every muscle, every nerve protested.
Why me, Lord? Who am I to perform such a task?

Ducking under the cover of the imposing porch, Dominique raised her hand to knock upon the ornately carved wooden door, knowing that after she did, she could not turn back.

Once she stepped over the threshold of this house, she would no longer be Dominique Dawson, the loyal daughter of a British admiral.

She would be a French spy.

A
dmiral Chase Randal sat stiffly by the fire in his drawing room, thumbing through the latest issue of the
London Gazette
. “Blast these politicians,” he cursed aloud to no one in particular. “We cannot cut the fleet now, not with Napoleon threatening us from France.” He tossed the paper into the fire and delighted in watching it burn—the only delight he perceived he would have that afternoon. With a sigh, he rose and began to pace across the elaborately woven Chinese rug. Another rainy afternoon in London. He itched for action, not the sedentary life of the city.

If only sir Thomas Troubridge hadn’t fallen ill, then Chase wouldn’t have been called to take his place temporarily on the Admiralty Board. Chase wished the man would recover soon so he could get back to sea. Though honored to be chosen, and even more honored to know that the Lord Admiral was considering Chase for a permanent post to the board, Chase hoped that would never come to pass. He couldn’t imagine being confined to land for months at a time, especially in London, where memories haunted him at every corner.

He stomped to the tall French windows, straightening his navy coat, and gazed upon the dismal scene through streaks of rain lining the glass. The blurred shape of a woman caught his attention, and he watched her circle around the steps that led down to the kitchen and instead approach the front door. Another beggar—the city was full of them. Why didn’t she go
down to the kitchen like the other vagrants?

The expected knock echoed through the front parlor, and Chase waited to hear Sebastian, his butler, direct the person to the kitchen, where the cook had been instructed to give handouts to anyone who came asking. But no footsteps sounded in the empty hall. The knock came again. Charging from the drawing room, Chase scanned the dark hallway and down the stairs to the entrance hall. Nobody was in sight.

“Sebastian!” His voice roared through the house, bouncing off walls and fading around corners. Where was that infernal man? If Chase were on his ship, men would be running to attention, all ears straining to hear his next command, but not here, not in his own home. Chase huffed as the silence taunted him from every direction, finally interrupted by another knock on the door.

Storming down the stairs, Chase flung open the carved oak slab. A small, drenched woman clutching a bag and huddling against the rain flashed before him. “If you want something to eat, please go down to the kitchen,” he stated and shut the door. Brushing his hands together, he headed back up the stairs, shrugging off the moist chill that had seeped in from outside.

He had just resumed his seat by the fire and picked up a book when the woman knocked again.
Surely I made myself clear.
Slapping the book down, Chase jumped to his feet and stomped toward the hall when Sebastian appeared in the doorway.

“Where have you been?” Chase planted his fists on his waist. “Never mind.” He shook his head as Sebastian parted his lips to reply. “ ’Tis but a beggar. Send her to the kitchen door.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

“Very good, sir.” Sebastian bowed.

Chase heard the door open, the rain hammering on the walkway, and voices, muffled and hesitant. Finally, the door thumped shut, and he nodded in satisfaction as he picked up his book again and began to browse its pages.

“Begging your pardon, sir—a Miss Dominique Dawson to see you.” Sebastian’s haughty voice floated into the room like a taunt. Chase swiveled around to see a woman shivering from the
cold and staring at him with vacant eyes. “Who the blazes is Miss Dawson?”

“She says she is the new governess, sir.”

Was that a smirk on the butler’s face? Chase’s stomach roiled.

The governess.
He glared at the pathetic woman as guilt assailed him. What was the date? The tenth of March. Yes. Of course, the day she was to arrive. And he’d forgotten.

And he had not sent a carriage to retrieve her.

Gripping the book, he slammed it onto the table and crossed the room. Her gaze lowered under his perusal. He would expect a lady to be furious at him for his blatant disregard, but here she stood, cowering like a common servant.

“Are you Admiral Stuart Dawson’s daughter?”

“I am,” she replied with a quivering voice.

“You look nothing like him.”

“So I am told, Admiral.” She brushed chestnut curls from her forehead as drops of rain seeped from the long strands and splattered onto the floor.

“Humph.” Could this sopping creature actually be the daughter of the great Admiral Dawson?

“Take her cloak and bag, Sebastian, and have Larena prepare the coal grate in the governess’s chamber. Then return and escort Miss Dawson to her quarters.”

Sebastian eased the frock from the lady’s shoulders, holding the wet garment at arm’s length, then hefted her dripping valise and left.

Chase gestured toward the fire. “Would you care to warm yourself while you wait, Miss Dawson?”

She offered him a flash of the most brilliant amber eyes he’d ever seen before sloshing past him into the drawing room.

The sweet scent of rain perfumed with lilacs followed in her wake. Chase noted the way her gown clung to her tiny waist and the way her chestnut hair bounced in wavy strings as she walked. A rush of warmth surged through him that surely was caused by the fire. “I’d offer you a seat, but…” He allowed his eyes to rove over her, but remorse abruptly dampened his perusal when he remembered again
that this poor girl’s sodden condition was his fault.

“I understand,” she said without looking at him. Still trembling, she eased up to the fire, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared into the flames.

In the flickering light, shadows of glittering gold gave her skin the rich luster of pearls reflecting the sunlight on a warm day. She gave him a sideways glance.

Chase cleared his throat. Egad, he’d been staring at her. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Have you any experience as a governess?”

The lady bit her lip and began to speak, but Chase could not make out her words.

“Speak up, woman,” he barked, causing her to jump, but he suddenly regretted his harsh tone. He was no longer on board his ship dealing with hardened seamen.

Her delicate fingers clamped onto her arms as if she were frightened—or perhaps angry. He would prefer the latter. He had no place for weaklings, either on his ship or in his house.