The Falcon and the Sparrow (24 page)

The woman returned her gaze with disdain. “Men do not desire women who cling to such prudish religious restrictions, not in our society, and especially not a man like the admiral. He needs a woman with more…more…shall we say, lively passions.” She sashayed to the fireplace and tugged off her gloves.

A rush of blood heated Dominique’s face “Lady Irene, I assure you I was not speaking of the admiral. I have no interest in him.” She took a step out the door, hoping for a quick exit.

“But I fear he has interest in you.” Dominique heard a strain in Lady Irene’s voice. Her eyes shimmered in the firelight. Withdrawing a handkerchief, she turned her face away. “I cannot for the life of me figure out why. You with your strict religious rules. How tiresome. Why, the admiral hates organized religion. He no longer even believes in God.”

Dominique’s heart both leapt and sank in the same moment. Leapt at Lady Irene’s suggestion of the admiral’s affections and sank at the poor girl’s misery—and at the admiral’s. Anguish consumed Dominique at the thought that both Lady Irene and the admiral—unless their hearts softened toward God—were destined to live hopeless lives, only to spend eternity without Him. Yet didn’t her own faith waver from day to day? How strong was her belief? Dominique swallowed. Sorrow stiffened her jaw. She started toward Lady Irene, hoping to comfort her, but the woman raised her handkerchief in the air and waved her back.

Desperation set in. Dominique wanted to tell her how wonderful God was, how much He loved her, how she did not have to search for love and acceptance solely in the arms of a man, but Dominique’s taut nerves coupled with the hatred emanating from the woman bound her tongue in knots.

“I do not have to live by a set of rules,” she finally managed to say. “I simply want to please my Father in heaven because He has been so good to me.” Dominique returned to the doorway then stopped. “Besides, I find His laws often bless me more than restrict me. He created them for our well-being.”

A shudder ran across Lady Irene’s shoulders, but she did not turn around. She was listening at least, and an idea came to Dominique. “Just like the admiral forbids William to run out in the street where he could be struck by a carriage, God’s laws are for our own protection, because He loves us.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Irene sniffed. “I have not followed them, and I am perfectly fine.”

“Then I will pray He continues to bless you regardless of your lack of appreciation for those blessings, milady.”

Lady Irene spun around to bestow a vicious stare upon Dominique. “Please leave.”

Dominique scurried down the hall and up the stairs, her heart breaking for the young noblewoman.
Oh Lord, open her eyes to Your truth.

As she closed the door to her chamber, alarm hit her like a dense fog. Her heart began to sputter. She flung open her window, hoping the cool air would revive her senses and her faith, but only a sooty chill invaded her room, wrapping icy chains of fear around her. She began to pace, her dinner souring in her stomach even as her nerves forced it to hunger for more. In less than five hours, she was supposed to meet the French contact at the Last stop.

Or—as he had threatened her—Marcel would die.

But she wasn’t going.

“So what is so important that you barge in on my Tuesday evening repose and further insult my governess?” Chase leaned back on the desk in his study and examined his sister.

Katharine flounced to a padded wooden chair near the center of the room and floated into it, her rose-colored muslin dress billowing out around her. She threw a hand to cover her heart as if she had just walked across town. “I fail to understand how you can sit in the drawing room with that
woman
as if she were your wife and allow her to become so affectionate with William.”

Chase clamped his hands on the edge of his desk. “Is that what you have dragged me here to discuss? Egad, but you have the brazen impudence of an old seadog.” With a shake of his head, he started toward the door. “Enough is enough, dear sister.”

“No, Chase, please.” She shot to her feet and grabbed his arm. “That is not what I wish to speak to you about. Hear me out, I beg you.”

He stopped, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at her, trying to remember the winsome, doting girl of his youth. They
had both suffered much since then, but she had endured more humiliation and heartache than most women could bear in a lifetime. He knew she truly wanted the best for him. Regardless, he was tired of her false accusations, tired of her interference, and tired of her pushing Lady Irene upon him. Oh, how he longed to go back to sea and be done with these trifling family squabbles.

“Miss Dawson betrays you.”

Chase turned to leave.

“She left this house late Monday night.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” He faced her, amazed she would lower herself to such levels, amazed that she hated Miss Dawson so much.

“She left around midnight and made her way to a tavern down by the Thames off Cecil street.”

“With whom?”

“Alone.”

Now he knew his sister lied. Most women would never dare venture out at night without protection, Miss Dawson chief among them. She cowered at the slightest rise of his voice. “Am I to believe that my timid governess went out in the middle of the night without an escort to a dangerous part of town?”

“Yes, Chase. ’Tis true.” Katharine wrung her hands together, her brown eyes searching his as if challenging him to find falsehood within them.

“How do you know this?”

“I had her followed.”

“Whatever for? Why, this is pure rubbish!” Chase marched to his desk, searching for his brandy but finding none. He refused to allow his sister’s words to take root in his growing trust for Miss Dawson.

“Please, Chase, you must believe me. I’ve always known something was amiss with her.” Her skirts rustled as she approached. “Women sense things about each other. I had to know. I had to protect you. So as soon as I received word she had left the house, I sent one of my footmen to follow her.” Her voice cracked.

“And how, pray tell, did you receive this word?” None of this
made sense, and Chase knew if he persisted, he would eventually expose the hole in her ship of lies.

“It matters not.” She flapped a glove through the air then raised one brow his way. “Suffice it to say, there is at least one other person in this house who has sense enough not to be fooled by the strumpet’s charms.”

Chase grimaced and turned his back to her. “What did she do at this tavern?” Why was he playing along with her deception? Why did his stomach suddenly fold in on itself?

“She spoke with a man and then left.”

Chase felt the blood race from his heart. If his sister were telling the truth, if Miss Dawson had met a man at a tavern, then one of only two things could be true: Either she had a lover, which defied everything he knew about her and struck a sudden blow to his heart, or she was the spy he had been warned about, an impossibility for an admiral’s daughter. Therefore, he had no choice but to assume further duplicity on his sister’s part.

“And she came home unscathed?” He flattened his lips, turned, and ran a thumb over the scar on his cheek. “I know this city at night. ’Tis not a safe place for a woman. Someone like her would not have made it very far without being assaulted—or worse.”

“I do not know how she accomplished it, Chase, but I promise you, I am not lying.” Katharine laid a gloved hand on his arm, and he saw no insincerity in her eyes.

“This is preposterous.” He jerked away from her.

“If I can prove it to you…if I can have her followed again and bring you proof, will you believe me then?”

“Why do you hate her so? I have no plans to marry the woman.” Even as he said it, he could not deny the growing feelings within him. Nevertheless, soon he would be back upon his ship—away from Miss Dawson, away from his sister, away from this madness and back to war where things made sense.

Katharine tugged at a lock of cinnamon hair that had escaped her bonnet. “I tell you, she is not the innocent she pretends to be. She is half French, after all.” Her eyes pooled with tears. “And my concern is not only for you, but for William.”

“Very well.” Chase gave her a look of warning. “Gather your proof and bring it to me. But mark my words, if it does not unequivocally establish the truth of your accusations against Miss Dawson, you will formally apologize to her and promise me that you will henceforth leave her be. Is that clear?”

Katharine nodded.

Yet even as he said the words, Chase ignored the gnawing feeling in his gut that his sister would not have offered to prove a lie.

A
round the edge of the canvas, Marcel’s boyish face grinned at Dominique.

“Marcel, you must be still.” She dipped her brush into the tan paint and applied it to the canvas, shifting her eyes back and forth between the portrait and the ten-year-old boy flailing his legs out in a chaotic dance over the velvet padded chair.

He huffed and scrunched his face until it looked like a tight ball of yarn.

“How is it coming, dear?” Madame Marguerite Jean Denoix, Dominique’s mother, floated into the room on a cloud of turquoise silk and raven curls and curved her rosy lips into a smile that said,
You are so precious to me.

“Marcel won’t be still, Mother. I cannot paint his portrait when he changes position and expression whenever I look at him.”

“Marcel?” Mother arched her motherly brows his way.

“But, Mother, ’tis finally sunny outside, and I wish to go take Vaillant to the park.”

“You can go horseback riding when your sister is finished with this session. You know she needs to practice her painting.”

Marcel’s expression soured but immediately brightened as he gazed toward the door of the parlor.

“What is this I hear about horses?” Admiral stuart Dawson strode into the room, garbed in his Admiralty blues trimmed in gold, his long tawny hair slicked behind him. Dominique’s heart
leapt with pride. But his gaze did not land on her or on her brother. His dark blue eyes alighted upon her mother and remained there as he closed the distance between them.

Dominique’s mother faced her husband, and in that moment the tender exchange within their gazes spoke of a love most people only dream of. Her father leaned and whispered something in her mother’s ear before placing a gentle kiss on her cheek, sending a deep rose blossoming over her mother’s normally peach-colored complexion. She gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling.

Marcel hopped from his chair. “Father, can we take the horses out? You promised to teach me how to jump.”

Dominique grunted. “Father. Marcel will not stay seated.”

“Pray tell, madame.” Her father crossed his arms over his chest and wrinkled his brow at his wife. “Where did these bickering children come from?”

Her mother giggled. “I believe they are ours.”

“Indeed?”

Marcel tugged on his father’s arm. “Please, Father. The sun is shining, and you said—”

“Let us see what your sister has produced, shall we? if it resembles you in the slightest, then perhaps I’ll take you riding.”

Dominique cringed. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see the portrait until it was finished, especially not her father. And it certainly didn’t look like Marcel, not yet, anyway.

“Hello, precious.” Her father kissed her forehead then stood back and rubbed his chin. “Ah, yes. Quite good, my dear. I can see the resemblance.”

She eyed the splattering of paint on the canvas and knew it looked nothing like Marcel, but somehow that made her father’s compliment warm her heart all the more.

“Yes, indeed.” He glanced at his wife. “I believe we may have another Rembrandt right here in our midst.”

Her mother nodded with a smile. “Oui, she has talent. She takes after her
grand-mère
, Madame Camille.”

Marcel cocked his head and wrinkled his nose at the picture.
“That is not me. It looks more like that old cook aboard Father’s ship, Mr. Gregory.”

“Oh, it does, does it? Well, perhaps I need to add this, then, to complete it.” Dominique dipped her brush in a puddle of dark brown and with two quick swipes drew a curled mustache onto the portrait.