The Falcon and the Sparrow (4 page)

Mrs. Hensworth’s cheeks swelled into chubby red balls as if Dominique had just told her she intended to kill the king of England. “But, miss—”

“Never mind, Mrs. Hensworth.” Larena gestured for her to leave. “Please tell the admiral Miss Dawson would love to come.” With a sigh, the housekeeper wobbled away, and Larena shut the door.

Dominique shook her head. She was not quite ready to begin her career of espionage. Not yet. “But I can’t—”

Larena took her by the hand and led her to the dressing closet, where two elegant gowns hung side by side. “The last governess left these. They are quite lovely. She was about your size, too.”

Dread slithered up Dominique’s back, not only because her excuse had just vanished, but because of the abandoned wardrobe. “Why would she leave such beautiful gowns?”

Larena shrugged and turned away.

“What happened to her?” Dominique’s nausea returned. She thought of the harsh manner in which the admiral had treated his son. It seemed the Randal home was truly a mausoleum, after all—a cold vault of contention and heartache.

Larena began hanging up the remainder of Dominique’s clothes. “The admiral dismissed her.”

“For what reason, may I ask?”

Larena’s bottom lip curled. “She lied to him about a personal engagement.” Lifting the wet, muddy clothes from the floor, she headed toward the door. “I’ll have these laundered.”

“Still, why would she leave her gowns?”

“I believe she was most anxious to leave. The gowns were being cleaned at the time.” Larena opened the door, stepped out, then shot her gaze back to Dominique. “I like you, miss. I hope you stay a long while, but I should warn you, there is nothing the admiral finds more detestable than a liar.”

D
ominique laid a tentative hand on Sebastian’s arm, halting him before they entered the drawing room. She pressed the folds of her silk skirt, then tugged her white gloves higher on her arms as she listened to the feminine giggles and male intonations seeping through the closed doors. Although her neckline was a bit lower than she liked, the lavender gown was quite lovely and did fit her well, almost too well.

Again she wondered why the admiral had invited her to his dinner party. Did he suspect her true purpose here? Her insides felt as though they were being squeezed in a wine press. All she wanted to do was run back upstairs, hide in her room, and pray for God’s deliverance.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to still her racing heart, then nodded at Sebastian. Not one flicker of emotion melted the stony expression of the butler as he swung the double doors open wide and stepped aside, allowing her entrance. Dominique swished forward, took a quick scan of the strange faces that swerved her way, and prayed her wobbly legs would not give out beneath her.

“Miss Dominique Dawson,” the butler announced before retreating and closing her inside the enemy camp.

Dead calm oozed through the room, a chill following in its wake as all eyes scanned her—the two ladies draped over the ottoman glaring at her as if she were an enemy, and the three men
standing by the fire studying her as if she were a sweetmeat ready to be devoured.

Dominique swallowed.

“Ah, Miss Dawson. I almost forgot.” The admiral broke rank and approached her with a forced smile on his handsome lips.

Warmth radiated within Dominique at the sight of him in his evening attire.
But wait. Did he just say he forgot? I did not have to endure this night, after all?
Dominique wondered if it was too late to turn and bolt from the room. Perhaps they would think her only a moment’s apparition and soon return to their banter.

Admiral Randal’s black leather boots drummed a warning on the wooden floor as he sauntered toward her. This man was dangerous. Dominique could tell by the way he walked, by the way he looked at her, and by the way her heart seized at the sight of him. His movements were like liquid gold—smooth, assured, and rich. She allowed her eyes to flicker over him, taking in the white breeches that clung to his muscular legs, then sweeping up to his broad chest, where a linen shirt peeked out from beneath a black double-breasted tailcoat. A white muslin cravat circled his neck in a cultured bow.

Then he was beside her. A whiff of sweet cigar smoke tickled her nose as he turned to face his guests. “Miss Dawson is William’s new governess.”

“Governess? Whatever happened to Miss Lewis?” the elegant blond on the ottoman barked with disgust.

“I’m afraid Miss Lewis didn’t work out as expected.” The admiral rubbed his chin.

The handsome man standing by the fireplace inclined his head toward the older gentleman. “You go through as many governesses as Lord Markham here goes through mistresses.” He chuckled, but the sound faltered on his lips beneath the admiral’s stern glance.

“Miss Dawson, may I present Lady Irene Channing.” Admiral Randal motioned toward the first lady on the ottoman, by far the most beautiful woman Dominique had ever seen. She had high, exquisitely carved cheekbones, haloed by honey-colored ringlets that bobbed when she spoke. Her eyes, glittering sapphires when gazing at Chase, turned to ice when they landed on Dominique.

“A pleasure, milady.” Dominique curtsied, but Lady Irene gave her only a curt nod in return.

“Mrs. Katharine Barton.” The admiral pointed to the woman beside Lady Irene. “My sister.”

The attractive woman patted her cinnamon-colored hair and flashed a cool smile. “Miss Dawson.”

Katharine resembled the admiral, the same dark brown eyes, the strong set of her jaw, the aura of self-assurance—and the same cold demeanor.

From the corner of her eye, Dominique saw the younger of the two men leave the fireplace and head her way.

“Enough of the formalities, Randal. I cannot bear the wait.” He took Dominique’s gloved hand, placed a gentle kiss upon it, and, while doing so, raised his blue eyes to hers. Sparks of roguish playfulness danced within them as candlelight reflected off his golden hair—the color of a sandy beach on a summer’s day. When he rose, he did not release her hand, but a slow smile graced his lips beneath a slick mustache. Not quite as tall as the admiral, he filled out his waistcoat nicely, and Dominique could tell this was a man who broke many hearts.

“And this is Mr. Percy Atherton.” The admiral cleared his throat. “If you please, Percy, quit your groveling.” He nudged Mr. Atherton away from Dominique.

Lady Irene offered the young man a sly grin. “You must forgive Mr. Atherton, He’s an indefatigable ladies’ man, I’m afraid. Aren’t you, Atherton?”

Percy bowed toward the beauty and gave her a look of feigned grief while pressing his hand over his chest. “But what am I to do after you have repeatedly rejected my advances?”

The older gentleman by the fire chortled. “I fear Parliament has turned your brains to mush, Atherton.”

The admiral chuckled. “Nay, I believe they were mush long before he was elected.”

The ladies laughed, and Dominique glanced between the men, expecting a fight to break out. Frenchmen would never take such an insult, even in jest.

But when Mr. Atherton faced her, there was no trace of anger on his features. “Don’t listen to them, Miss Dawson. They are just jealous of my power.”

“Power?” The older gentleman snorted. “Upon my word, if you would pull yourself away from your cricket matches, your parties, and your ladies long enough to actually attend Parliament and vote on important issues, then perhaps our envy would be deserving.”

Atherton lengthened his stance and was about to protest when the admiral touched Dominique’s elbow and gestured toward the older gentleman. “May I introduce Lord Markham, Lady Irene’s father and an old family friend.”

“I prefer you not use the term
old
, if you please, Randal.” He laughed. “And it is my pleasure, Miss Dawson.” He nodded toward Dominique with the politeness of his class. A stately gentleman in his late forties perhaps, he wore an elegant burgundy silk dress coat. Gray streaked his slick ebony hair, and a brass-hilted cane hung over his right arm, which he gracefully leaned upon the mantel. Yet for all his courtliness, something malevolent permeated the air around him.

In the face of such distinguished people—a lady, a lord, a member of Parliament, and an admiral—Dominique suddenly felt as small as a child, and like a child, she wished she could run behind her mother’s skirts and hide.

But her mother wasn’t here anymore.

And she never would be again. Dominique was all alone in the world.

“Never alone, beloved.”

Oh Lord, was that You? I need You now more than ever.
Once again, all eyes were upon her. Her fear scattered all rational thought from her brain as she tried to think of something clever to say. Thankfully, Sebastian interrupted the awkward silence with the announcement that dinner was ready.

Lady Irene rose and sashayed toward the admiral with a feline grin upon her pink lips. Lord Markham quickly intercepted and escorted his daughter through the doors. On their heels followed Mr. Atherton and Mrs. Barton. Admiral Randal straightened his
coat and extended his elbow toward Dominique. The top of her head reached his shoulders, and she glanced up at him, admiring his strong jaw shadowed with the evening’s stubble. When his brown eyes drifted down to hers in a questioning look, she lowered her gaze and placed her fingers into the crook of his elbow, ignoring the heat that instantly flooded her.

What was happening to her? it had to be fatigue or hunger… or perhaps sheer terror. No man had affected her like this before—especially one she hardly knew. But then, she had never before entered a man’s home as a spy.

The admiral led her down the stairs and into a glorious dining hall, wainscoted in oak, the upper portion of the walls painted a deep royal blue. Framed paintings of battleships upon the sea decorated the walls, while thick velvet curtains dressed the front windows and elaborate pilasters guarded the four corners. He pulled out a chair for her next to Lord Markham then took his seat at the head of a rectangular table crowned in white linen and bejeweled with glimmering candles in silver holders. Royal Crown Derby tableware sparkled in the light of a crystal chandelier hanging above them.

Immediately servants brought in wave after wave of steaming platters laden with green beans, mutton, boiled rabbit, bread rolls, and potatoes. Pitchers of wine, punch, and strong beer were poured into crystal glasses. Dominique’s stomach rumbled as the smell of butter, cream, and spicy meat wafted through the room. She had not eaten since that morning, and the little she had partaken of before she’d set sail had been sacrificed into the deep waters of the channel.

Without a word of thanks to God for the bounty spread before them, they dove into their food like hungry hounds chasing after a fox. Bowing her head, Dominique said a silent prayer before joining them. Despite the cold reception she was receiving—particularly from Lady Irene, seated across from Lord Markham, and Mrs. Baron, seated at the end of the table opposite the admiral—Dominique knew she would have no trouble filling her stomach with such delicious food. For a year after their mother died, Dominique and
her brother had lived off naught but bread and pork stew, and sometimes not even that.

“Are you a religious woman, Miss Dawson?” Lord Markham asked, obviously having observed her prayer.

Dominique swallowed the bite of rabbit in her mouth. “I am, milord.”

“Anglican, or perhaps Dissenter?” He raised a crooked brow.

“I was raised Anglican, milord.”

“And now?”

“I continue with the church, but…” Dominique bit her lip. “I subscribe to the teachings of John Wesley.”

“Wesley!” Lord Markham nearly choked on the chunk of mutton he had just tossed into his mouth. “That fanatic.”

“Some say so, yes.” Dominique shifted in her seat, unsure whether she had the right to argue with a lord. “But I believe he is correct when he instructs God’s children to read the Holy scripture for themselves and to spend much time in prayer. Only by these things can God transform our hearts through His grace.”

A stunned silence closed every mouth in the room, and Dominique felt the blood drain from her face.

Finally, Katharine chuckled. “I’ll wager you did not know, brother, that you have brought a religious zealot into your house.” She leaned toward Dominique. “You see, my dear brother no longer believes in the existence of God.” Her eyes glowed as if she had achieved some major victory.

Chase took a sip of wine and eyed Dominique with concern. “It matters not to me what you believe, but I’ll not have you teaching these fables to my son. Is that clear?”

Dominique clasped her hands together in her lap. “Yes, Admiral.” She looked away under his intense gaze.
Oh Lord, where have You brought me? Are there no allies in the faith among these people?

When she raised her eyes again, Percy’s gaze raked over her from across the table. “I believe in God.” He grinned. “I just don’t think He has much to do with His creation.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Lord Markham shoved a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.