The Falcon and the Sparrow (8 page)

“I fear he’s forever trying to arrange”—he rubbed his chin—“shall we say,
diversions
for me.”

“What are you implying, Admiral?” Her trembling hand flew to her throat.

“How much did he pay you?”

“I beg your pardon!” Miss Dawson’s face contorted into a churning puddle of fury that nearly made him laugh. “How dare you imply…” she dashed to her right, attempting to bypass him, but he threw one arm up, halting her in her path.

“Not quite yet, Miss Dawson.” Chase allowed his gaze to wander over her trembling form, amazed at how petite she was—almost too petite. He preferred a more robust woman, strong and solid, not like this fragile thing before him.

She began to sway again. He held out a hand to steady her, but she waved it off. “What does it matter? You intend to release me in the morning anyway.”

How could she possibly know that? Chase furrowed his brow. “Do I perceive we have a spy in our midst?”

Miss Dawson’s rosy face blanched to a shade whiter than fresh snow in the country. Her chest rose and fell like the rapid firing of a carronade. Finally, she swallowed and raised her gaze to his. “Anyone with any sense could infer your intentions to dismiss me from the conversation at dinner.” Her voice trembled.

Chase regarded her with skepticism. He could understand her fear when she thought his intentions had been dishonorable, but why now? Was she that afraid of being dismissed? “I must apologize
for my sister’s behavior. She has reason to dislike the French—Frenchwomen in particular.”

“So I gathered.” The corners of Dominique’s mouth tightened. “Am I free to go, Admiral?”

Chase stepped aside and gestured toward the door; then he held out his hand. “Would you like some assistance?”

“I can manage, thank you.” she slipped past him in a whiff of lilacs, teasing his senses. He beat her to the door and opened it.

“Perhaps I should escort you back to your room.” He gave her a sly grin.

“I’m sure I can find my way, Admiral.”

“Since you were asleep when you found your way to mine, I wouldn’t presume so, Miss Dawson.” He bowed and offered her his elbow.

She gave him a nervous glance then accepted his outstretched arm. He felt the quiver from her delicate fingers run up to his shoulder, and he chastised himself again for teasing her into a fright. He scanned the hallway for any servants and was thankful when none appeared. He certainly wouldn’t want to tarnish Miss Dawson’s reputation.

“You never explained how you ended up behind my curtains,” he said as they neared her door.

“I told you. I walk in my sleep. When I heard the door open, I woke up, panicked, and jumped behind them.”

Chase had no choice but to believe her. What else could she have been doing in his chamber? stealing? On her first night here? He kept no valuables in his room worthy of the risk—a fact she would have already discovered if she were indeed a thief.

And it was obvious she hadn’t come there for a romantic liaison. But as he glanced at her, at the gentle sway of her hips, at her rich chestnut hair dangling in loosened ringlets over the swell of her bosom, he found himself regretting that fact. And then loathed himself for it. He swallowed hard, trying to squelch the unwelcome rush of warmth through him. He had never so much as looked at another woman, not since Melody had…not since she had departed.

Releasing Miss Dawson at her chamber door, he gazed at the graceful shadow of her body and felt heat radiating from her. What was it about this little waif that enticed him so?

“Thank you for a most entertaining evening, Miss Dawson, more entertaining than I’ve had in quite some time, to be sure.”

Moonlight filtered through the front window of the house and danced around her in a halo of light that sent golden flecks shimmering in her hair.

Chase’s lips went dry. What was wrong with him that her presence affected him so?

“I fear your entertainment has been at my expense.” she took a step back, creating a chilling gulf between them. “Can I expect your coach to drive me to Dover in the morning, or will you leave me to find my own means of transportation again?” Fury spiced her voice, even amidst the fearful tremble, and he found the combination oddly alluring.

Chase knew he should get rid of her. Every ounce of his festering heart screamed to dismiss her at once. But for some reason, he could not. “I fear my judgment has been a bit hasty. I find you intriguing, Miss Dawson. Perhaps you are not the weak little sparrow I first assumed you to be.”

She raised her thick lashes and glared at him, eyes glowing with indignation. “If your interest lies in my warming your bed, Admiral, then I fear you will find many a cold night ahead.”

“Nay, that is not my where my interest lies.” His lips quivered with the effort of not grinning at her like a besotted schoolboy. “But I thank you for your concern regarding the warmth of my bed.”

A flush of maroon flooded her face, visible even in the shadows, and she dropped her gaze.

Why did I say that?
Why did he enjoy taunting her? Chase cleared his throat. “I believe I shall give you another chance to prove yourself. But I must warn you, Miss Dawson. ’Tis best to stay out of a man’s bedchamber at night. Most would not be as chivalrous as I.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Admiral.” she turned and began to fumble with the latch of her door and finally opened it, casting a
suspicious glare at him the whole while.

He couldn’t tell whether or not she was pleased about not being dismissed.

“Until tomorrow, then.” He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded.

“Yes, Admiral, thank you.” The thick oak slab nearly struck his nose.

Unaccustomed to having doors slammed in his face, he spun on his heel and stomped down the hall. Confusion waxed through him at the unusual events of the evening and the most unusual Miss Dawson.

He exhaled mightily. Perhaps he should have dismissed her as he had planned. But in all fairness, for what reason? she’d not yet had a chance to prove herself as governess. And he could not bring himself to believe she was a thief—not the daughter of the great Admiral stuart Dawson. Regardless, he would have sebastian keep an eye on her just in case.

It wasn’t so much her weakness, nor her presence in his chamber, that disturbed him. She’d awoken something within him, something long dead, something he preferred to keep protected behind thick walls.

And it terrified him.

Perhaps the best thing to do would be to avoid her as much as possible. To throw himself into his work. Yes, he must stay away from Miss Dawson at all costs.

C
hase leaned back in his chair. The aged oak creaked beneath his weight as he glanced over the naval officers and noblemen who flanked the long mahogany table centered in the Admiralty boardroom. He rubbed his temples where a headache brewed and then glanced at the dark oak wall clock hanging next to the doorway. Only eleven o’clock. How was he to endure another six or seven hours of this brazen and fruitless pontification? At the head of the table, leaning forward in his big armchair, the First Lord of the Admiralty, Admiral sir John Jervis, Earl of saint Vincent, pounded his fist on the table, shaking the feathers of the silver quill pen idly resting in the hand of the First secretary, sir Evan nepean. The First Lord then pointed his bony finger at William Eliot, the second Earl of st. Germans.

“I tell you, sir,” he yelled, his pendulous jowls swinging. “The naval Academy at Portsmouth is naught but a sink of vice and abomination!”

Lord Eliot offered a retort, but Chase refused to give it any credence. The man was a politician and therefore not qualified to decide naval policy. That civilians were allowed to sit on the Admiralty board baffled Chase—men like James Adams, who sat across from him, a look of utter boredom tugging on his sallow skin, and William Garthshore, who would be asleep at Chase’s right if it weren’t for his ongoing battle with a nagging fly droning about his head. At least there was Admiral John Markham, who,
with elbows firmly planted on the table, bravely entered into the argument with all cannons blazing. And of course sir Thomas Troubridge. Although Chase admired Admiral Troubridge, he couldn’t help but be angry at the man for suddenly becoming ill and forcing Chase into this landlocked hell.

“What say you, Admiral Randal?” Admiral Jervis, or “Old Jarvie” as he was called by most seamen, turned a sharp eye upon Chase, blasting him from his mindless thoughts.

Chase sat up in his chair and rubbed his chin, hoping his lack of attention had not been evident. “Truth be told, your lordship, I am more concerned with napoleon at the moment than with our naval Academy or the conditions of our dockyards, as horrendous as they might be.”

“Here, here, good man.” Admiral Markham gave Chase an approving nod.

“Indeed?” Lord Jervis raised an eyebrow long since deprived of its hair.

“He has invaded Switzerland,” Chase began, feeling his ire rising, “and refused our admonitions to withdraw. He persists in pursuing his French empire overseas in Haiti, the territory of Louisiana, and india. And now this scathing report in his
Moniteur
insulting our forces in Egypt and claiming he can easily retake the land. Why we tolerate his threats and blatant affronts to our honor is beyond me.”

Garthshore abandoned his skirmish with the fly and turned toward Chase. “Addington believes the Peace of Amiens will hold, Randal.” He sniffed and withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Napoleon will not risk a war with us when he knows he will surely lose—especially upon the sea.” He blew his nose, and a whiff of stale brandy reached Chase’s nostrils.

“I beg to differ with you, sir.” His upper lip twitching, Chase sat rigid in his chair. “Prime Minister Addington is weak, a proponent of a wishful peace that will never exist as long as that French madman taunts us from across the channel. Anyone with any sense can see that napoleon is using this time to build up his fleets.” Chase faced the Lord Admiral and slammed down his palm
on the table. “If we do not act now, he will succeed, and then we may very well lose the war at sea.”

Lord Jervis blew out a spray of spittle onto the table. “Napoleon victorious against His Majesty’s Navy? Absurd! it will never happen.”

“Very well.” Chase shrugged, trying to mask the fury roiling in his belly. “I am but one voice among your many worthy ones.” He gestured in mock deference at the men circling the table.

“You are not the only voice of reason, Admiral Randal,” John Markham added. “And Troubridge will have the same opinion upon his return; I am sure if it.”

Oh, do give Sir Troubridge a speedy recovery.
Chase made the silent supplication to no one in particular, since he no longer believed in God.

“I trust, Randal”—Lord Jervis shot an accusing glance his way—“that you have taken the necessary precautions in your home?”

“I have, indeed.” The subtle accusation that an enemy lurked among his household staff made Chase shift in his seat, more determined than ever to prove the report false.

“And the charts are in place?”

“They are, your lordship.”

“Very well.” Old Jarvie peered down his superior nose at the men surrounding him. “Then we have naught to fear and would therefore be remiss if we did not use this time of peace to address the poor conditions aboard our ships. We must provide vaccinations against the pox for all our seamen and see that our ship’s doctors have the appropriate medicines. What good would a shipload of sick men be should war break out with France again?” His mouth curved in a taunting smile directed at Chase while Garthshore and Adams chuckled like obedient puppets.

Slumping back in his chair, Chase folded his hands across his navy coat and returned to his perusal of the room—anything to pass the time and avoid enmeshing himself in an argument that would surely result in his losing his temper and possibly his career along with it.

Against walls painted the blue, gold, and white of the Admiralty,
brass candle lanterns surmounted by royal crowns flanked a painting of Horatio Nelson. Chase wondered what the naval war hero would think of the nonsensical ramblings that went on behind his back while he risked his life patrolling the dangerous seas. Chase clamped his jaws together. He would do anything to join Nelson upon those seas this very moment.

Across from him, a massive oval compass mounted on a map of the world hung above a marble fireplace, whose simmering coals only added to the heated exchange in the room. His gaze shifted to the right of the compass and around the room at the maps and charts lining the walls. Pins marked the location and size of the British fleets across the world. What Napoleon wouldn’t give to have one glimpse of the information within this room—and duplicated on documents locked securely within his study. In the French First Consul’s power-hungry hands, that information could very well turn the tide of the war that Chase knew would soon resume.

His thoughts drifted to his new governess. It had been nearly two weeks since he had seen Miss Dawson, yet the time had done nothing to erase her from his mind. Ever since that night he had caught her in his bedchamber, he’d been quite successful at avoiding her company. Whenever he had heard her gentle steps in the hallway or her laughter flowing from a room, he had turned the other way, unwilling to face the odd feeling that welled within him in her presence. But what was the cause of it? Though certainly attractive and educated, she possessed no other extraordinary qualities. In fact, she reminded him of a timid sparrow flittering here and there, startled by the slightest movement. So unlike Melody. His wife had faced life—and death—with a stalwart courage he rarely saw, even among his crew at sea. She had never backed down from a challenge, always stood her ground in defense of herself and her family.