The Falcon and the Sparrow (9 page)

Yet he could not deny there was something within Miss Dawson’s shimmering amber eyes that attracted him—contradictions that baffled him, a hope despite her circumstances, a peace that defied her outward nervousness, and a strength that belied her weakness. Miss Dawson was a mystery, indeed.

Tonight he would make a point of speaking with her—if only to find out how William was doing. Yes, for William’s sake, of course.

“No, William, try again,” Dominique urged the young boy as they sat together on the sofa. “The word is
maison
. It means house. Maison. Like the one you live in.” she gestured around the morning room in which they sat—the coziest room in the pretentious town house, and her personal favorite. Cushioned high-backed chairs, armed settees, and the plush arch-backed sofa she sat upon with William made it a comfortable place for family gatherings—except it was always empty. So in the past week, Dominique and William had taken over the room for their studies.

The young boy gazed up at her, a perplexed look on his angelic face. “May son,” he uttered with all seriousness.

Dominique giggled. “Very close. Much better. We’ll have you speaking French in no time. Now try another one.” She took the tablet in her lap and wrote
garçon
. “Garçon. It means boy.”

“Like me?” William flashed her a set of sparkling white teeth.

“Yes, just like you, William.” She smiled and couldn’t resist putting her arm around the boy and drawing him near. He smelled of fresh linen and innocence. How could he have become so dear to her in only two weeks? Yet there was something special about William. His exuberance for life, his unconditional need to give and receive love. And even though he had lost his mother and then apparently several governesses after her, he had opened his heart to Dominique in a way no one ever had, child or adult. He reminded her so much of Marcel—naive, untainted by life’s cruelties, and filled with enthusiasm for everything around him.

“Gar sin,” the boy shouted, his face glowing with pride.

“Close, William. Watch my mouth as I say it. It sounds like gar
sohn
.” She pointed to her face and exaggerated the correct position of her lips. “Practice this shape, then try again.”

While William contorted his tiny mouth into all sorts of shapes, Dominique gazed out the french doors that led to the
small garden in the back of the house and thought of the admiral. Evening shadows crept over the last rays of the sun, and she tugged her shawl up over her shoulders. Only a few embers still glowed in the fireplace, and she wished one of the servants would come and spark the coals—and her courage along with them.

She had not seen the admiral in two weeks, though she had heard the creak of the floorboards as he wandered the halls at night. She had nearly run into him once on her way to check the door to his study. Well past three in the morning, she’d thought everyone would be asleep, but after inquiring of Larena the next morning, the chambermaid informed Dominique that the admiral rarely slept through the night.

Which made Dominique’s task all the more difficult.

However, he seemed to be avoiding her, as well. After that horrifying and embarrassing night when he’d discovered her in his bedchamber, he had left early each morning to the Admiralty, only to return late in the evening, taking his supper in his chamber. Why, he’d not even spoken to his son. And of course, every time she got up the nerve to check the door to his study, it was locked. They’d had no visitors. She had heard nothing about naval plans, and she was beginning to think she was wasting her time while Marcel’s was running out.

“Garçon,” William spouted with glee.

“Very good, William. You sound like a true Frenchman.”

“What’s this I hear?” a screeching voice blared from the doorway, and in stomped Mrs. Barton in a flurry of lace. “Did you say a
Frenchman
?” Her normally creamy skin flushed a deep red, and her dark eyes sent out more sparks than a crackling fire.

Dominique’s stomach clenched. “I’m teaching William French, Mrs. Barton.” She rose and pressed the blue and white folds of her skirt, mainly to keep her hands from shaking. “ ’Tis important he knows more than one language.”

“Teach him Latin, then.” She snorted and stalked to the fireplace. “And what on earth are you
still
doing here?”

“He needs to know a spoken language, milady. French would be quite useful.”

William tossed the tablet to the side and scooted to the edge of the sofa, his eyes wide.

“ ’Tis all right, William.” Dominique gave the boy her most comforting grin.

The boy timidly looked at Mrs. Barton. “Auntie, why are you so angry with Miss Dawson?”

“Never you mind, child. I’m not cross with you.” She snapped off her gloves and warmed her hands by the fire. “I declare, where are those lazy servants? This fire needs tending. Why, they should all be dismissed at once!” She glared at Dominique, her chest heaving with fury, and then at William.

William, whose normal disposition was warm and inviting, remained frozen in place on the sofa, his pleading eyes shifting to Dominique.

Mrs. Barton adjusted her chignon in one of the gilt oval mirrors that flanked the wooden mantel, then swerved about. “I asked you what you are still doing here. My brother informed me you were to be dismissed.”

Dominique drew a shaky breath. “I suppose you will have to ask him.”

“Ask me what?” The admiral’s baritone voice charged into the room even before his masculine frame filled the doorway.

Dominique’s heart jumped at the sight of him in his uniform. A blue coat with a stand-up, gold-fringed collar stretched over his broad chest. Long lapels, edged with gold braid and nine buttons—her face heated as her gaze lingered to count them—ran down to his white breeches, where a service sword hung at his side. A gold-fringed epaulette, complete with one embroidered star, perched on each shoulder. William slipped off the couch, hesitated, then rushed to his father and grabbed onto his breeches.

Instead of brushing the boy aside, as Dominique expected, the admiral patted William on the head but offered him no other acknowledgment. His dark, rich gaze scanned over Dominique with a flicker of unknown emotion and then landed on Mrs. Barton. He cocked a curious brow. “Are you frightening my son again, dear sister?”

Mrs. Barton cocked one hand on her hip. “Why have you retained this French trollop?”

The admiral’s posture stiffened. He gave his sister a stern look before pulling on the tapestry ribbon hanging to the right of the door frame. A bell jingled somewhere in the house, and soon the house-keeper’s footsteps clapped down the hallway. “Please take William upstairs,” the admiral directed Mrs. Hensworth.

“But, Father, can’t I stay with you?” The blond-haired boy tugged on his father’s navy coat.

“Not right now, William. Go with Mrs. Hensworth.”

Dominique’s heart sank at the dejection that dragged the hope from William’s expression.

After William left, the admiral marched toward his sister, hand gripping the silver hilt of his sword. “I will not tolerate that language in front of my son.”

Katharine flattened her lips. “I am sorry, Chase, but you know how I feel.”

“And you will apologize to Miss Dawson at once.”

Dominique blinked.
Is he standing up for me?

“I will
not
.” Mrs. Barton’s eyes simmered with indignation. She shot a spiteful glance toward Dominique.

“You will”—the admiral crossed his arms over his chest—“or you will not be welcome in this house.”

“Surely you do not mean that, Chase.” Abruptly she wilted and began to blubber, but Dominique got the impression it was only a charade. “You would choose this…this Frenchwoman over your own sister?”

“Nay. But I choose not to have my employees suffer the brutality of your tongue. In addition, I choose for you to behave as the lady you claim to be—if not in Miss Dawson’s presence, at least in your nephew’s.”

“My word, Chase, has she mesmerized you with her French charm?” Mrs. Barton flung a hand at Dominique as if she were dismissing her very existence, then sashayed behind her, circling her in a ring of disdain. “That is what they do. They lure you in with their tantalizing perfumes and sweet words. ‘Oh,’ ” she mocked in
a theatrical yet poorly executed French accent, “ ‘
je brûle du désir
. Oh,
je t’aime, mon chou
.’ ”

Anger surged within Dominique, overtaking her fear. How dare this woman accuse her of such slanderous behavior?

The admiral snapped his fiery gaze her way. “That’s enough, Katharine! Apologize or leave this house at once.”

Dominique wanted nothing more than to cross the room and throttle Mrs. Barton silent. But instead she closed her eyes.

Oh Lord, help me to love this woman who hates me without cause. Help me to see past her anger into her wounded heart.

Dominique opened her eyes to find the admiral plunging toward his sister, fury pouring ahead of him like waves surging over the bow of a ship.

“ ’Tis not necessary, Admiral.” Dominique spoke up, stopping him in midstride.

The admiral flexed his jaw and gave her one of those looks that surely sent his crew darting off to do his bidding. “It is necessary, Miss Dawson, because I say it is necessary.” Disapproval flickered in his eyes. “How can you allow this assault on your character without at least accepting an apology?”

“I told you the French are weak,” his sister hissed.

Dominique swallowed and, after a quick glance at Mrs. Barton, leveled her gaze upon the admiral. “Because, Admiral, she does not truly means what she says. Her words spring from a wounded heart. How can I fault her for that?” Dominique offered Mrs. Barton a tentative smile. “I forgive her.”

Her pronouncement struck both the admiral and Mrs. Barton dumb. They stared at Dominique as if she had just declared herself deity. She shifted her stance under their perusal as the seconds went by. Finally, the admiral shook his head and faced his sister, feet braced wide as though he stood on the deck of a warship, face implacable. “Nevertheless, Katharine?”

Mrs. Barton brushed a curl from her forehead and continued to gawk at Dominique. “My apologies, Miss Dawson,” she gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Accepted, Mrs. Barton.” Dominique retrieved the tablet
William had left on the sofa. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” She started for the door when the admiral grabbed her arm with a gentle yet iron-hard hand, sending a jolt through her.

“I have something to discuss with you.”

The smell of cigar and spice drifted over Dominique, and she turned aside, hoping he didn’t see the hot blush rising on her face. “Very well.” she took a step back, her nerves resurging like a plague. What could he possibly wish to talk to her about?

The admiral cocked his head toward his sister. “Was there a purpose for your visit other than harassing my governess?”

Standing slightly behind the admiral, Dominique couldn’t help but admire the way his mahogany hair curled at the tips as it protruded from its tie.

Mrs. Barton’s lips formed into a pout that reminded Dominique of a Yorkshire terrier’s. “Yes, there is. I’ve come calling nearly every night this week, and you’ve not been home.” She slapped her gloves against her hand. “This is the Season, you know, brother. And Lady billingsworth is throwing a ball tomorrow night. Please say you will do me the honor of escorting me and a friend?” She placed her fingers on his arm and gave him a beseeching look. “And bring Mr. Atherton along if you’d like.”

“A friend, hmm? Might that friend be Lady Irene?”

“What difference does it make?” She patted her hair.

“Katharine, you know I do not enjoy those parties.”

“It will be fun, Chase.” She clung to his arm as if she weren’t going to let go until he agreed. “You are unattached and handsome. You should get out and enjoy yourself. Maybe if you did, you would not miss the sea as much as you do. Oh, do say you’ll come.” She sidled closer to him. “Please?”

“Why is it so important to you that I attend?” The admiral rubbed his chin.

“Because I care about you. And you shouldn’t be alone.”

The admiral hesitated, glanced at Dominique over his shoulder, a mischievous look in his eyes, then faced his sister again. “Very well,” he grunted. “I will come by for you at ten o’clock.”

“Yes, lovely.” She slid on her gloves in victory. The viper that
had surfaced earlier was completely masked behind the sweet smile she now gave her brother.

“I should hope this is not one of your tricks to match me with some debutante.”

“Of course not, Chase.” She gave him a coy look and, without so much as a glance at Dominique, swept through the door.

Dominique found herself alone again with the admiral, a condition that always seemed to unnerve her.

He turned to face her, his intense gaze piercing her own as if he were probing for an answer to an unasked question. “Please accompany me to my study, Miss Dawson. I should like to discuss William with you, as well as offer you an advance on your wages.”

His study?
Dominique’s heart stopped. “Of course,” she muttered in a strangled voice then cleared her throat.