The Falcon and the Sparrow (18 page)

She scanned the admiral’s study. Save for the tiny circle of light afforded her by her candle, most of the chamber loomed over her in monstrous shadows. Blood hammered through her temples. She closed her eyes as one final image of Marcel jarred her from her terrified stupor. He staggered, held from behind. His wide, pleading eyes gaped at her as a knife pricked his throat, releasing a trickle of blood.

“I will save you, Marcel. This time I’ll be the strong one,” she whispered.

Forcing herself from the door, she crept across the room to the admiral’s desk. She set the candle down, listening for any movement in the hallway. Only the sound of her ragged breathing reached her ears. Lying atop the imposing desk were piles of neatly stacked papers. She began to sift through them, deciding to take only the most important documents from each pile so as not to draw immediate suspicion. But how was she to know which ones contained the most valuable information? With a sigh, she examined a document covered with charts and figures that made no sense to her. She would have to do her best—and she would have to hurry.

Minutes later, she emerged from the room with a stack of nearly fifty papers, all stamped with the Admiralty seal and, from what she could surmise, containing lists of various fleet sizes and locations, firepower, battle strategies, commanding officers, and number of crewmen. As she made her way up the stairs to her room, she prayed it would be enough to procure Marcel’s freedom. After stashing the documents in her valise, she tiptoed across the hall to the admiral’s bedchamber and deposited the key chain on his writing desk, hoping he would assume he had forgotten to take it to the ball. Before leaving, she paused to gaze across his dark room, the huge oak bed, the chest of drawers as tall and broad as its owner, the rectangular window framed in maroon velvet curtains. Heat engulfed her as she remembered the way the admiral had caught her hiding behind them, his bare, muscled chest gleaming in the candlelight, and the way she had felt so close to him. She breathed in his masculine scent and caught herself smiling, wishing for a moment that she could remain William’s governess. But her smile faded as quickly as it had come. She could entertain no further thoughts of the admiral or of his precious son. Soon she would be gone and never see either of them again.

Chase entered the house, tossed his frock at Sebastian without a
word, and tried to shake off the brandy fogging his thoughts. He had indeed found a stronger drink than the lemonade, but he was now beginning to regret his overindulgence. He had hoped the liquor would keep his thoughts off Mr. Atherton and Miss Dawson, but it had only increased his anxiety. As much as he enjoyed Percy’s company, Chase didn’t trust the man—especially not with a beautiful woman—and he regretted sending them off together.

“Did Miss Dawson arrive safely?”

“Yes, sir, nearly an hour ago.”

Chase released a long-held sigh. He wanted to ask the butler if Mr. Atherton had brought her to the door and what exactly had transpired between the two, but all he asked was, “No other problems, then?”

“I believe Master William had a nightmare earlier, sir. He was screaming.” Sebastian’s tone was as dull and colorless as the shadows drifting across his face.

Chase knew William had dreams about his mother from time to time, though he had never been home to experience one firsthand. “Did Mrs. Hensworth attend to him?”

“I believe Miss Dawson came to his aid. He is asleep now, sir.”

“Very well.” Chase took the stairs up to William’s room just to make certain he was all right. Besides, Chase wasn’t sure he wanted the unscrupulous Miss Dawson so close to his son anymore, not until he determined just what had occurred between her and Mr. Atherton at the ball.

As he approached the boy’s nursery, gentle snores reached Chase’s ears. Tiptoeing around the corner, he leaned against the door frame and peered inside, allowing his blurry gaze to wander over the shadows in the room until it alighted upon one that melted his heart. Stretched across the chaise lounge that sat next to William’s bed lay Miss Dawson, her chestnut curls tumbling over her silk robe. Beside her, William pressed against her bosom, his chubby little arms around her waist. Both of them were sound asleep. Hazy light from the window drifted over them in an ethereal glow that reminded him of a holy portrait of Madonna and child. Chase rubbed his eyes, fighting back an unusual burning behind
them. He had not seen William care for any woman this way—not since the boy’s mother was alive.

Chase tore off his topcoat and tossed it in the corner of his dark bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. He tried to shake the vision of William so peacefully asleep in Miss Dawson’s arms, her hand over his forehead in a gentle caress. He did not want to think kindly of her right now, not after her wanton display with the charming Percy Atherton. He felt like spitting but instead ripped through the buttons of his waistcoat and flung it to join his topcoat. Stomping to the fire, he grabbed a bronze poker and jabbed at the smoldering coals, remembering the two of them leaving the ball arm in arm. No doubt that was Miss Dawson’s plan all along, and he had been too foolish to see it. All the ladies clamored for Atherton’s attention—charming, personable, intelligent Percy. The sort of gentleman who always knew the right thing to say at the right time and who with one look could cause the staunchest female to swoon.

Chase held none of those engaging qualities. He was a navy man, more comfortable at the helm of his ship than at a society gathering. He lacked the social graces of a London dandy—was too harsh and authoritative with women, he had been told, and had no idea how to pay a lady a compliment. Melody had never expected one. She had been content with Chase as he was. It was one of many things he had dearly loved about her. And he had believed Miss Dawson possessed a similar quality, but perhaps not. He hung his head. No, there would never be another woman for him besides Melody.

He had left the party early despite the rather resonant and avid protests of his sister and Lady Irene. They normally stayed at those ridiculous balls until well past one in the morning. Chase was in no mood to tolerate any more of the bombastic chatter of his peers, nor to escort the doting Lady Irene across the dance floor. When Miss Dawson had left, she had taken all the enjoyment of the event with her, leaving him with only emptiness inside and
the haunting vision of her in her petticoats standing by Atherton’s side, their hands interlocked. He wanted to remember that scene, for it kindled the anger burning within him, and forget the tender one he had just witnessed between her and his son. He wanted to be angry with her. He wanted to dismiss her. He wanted to strangle the strange feelings rising within him whenever she was around.

Kneeling, he stabbed at the coals until warmth radiated over him. He knew his sister had some involvement in the scandal, but he did not know to what extent. Certainly she was not conniving enough to force Miss Dawson to disrobe in front of Atherton. That he could be sure the governess had done quite on her own. Nevertheless, he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss.

Blast! He stood. He would dismiss Miss Dawson first thing in the morning. He would not stand for a woman of questionable morals governing William, no matter the boy’s growing affections for her.

Dropping the poker in the rack, he forged into the darkness toward his dressing room and plunged into the bedpost, jarring his forehead upon the hard oak. Swearing, he groped his way to his writing table and felt across the grainy wood for the candle. His fingers landed on something cold and round. His pocket watch? Couldn’t be. He remembered dropping it in his topcoat pocket. He picked it up. The smooth silver chilled his fingers as they slid over the watch, the chain links, and finally the cold iron key. Finding the candle, he made his way back to the fireplace, lit the wick, and stared at the watch and key in his hand. His thoughts took him back to the moment Sebastian had handed it to him as he was preparing for the ball.

Or had he?

Perhaps that had been another evening—a different time. He’d had a few glasses of brandy. The scar on his right cheek itched, the memory of the betrayal behind its acquisition adding to his discomfiture. He rubbed it. It was not like him to be so careless. Better to check his study just to be sure.

Flinging open the door, he headed down the stairs, candle and key in hand. Once inside his study, he waved the flickering light
over the room. Nothing appeared out of place. He sat down at his desk and began scrutinizing each pile of documents he had so carefully laid out.

A grim smile curled upon his lips.

The rat had taken the bait.

P
ain throbbed like war drums in Chase’s head. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and grimaced as he took the stairs down to the dining room. Why the headache? He had not overindulged more than usual the night before, though he had most assuredly wanted to. Perhaps his body finally had mutinied against him for continually denying it the sleep it required, for he had wandered the halls again until well past three in the morning before crumpling to his bed in a heap. Only one thing would give Chase satisfaction this day—dismissing his tart of a governess. But not before he ascertained whether she’d pilfered the documents from his study.

As he took the last step, hoping for a cup of the coffee whose exotic fragrance taunted him from the dining room, the annoying cackle of laughter pierced his skull. Turning toward the irritating noise, he made his way toward the back of the house to the morning room, intending to silence the offenders immediately.

But as he neared the open door, William’s hearty laughter both warmed his soul and sent a spike of guilt through him. The boy never laughed like that with Chase. But why would he? Miss Dawson’s soothing voice followed in the wake of his son’s gleeful outburst, eliciting another giggle from him.

Chase cast a disgruntled gaze past the edge of the door.

Miss Dawson sat on the wooden floor beside his son playing a game of jacks, her gold satin skirts encircling her like a halo. She leaned over and planted a kiss upon William’s head and wiped the
hair from his face. The lad gazed up at her, his eyes sparkling with more love than Chase had seen in them in years. A huge smile broke upon William’s lips. “Can we play again, Miss Dawson? I know I can beat you this time.”

“Oh, you can, can you?” She laughed. “Well, perhaps one more game before church.”

Chase allowed his gaze to remain fixed upon William—something he rarely did. The boy’s thick blond hair shifted like sand in every direction whenever he moved his head. Those vivid forest green eyes bursting with energy and life. The exact replica of his mother. A dark heaviness settled on Chase. He turned to leave, unable to bear the sight, when his boot scuffed over the wood, alerting them.

“Father!” William looked up, his dimples deepening beneath rosy cheeks. He sprang to his feet.

“Sacre bleu,” Miss Dawson uttered with a glance over her shoulder. She scrambled to rise as William darted toward his father. Refusing to turn around and face Chase, she struggled to her feet and pressed down the folds of her skirts. “Forgive me, Admiral. I was told you arose late on Sunday.”