The Falcon and the Sparrow (5 page)

Lady Irene gave a delicate sigh that sent her curls quivering “ ’Tis good that He doesn’t pay much attention to us, for I find His rules far too restrictive. Who can live by them?”

Dominique’s blood boiled. She knew she should say something to defend her Lord, to help these people see who He truly was, but she felt so alone, so outnumbered, and before she could form a response, the moment passed.

“I fear my daughter has trouble remembering any rules, save those that have to do with her feminine charms and lavish appearance,” Lord Markham commented.

Lady Irene swallowed and lowered her gaze.

“Pray tell, Percy,” the admiral said. “What’s this I hear about proposed cuts to His Majesty’s Navy?”

“You’ve heard correctly.” Percy grabbed his glass and leaned back in his chair nonchalantly. “And I quite agree with it. Why waste money on the navy in peacetime?”

“Peacetime? Egad, man. You call this abominable Treaty of Amiens peace?” the admiral said, his nostrils flaring. “Why, you know as well as I that napoleon is using this pretense of cease-fire to gather his troops and strengthen his navy.”

“I know no such thing. I don’t think Napoleon, as the new First Consul of France, wants war any more than we do, especially not with Russia on our side.”

Dominique’s nerves tightened as she listened intently, hoping for any morsel of information she could use.

Admiral Randal slammed down his knife, startling her. “Russia has declared armed neutrality. They will not fight with us against France.”

“You do not know that. Nor does Napoleon.” Percy sliced another bite of rabbit and turned toward Lord Markham. “What say you, Markham?”

“I fear I have to agree with the admiral.” Lord Markham dabbed his lips with the edge of the tablecloth. “Napoleon may be an impertinent cur, but he is not daft.”

Dominique quietly slipped another roll from the platter, noting the other two ladies were hardly eating at all. A hearty appetite,
especially under duress, was one thing she had inherited from her mother.

“Well, what more should I expect from a retired captain?” Percy threw up his hands. “And you Whigs like to stick together, I see. But now that we have finally relieved Parliament of Pitt and his Tories, we may see some real progress.”

The admiral chuckled. “Surely you don’t mean from the new prime minister, Addington. He’s a buffoon.” He tossed back the last of his wine and poured himself another glass.

Lady Irene cleared her throat and raised her shoulders. “I think he’s done a fine job. William Pitt was completely inept at fostering any kind of peace with France.”

Lord Markham pinched his lips in disdain. “What do you know of it, Daughter? Keep your feeble mind on your lace and perfumes, and leave politics to the men.” He smiled at Chase and Percy, eliciting their agreement.

Lady Irene slunk into her chair, and for the first time that night, Dominique felt sorry for her.

“Come now, gentlemen.” Mrs. Barton pushed her half-eaten dinner aside. “Let’s not talk politics, shall we?”

Ignoring her, Percy faced the admiral. “We all know you prefer war to peace.”

“I do not prefer war.” Admiral Randal’s imperious gaze bore into Percy. “But I do prefer the sea to the idle, nonsensical chatter I find on land.”

Lady Irene leaned forward, her voluptuous bosom threatening to escape from her gown. “I sincerely hope you do not consider all chatter nonsensical, Admiral.” She smiled sweetly. “I, for one, am glad to see you home for a change.”

Dominique’s eyes widened at Lady Irene’s tawdry display. Yet perhaps the admiral and the lady were courting. A close relationship between them would certainly account for her seductive dalliance. But the red flush that crept up the admiral’s face said otherwise.

“Notwithstanding the extraordinary beauty I find in London,” he said, giving Lady Irene a half smile then averting his eyes, “I find I am most at home on board my ship.”

“See, I told you, dear,” Mrs. Barton remarked to Lady Irene. “You are wasting your time with my brother. His first love will always be the sea.”

Her expression soured as she directed a stern gaze to Chase. “But what of William? Is the boy to grow up with neither mother nor father?”

The admiral clenched his jaw. “ ’Tis why I have hired Miss Dawson.” He gestured toward Dominique, who had just finished her bread roll and was spooning another pile of potatoes onto her plate.

“Quite an appetite for so slight a lady, Miss Dawson,” Lord Markham remarked.

Dominique set down the spoon and felt a blush rising.

“What do you expect?” Mrs. Barton snorted.

“I find her charming.” Mr. Atherton winked at Dominique.

“You would find a female dog charming, Atherton.” Lady Irene’s lips curled in a sardonic grimace.

“Are you making me an offer?”

With a huff, Lady Irene wrinkled her face before turning toward the admiral. “Why not hire a man to teach William? Wouldn’t it be more proper?”

“William has a male tutor, but the boy needs a woman’s touch.”

“But really, Randal, and no offense to you, Miss Dawson”—Lady Irene cast a lofty glance at Dominique then lowered her voice to a whisper—“why have the governess dine with us? Why, she is no more than a servant.”

No offense?
Dominique felt the food in her stomach sour. So far she had been ignored, belittled for her faith, ogled as if she were some trollop, and now humiliated. What was next?

The admiral’s face darkened. “Because, my dear, I choose for her to, and that is enough.”

“Still your tongue, Irene,” Lord Markham scolded. “We are in Admiral Randal’s house, and it is up to him whom he invites to his table.” His sultry gaze traveled over Dominique. “Besides…I find her quite refreshing.”

A chill slithered across Dominique, and she glanced at the
admiral, who, with furrowed brow, glared at Lord Markham.

The servants entered to clear the plates, returning shortly with plum pudding and champagne.

Mr. Atherton, who poured what Dominique thought was his fourth glass of wine, took a sip and grinned at Lady Irene. “You’re jealous of any woman as attractive as you are.”

Dominique allowed the compliment to salve her shrinking self-esteem.

“Why, you insolent fop!” Lady Irene hissed and started to rise, but at a shake of the admiral’s head, she sank back into her chair.

“He does have a point,” Lord Markham said.

“Enough!” the admiral barked. “We had need of another female for dinner. Besides, Miss Dawson comes highly recommended. Her mother is of noble heritage, and her father was a great admiral.”

Dominique’s eyes met the admiral’s. Was he defending her, or was he merely trying to prevent his drunken guests from killing one another? A spark of warmth glimmered in his brown eyes, but a cold sheen quickly smothered it as he shifted his gaze away.

Lord Markham pointed his spoon at Dominique. “A real lady should not have to work, nor bother herself with intellectual pursuits. You should be under the care of a wealthy gentleman.”

“Father, I believe you already have enough mistresses to support at the moment.”

Atherton slapped the grinning Lord Markham on the back. “Quite true, quite true.”

Everyone but Dominique laughed.

Mrs. Barton turned toward Dominique. “May I ask who your mother is?”

Dominique’s palms moistened. “Who she was,” she corrected Katharine and hesitated as she swallowed a knot of fear. Surely mentioning her French heritage would give these people more ammunition against her. It was obvious none of them wanted her here. She scanned each pair of eyes firmly planted on her—including the admiral’s, whose stoic gaze gave her no indication of how best to respond.

But why should she be ashamed of the most wonderful woman
she had ever known? She would not, no matter how frightened she was of the consequences. “Marguerite Jean Denoix, daughter of Edouard, vicomte de Gimois,” she pronounced with authority.

“French!” Katharine spit out. “I thought I heard the enemy’s putrid tone in her voice.” She slammed down her glass of champagne, tipping its contents onto the white tablecloth in a golden pool.

Dominique drew a shaky breath.

“A lovely accent.” Mr. Atherton toasted her with his glass and took another sip.

“Chase, how could you? How could you bring a Frenchwoman into this house?”

“For one thing, Katharine, this is my house. And for another, as I have said, her father was Admiral Stuart Dawson, a hero of the battle of the nile.” He rubbed his hands together as if that fact alone would resolve any further conflict.

“It matters not who her father was,” Katharine shouted, her eyes aflame. “Everyone knows that French deceit and lubricity are passed down through the women.”

“I beg your pardon.” Dominique rose to her feet.

“Sit down, Katharine,” Mr. Atherton slurred, flapping his hand in the air. “You obviously mistake her for the French strumpet your husband ran off with.”

“Percy!” Admiral Randal gave his friend a scorching look, eliciting only an innocent shrug from Percy.

Lord Markham howled in laughter.

Dominique began to wonder if she was having a bad dream. She’d never witnessed such crass behavior. She raised her gaze to the admiral’s. Would he defend her honor? but all she saw was a hard, imperious gleam as he shifted his eyes between her and Mrs. Barton. A sudden shiver coiled up Dominique’s back. How much power did the admiral’s sister wield?

The admiral clenched his jaw as if trying to control himself and faced his sister. “I can assure you, Katharine, her loyalties lie with Britain, and that is the end of it.”

“I care not where her loyalties lie! ’Tis her morals that concern me, especially around young William.”

“How dare you!” Tears burned behind Dominique’s eyes.

“I will not stand to have this French”—Mrs. Barton spit the word with contempt—“woman near you or near William!” She locked her fierce gaze upon the admiral. “I insist you release her at once!”

G
athering her skirts, Dominique rushed up the stairs, heat flushing her cheeks. She had been born and raised here in England just like the admiral, his sister, Lord Markham, and Lady Irene. She was just as much british as they were. Why did a slight accent and a French mother evoke such hatred—especially from Mrs. Barton? Was it true her husband had run away with a Frenchwoman? Even so, what did that have to do with Dominique?

She reached the top of the stairs and pressed a trembling hand to her full stomach, now groaning and churning its contents into a nervous brew.
Why am I so weak? Why didn’t I stand up for myself?
she had simply stood there, facing the darts of fury and hatred shooting from Mrs. Barton’s eyes and the priggish look of contempt on Lady Irene’s face, and she hadn’t said a word. To make matters worse, when she had looked to the admiral for the assistance one would expect from a
true
gentleman, his disapproving glance crushed any hope of a chivalrous rescue.

She hadn’t even defended her Lord when His name had been defamed. Gripping the baluster, she squeezed the unforgiving iron until her fingers ached.

The disappointment on the admiral’s face and the censure simmering in his eyes were enough to convince Dominique that he would release her first thing in the morning. He had probably expected someone more like her father—the great Admiral stuart Dawson. Always so strong, so decisive.
Oh Lord, what good am I?
How will I ever save my brother now?

Dominique glanced around the gloomy hallway. Closed doors receding into the shadows surrounded her in a gap-toothed leer, all save for the drawing room doors toward the front of the house, under which flowed a glittering lake of light.

Exhaustion weighed heavy on her eyelids, and she forced them apart. Taking in a deep breath, she flattened her lips in resolve. So she had only tonight to gather what information she could. Perhaps she could obtain something of value that would appease her cousin enough to stay his hand against Marcel—and against her—when she returned.

Feminine voices filtered up from below, and Dominique spun to see Lady Irene and Mrs. Barton exit the dining room and head for the stairs, cackling like two hens. No doubt they were heading toward the drawing room for after-dinner tea while the men talked politics and war.
Politics and war.
Dominique bit her lip. That would be a conversation worth listening in on.

She surveyed the gloomy shadows. There wasn’t time to dart up the next flight of stairs to her room. Dominique swung her gaze below. With each step Lady Irene took up the stairs, the candle in her hand chased away the darkness that shielded Dominique from view.

Tiptoeing across the wooden floor, Dominique slipped into a hallway to her left and flattened against the wall as a circle of light splashed over where she had just stood. She held her breath. The two ladies reached the top of the stairs and made the turn toward the front of the house.

“I’ll warrant you’ve nothing more to fear from that French trollop.” Mrs. Barton’s grating voice rang through the hallway. “I’ve no doubt my brother will dismiss her tomorrow.”

“I do hope you are right. The sea is enough competition for me.” Lady Irene gave a faint sigh.