The Lady's Deception

by Susanna Craig

  Rosamund wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. You are at liberty to set the curriculum, their brother had told her, so long as my sisters are no worse off when you leave us. But how, exactly, did one measure such things in the Burke household?

  Dropping her chin, she fixed her gaze on the toes of her shoes, peeping from beneath her skirts. Her own dress, which Molly had brushed and pressed, though it would never be the same again. And her own shoes, with a heavy piece of paper fitted into the sole of the left one to cover the hole. One damp excursion and the patch would disintegrate; the bottom of her foot was still sore.

  But she had five pounds now, didn’t she? Five pounds and the beginnings of an idea. “All right, girls,” she said, lifting her head and mustering a smile, “get your wraps. This lesson is going to combine mathematics, domestic economy, and art. We’re going shopping.”

  “We’ve done that already,” Daphne pointed out as both girls got to their feet.

  “Dress shopping,” Rosamund clarified. “You’ll have to figure yardage and price per yard, both fabric and trimmings. On a very strict budget.”

  “Where’s the art lesson in that?”

  “In choosing the proper colors,” Bell said firmly. “And style.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Rosamund laid an arm around the younger girl’s shoulders. “Dress making is an art.”

  Daphne continued to look skeptical, but Rosamund managed to herd both of them toward the door to their room with little resistance. “Meet me in the front hall in ten minutes.”

  Once more in her own chamber, she stood over the washbasin to remove the bandage, then rearranged her hair to cover the bruise as Molly had recommended. Afterward she donned her pelisse, slightly worse for wear than her dress but still serviceable. Her chip bonnet, however, was nowhere to be found. Doubtless Molly had determined it beyond repair. Groping about on one of the high shelves of the wardrobe, hopeful one of the Burke sisters had left behind a hat, her fingers brushed some sturdy fabric and tugged it from its hiding place. A cap. What luck! Except…

  Turning it over in her hands, Rosamund wondered if she’d at first been mistaken. She’d never seen anything quite like it, except perhaps in an old-fashioned painting of rosy-cheeked Dutch girls. Still, she couldn’t very well go out without something on her head, and this, er, bonnet, however unfashionable, offered the added advantage of disguising her hair, shielding her face, and covering her bruise. Carefully, she put it on, trying her best to arrange the shapeless fabric.

  When she reached the front hall, Bell took one look and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Daphne’s brows lifted. “I wondered what had become of that cap. Mama bought it for Erica, because she was forever going outside with her head bare. Mama said she’d never find a man who’d tolerate her freckles.”

  Bell let a snicker escape. “I guess the duke didn’t mind.”

  Rosamund, who had been self-consciously trying to rearrange the monstrosity on her head, let her hands drop. “I beg your pardon. Did you—did you say…duke?”

  “Mm-hm.” Daphne turned to open the door. “She married the Duke of Raynham in October.”

  Molly had told her the Burke sisters had married “high-born Englishmen,” but Rosamund hadn’t imagined anything quite like this. “And your other sister?”

  “Oh, Cami’s very proper,” Bell assured her. “She always wears a bonnet.”

  Daphne rolled her eyes in exasperation. “She’s Lady Ashborough now, though she always swore she didn’t even want to get married.”

  “Lady Ashborough. The—the author?” The London newspapers had been full of the story of the marchioness and her scandalous book, and even Mrs. Sloane couldn’t very well forbid the Times.

  “Mm-hm,” Daphne said again.

  Vaguely, Rosamund thought of correcting her. A child speaking to her governess ought to say, “Yes, Miss Gorse,” and “No, Miss Gorse.” But her brain was too busy trying to piece together what the rest of the girl’s words had meant. How, in all of Dublin, had she managed to insert herself into a household with so many ties to England? And not just any ties, but family ties to the highest ranks of the English aristocracy. Gentlemen who might know her brother from one of the clubs or even the House of Lords. What if Paris wrote to his father or sisters and mentioned her by name? She recalled the papers spread across his desk. What if he already had?

  While the girls were busy tying their own bonnet strings and buttoning their pelisses, Rosamund forced one calming breath after another into her lungs. Her brother had always been too concerned with appearances to have broadcast her escape. And even if he had, why should a member of the Burke family, learning the name of the new governess, make the connection?

  Nevertheless, when Daphne opened the door, more panic fluttered through her. It might prove unwise to stay in this house, but was it not equally unsafe to leave? Part of her expected to see her brother standing across the street in the familiar posture, arms folded over his chest, one booted foot tapping impatiently, waiting for her to appear so he could fetch her back to Kilready. After tugging the absurd bonnet even lower to shield her face, she ushered the girls onto the steps.

  Yesterday’s rain had given way to a remarkably fine morning, though the chill in the air still spoke of March. Charles was nowhere in sight. The quiet was disturbed only by birdsong coming from the green and the clip-clop-rattle of a passing gig.

  “Which shop?” Daphne asked as they descended to the street.

  “You must choose,” Rosamund replied. “Wherever you think you will get the most for your—er, my money.”

  “This way to Grafton Street,” said Bell and tugged her by the hand, leading her along the same streets she recalled following with her brother, although this time, they traveled only a fraction of the distance.

  Daphne pointed out various landmarks as they passed, Leinster House and St. Ann’s to their left, and for almost the entirety of their short journey, the greens and gardens of Trinity College to their right. “Galen was meant to be a student there,” she explained, “as Paris was. But he chose Oxford instead, where Papa went.”

  Bell whispered confidentially, “When Galen told the family his decision, it made Paris say naughty words.”

  “Nothing can make you say naughty words,” Daphne opined. “Except maybe stubbing your toe in the dark.”

  “Or perhaps an unexpected hit during a game of cricket?” Rosamund suggested, arching one brow, then wincing at the movement. Daphne tucked in her chin and said nothing more.

  Soon Grafton Street was spread before them in all its mercantile glory. Rosamund’s eyes darted from tea shop to tobacconist to toymaker. Men, women, and children of all classes and sorts strolled or bustled to their destinations. Automatically, she clasped one hand to her side. Beneath her bodice, she had pinned Paris’s handkerchief, and in it were wrapped half the coins he’d given her. The rest she’d secreted in her room in case of an emergency. Bell took her other hand in hers as her sister urged, “Come on.”

  After a quick survey of the goods in one dressmaker’s shop, they abandoned it for a second, where the proprietress, Mrs. Teague, quickly got into the spirit of the game. “It’s to be a bargain hunt, is it? Well, let us see…” Bolts of fabric appeared, and pattern books; the girls carefully tallied every ell and counted every shilling.

  Eventually, Rosamund was presented with their choice, a simple style, though with the newly-fashionable high waist. Bell clutched an armful of smoke blue woolen, far coarser fabric than that of any of the gowns Rosamund had left behind, but well-suited to both her new station and her budget.

  Once more, she fingered the pouch of coins at her waist. Together with petticoats and stays, the purchase would seriously deplete her little stash of wealth, which might be needed for another hasty escape. But in that moment, the gleam of satisfaction in the girls’ eyes was wealth enough. “It’s per
fect.”

  With brisk efficiency, Mrs. Teague produced a tape and began to measure Rosamund. Bell came to stand nearby. “Daphne said a governess should wear gray or brown.” Rosamund had never heard the girl’s voice so quiet, though a small smile curved her lips. “But the blue goes with your eyes.”

  “Blue is my favorite color,” Rosamund reassured her.

  Bell’s smile widened. “Paris’s too.”

  His predilections in such matters were of course none of Rosamund’s concern. Besides, the style the girls had chosen was perfectly governess-like. Almost severe. Nothing to attract a gentleman’s notice.

  Not even if she wanted it.

  “Tut-tut,” Mrs. Teague admonished Rosamund. “Hold still now, dear. We’re almost finished.”

  Afterward, as Rosamund paid for her purchases, the proprietress assured her that the dress would be promptly done. “And no charge for delivery,” she added as Daphne wrote out the direction in her neatest hand.

  Back in the midday sunshine, Rosamund found herself reluctant to return to Merrion Square, although the lesson, such as it was, had been completed.

  “Anything else, Miss Gorse?” Daphne asked, purposefully staring at Rosamund’s head.

  Thinking of her dwindling coins, Rosamund at first hesitated. But she could hardly deny her need for a new bonnet, and new shoes too. “The milliner’s, I think. But first, let me stop in here,” she said as they passed an apothecary’s shop.

  Quickly she bought two sticks of barley sugar to treat the girls, who stood waiting outside. Having never been allowed so much as pin money by her brother, she felt a tingle of trepidation pass through her fingers, for all that she passed the clerk nothing more substantial than a farthing.

  But perhaps that strange, electric sensation wasn’t trepidation. Perhaps it was power. Was this what the heroines in books meant when they spoke of liking their independence?

  As she turned to leave, another customer entered, a sensibly-dressed woman of middle age. At the same time, Daphne called for Rosamund, a note of urgency in her voice. The stranger stopped in the doorway, glanced back at the girls with something like recognition in her eyes, and then gave Rosamund an assessing look that quickly settled into disapproval. Lifting her chin a notch higher, the better to look along her nose, the woman strode sharply past without speaking. Though Rosamund had never set foot in a London ballroom, she suspected she had just experienced the dreaded cut.

  But why? “Do you know that lady?” she asked Daphne as the girl scurried to her side.

  Distracted, Daphne did not even glance over Rosamund’s shoulder. “I don’t know, Miss. Oh, do come.”

  Across the way, a group of rowdy boys scuffled and snickered over something, and to her horror, Rosamund saw that Bell had inserted herself into the fray and was standing, arms folded over her chest, facing the leader with a furious scowl on her face.

  Rosamund thrust the paper packet of sweets into Daphne’s hands and rushed across the street. “What’s all this?”

  At first, the boys paid little heed. All but one of them were taller than she, although they looked to be only a few years older than Daphne. Well-dressed enough that she took them for schoolboys, not urchins.

  The leader leaned toward Bell. “Give ’im up,” he demanded.

  Bell stomped one foot. “No.”

  Only then did Rosamund see that Bell held something wrapped in her arms. Something living, although she couldn’t determine what sort of creature the girl had rescued. With a silent prayer that she wasn’t about to endanger the girl further, either by angering the boys or frightening a wild animal, Rosamund whipped the ridiculous bonnet off her head and began slapping them with it. Shoulders, faces, whatever she could reach.

  The boys stood their ground for a moment, too surprised to do otherwise. Then two or three of them peeled away from the group, arms upraised and disbelieving expressions on their faces. One swore—or at least, she assumed the string of unfamiliar syllables that burst from his lips were curses, based on the wide eyes of his friends and the tinge of scarlet on his cheeks as he spouted the forbidden words. The leader stood his ground the longest beneath the onslaught, until one of the others tugged at his sleeve and jerked his chin up the street, giving either direction or warning. Rosamund lifted her bonnet for another swat to urge him on his way.

  A moment later, the boys had melted into the bustle of the noonday crowd. Passersby seemed not even to have noticed the altercation. Rosamund wrapped her arms around Bell. As Daphne hurried toward them, Rosamund steeled herself against the girl’s favored imprecation.

  But her first words were not at all what she expected. “That was brilliant, Miss Gorse!”

  An unexpected blush prickled in her cheeks as she eased her hold on Bell. “I figured this hat ought to be good for something,” she said with a laugh as she looked down at the mangled and now grimy piece of linen.

  Into the bonnet, Bell deposited the creature she’d rescued, turning the wad of fabric into a makeshift nest. A tiny gray kitten looked at them through blue eyes, and its head wobbled as it opened its mouth in a silent cry. “I couldn’t let them kill it.” Bell’s voice trembled.

  “No, of course not,” Rosamund murmured as she cupped her hands more securely around the frightened animal.

  “I really think it was your shrieking that drove the boys away,” Daphne said, reaching out one finger to stroke the kitten’s fur. “Though that hat would be enough to scare anyone.”

  “Shrieking? I…shrieked?”

  Bell nodded solemnly. “Like a banshee.”

  Rosamund didn’t know what that meant, but she doubted it was a good thing. Certainly not ladylike—or governesslike. Dimly, she registered the disapproving woman still standing in the doorway of the apothecary’s shop, watching them.

  “Come, girls. Let’s go home.” Kitten clutched in her hand, she set off in what she hoped was the proper direction.

  “You mean, we can keep it?”

  The creature was hardly old enough to be separated from its mother. Scrawny, probably sickly. Doubtless crawling with fleas. Molly would have a fit. Mr. Burke would have yet another reason to dismiss his sisters’ governess.

  “Of course.”

  Bell squealed, startling the kitten. Daphne grinned. “I’m sorry I called you an eejit yesterday, Miss Gorse.”

  Rosamund gave what she hoped was a stern look. “Apology accepted, Daphne.” But she kept any note of triumph from her voice. Because, in the end, Daphne was right—she was an idiot.

  The sort of idiot who played at being stern, then told her charges they could keep a pet without consulting their brother.

  The sort of idiot who had laid awake for hours poring over every word the man had spoken. And many he had not.

  The sort of idiot who had just bought a dress she could hardly afford because it would set off the gold of her hair and deepen the blue of her eyes. And who could not wait to see his reaction to it.

  Chapter 9

  When Molly had delivered Eamon Graves’s early note, asking Paris to meet to discuss a case, he’d never once considered declining the invitation. To be sure, he had no particular desire to talk with the man. But anything that got him even half an English mile away from Rosamund Gorse was better than the alternative: lying in bed for another moment, knowing she was lying in a similarly situated bed just a wall’s width away. Plaster and lathe were proving inadequate antidotes to his interest.

  As expected, he found Graves in Dublin’s most popular coffeehouse at a table framed by a window, a spot that inevitably drew the eyes of passersby, both inside the shop and on the street. Graves coveted attention.

  “Burke.” The man’s voice boomed as he rose and gestured toward the seat opposite, almost as if he were genuinely enthusiastic at the meeting. The man was a consummate actor, Paris would give him that. Because of those skills, some
reckoned him a better barrister than Paris. Because of those skills, Paris knew better than to trust him.

  “Graves.” The chair scraped noisily across the floor as Paris pulled it from beneath the small table. With leisurely movements, he removed his hat and pulled off his gloves before sitting down. Dark paneled walls absorbed much of the light from the window, casting the alcove into dimness. Cozy, he supposed one might call it. If one fancied cozying up with a snake.

  “I’m pleased you could meet me on such short notice.” Graves signaled to a waiter to bring another cup. “I expected you to cry off, claim you were too busy playing nursemaid.”

  “I’ve hired a governess for my sisters,” Paris explained shortly, resentful of being made to think about Miss Gorse.

  “Good. The courtrooms of Dublin have missed you.”

  Graves faked sincerity well. All in all, Paris thought it might be the man’s most dangerous skill. Yet, he was tempted now to believe that expression of regret. Oh, not because he imagined Graves worried about injustice or his fellow man’s well-being. But because, as Paris knew, the drama of the courtroom soon fell flat without a worthy adversary.

  So Graves was bored. Well, well, well…

  The waiter returned, bearing a cup and saucer in one hand and a small silver pot in the other. As soon as the coffee was poured, Paris lifted the cup to his lips to disguise the involuntary smile that played about them.

  “Careful, Burke,” Graves cautioned, idly stirring the contents of his own cup. “You’ll get burned.”

  Paris returned the cup to its saucer with a clatter. “What is it you want, Graves?”

  Not to be hurried, the other man laid his spoon aside and lifted his cup to his mouth. A cooling breath rippled across the dark surface of the coffee. “Your opinion on a matter of some delicacy.” Rather than say anything more, he sipped, swallowed, then settled the cup in its saucer, taking care to square the handle.

  “A case?”