The Lady's Deception

by Susanna Craig

  He tipped his head, not quite assent.

  Enough. Paris laid his palms on the edge of the table as if preparing to push away.

  Graves’s hand shot out and gripped his forearm to prevent him from rising. In that instant, everything about the man’s expression and demeanor had changed. Gone was the superciliousness, the thinly-veiled mockery. In its place, determination. If Graves were capable of true sincerity, it would look like this.

  Though tempted to shake off the staying hand, Paris waited instead, watching as remorse slipped over the other man’s features and self-control returned. At last Graves’s grasp eased and slid away, and the window into his thoughts slammed shut. “Forgive me. But I believe you’ll find the case has some intrinsic interest to men like us.”

  Men like us. The pair of them had always inspired comparison. Both Trinity men. Both barristers. Both, ostensibly, patriots.

  In the last few months, however, Paris had grown more attuned to their differences.

  The foremost figures of the rebellion had been drawn from the ranks of the Irish bar, and Paris had counted many of them friends. But when the uprising had failed, the voices of those who had claimed to remain loyal to the British Crown had grown louder. Some of the men suspected of involvement with the United Irishmen—those who had survived—had been shunned for traitors. Paris would surely have been among them if he had not chosen to step aside from the most high-profile cases. His politics had not changed. Only his priorities. But because he had largely removed himself from the society of his peers, they seemed to have come to believe he could safely be ignored.

  Graves, however, whose patriotism Paris had always suspected as more for show than substance, had taken a different approach. Having once given vocal support to the cause of Irish independence, he now actively courted the good opinion of the loyalists. With certain men, he spoke critically of the uprising and warmly of the proposed union with Great Britain; with others, however, he still voiced feelings quite opposite. No one could say for certain which side Graves was on. His own side, Paris suspected. The man clearly wanted something more than a life as a Dublin barrister and would say what he must to get it.

  Now, Paris made a show of straightening his sleeve as he weighed the man’s words. A matter of some delicacy. Against his better judgment, he nodded once. “Go on.”

  Graves leaned back in his chair. “It concerns a half-starved boy arrested for theft.” He was savvy enough not to drop his voice and thereby draw attention to their conversation. “Caught red-handed by the baker as he snatched a loaf from his cart.”

  “What makes you assume I would be interested?” Paris demanded, though of course he was. The poor child, punished for trying to assuage his hunger…

  “I can think of several reasons.” Graves paused for a sip of coffee and to nod to an acquaintance as he passed by their table. “But I’ll offer just one: It seems the boy is from Kilready.”

  Kilready Castle, on the northern border of County Dublin, belonged to the nominally Irish Lord Dashfort. For many years, however, the earl had been an absentee, supporting himself in style in London by charging rack-rent to his tenants, who had been driven to the point of desperation—and beyond. The man’s neglect had surely driven some of them into the grave.

  Whenever possible, the United Irishmen had made use of the unrest at places like Kilready to drum up support for their cause. But Dashfort’s unlooked-for return to his Irish estate after more than a decade away, followed by the stationing of British soldiers near the castle to protect both his life and his property, had necessitated a change of plans. A change that, like many other aspects of the uprising, had been poorly communicated and executed, resulting in yet more bloodshed—in this case, the life’s blood of Paris’s oldest and dearest friend. Unavoidably delayed by a grave injury to his brother, Paris had arrived too late to support Henry Edgeworth’s mission. Too late to save Henry.

  At the name Kilready, a sudden rush of blood through his veins paralyzed Paris for a moment. At last he managed to cross one booted leg over the other and fingered the handle of his spoon. “And what has that to do with ‘men like us’?”

  Graves’s expression shifted to something that was not quite surprise. “The boy claims he left home because he’s grown a conscience about his role in a ring of smugglers. No one believes his tale, of course, but one wonders…”

  “You mean you suspect D—”

  Under pretense of reaching for his cup, Graves made a slicing movement with one long finger, cutting him off. “Ah, Lord Castlereagh. Good morning, sir,” he said, rising. Reluctantly, Paris followed suit to greet the Chief Secretary, the man who had made it his personal mission to quash the rebellion. Graves bowed and received a nod of acknowledgment in return; Paris’s spine refused to bend. Castlereagh moved on without speaking.

  As Paris and Graves leaned in to resume their seats, Graves spoke low. “You need to spend more time in the pubs and with the gossip columns. If you did, you’d know all about Dashfort’s trial in the court of public opinion. When his wife died a year ago, under suspicious circumstances, he was forced to leave London with a cloud of scandal hanging over him. Or so it is said.”

  Paris nodded his understanding. He was well aware of the rumors. He also knew that Dashfort had brought his son and daughter with him to Ireland. Despite his utter disdain for the man, Paris nevertheless pitied his two young children, mourning their mother, caught up in a cruel circus, and now uprooted, ferried “home” to a place they had never seen. “But you suspect there was more to Dashfort’s decision to return when he did?”

  Graves lifted one shoulder. “It could prove beneficial to the man who discovers what’s going on at Kilready Castle.”

  Smuggling… Even Dashfort would find it difficult to avoid trouble if it could be proved he was involved. Paris settled into his chair. “Beneficial to your case, you mean.”

  “My case? My dear fellow, I am at present fully occupied with my preparations for the dispute over Mr. Halloran’s lease. Why,” he reached out and lifted his drink to his lips once more, “I hardly have time for a cup of coffee.”

  “I see.” Paris drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I suppose no one is eager to take on the boy’s defense.”

  “It isn’t the sort of case on which reputations are built,” Graves agreed, a sneering twist to his expression. “But I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  No, Paris cared little for his reputation now. And evidently, Graves was counting on that fact.

  If Paris succeeded, then the boy—doubtless another Irish pawn exploited by his master, whether or not any laws had been broken—might be saved. And if Dashfort’s crimes were exposed, Paris would have gone a little further toward atoning for his mistakes, particularly where Henry Edgeworth was concerned. Of course, revenge wouldn’t restore Henry’s life, nor the lives of so many others who had been lost in the fight for freedom or executed afterward. But it would be better than nothing.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “One question, Graves.” He curved his hand around his cup. “Are you trying to save me, or destroy me?”

  Graves chuckled. A shade too heartily, perhaps. “If you have to ask…”

  Paris gave a humorless laugh in reply. Nevertheless, after a moment’s reflection, he raised his cup in a sort of toast to seal his fate. He drank deeply, though the coffee had gone cold.

  “Very good,” Graves said. “I knew you would see things in the proper light.” He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a folded paper, and slid it across the table to him. “The information you’ll need…”

  Paris palmed the note without reading it. This was neither the time nor the place to indulge his curiosity. With a nod, he rose to leave, but not before he snapped a coin onto the table. Best not to be indebted to Graves, not even for the price of a cup of coffee.

  Chapter 10

  “So glad you coul
d join us, Miss Gorse.”

  At first Rosamund assumed Paris’s words were sarcasm, a gibe at her lateness, though she hadn’t heard any clock in the house strike the hour. But his face was…well, she knew no better word to describe his expression than keen. Sharp as a whetted blade.

  Standing at the head of the table, he radiated a strange, yet compelling energy. His garnet colored coat, a striking shade under any circumstances, was especially so given his dark coloring. The boyish, tousled waves of his black hair hinted that he had spent the better part of the day brushing it out of his eyes, evidently his habit when he was preoccupied. One persistent lock slipped forward even now. And from beneath it peered eyes that made her feel…well, wanted.

  The sensation was more than a little unsettling.

  Thankfully, Molly chose that moment to step into the room with a tray full of steaming dishes. Quickly, Rosamund seated herself. Not opposite Paris, as he had suggested with a nod of his head, but beside Bell on one of the long sides of the table, at an angle that put him out of her direct line of vision, and she out of his.

  For the next few moments, they were absorbed in filling their plates. The only words exchanged were those to the purpose, to “pass the creamed turnips” or “mind the salt” when the cellar was nearly overturned by a careless hand.

  Accustomed to quiet dinners, she thought little of the silence that fell over the room as they began to eat. Mrs. Sloane had been at best a taciturn companion, and in recent years Charles had rarely visited Tavisham Manor. Over time, she had learned that if silence did not exactly aid digestion, it was better than complaint and derision.

  But of course silence was not the norm in the Burke household. Paris cleared his throat. “I can’t recall a meal in which my sisters had so little to say.”

  Rosamund suspected that the girls had decided not to speak at all, rather than risk the truth slipping out. That afternoon, the four of them—Molly included—had come to a grudging agreement: to say nothing to Paris about the kitten until the moment was right. Wait until he’s happy about something, Bell had insisted, to which Daphne had replied that the kitten would be a fully grown cat if they waited so long as that.

  “Perhaps,” Rosamund ventured, “they are simply putting into practice the old maxim that children ought to be seen and not heard.”

  Daphne’s face contorted as if she were trying to make sense of words spoken in an unfamiliar language. “What sort of rubbish is that, Miss Gorse?”

  Sardonic humor twitched at the corners of Paris’s mouth. “An English maxim, I daresay.”

  Bell looked thoughtful. “I’ve never heard Mama say that. But if she ever did believe in such a rule, I suppose Erica broke it so often, she grew weary of repeating it and gave it up.”

  “Paris would have broken it first,” said Daphne matter-of-factly.

  “Girls!” Rosamund exclaimed, both horrified and, God help her, envious. What would it be like to speak to one’s brother as Daphne and Bell spoke to theirs? Not to fear some wounding reply…or worse?

  “Do you doubt I was a rule breaker, Miss Gorse?”

  She stabbed blindly at her plate and put a forkful of something—roast beef—in her mouth to give herself a moment to think of a suitable reply. It was too tender to provide an excuse for much delay, but nevertheless she chewed thoroughly and swallowed and dabbed her lips before answering. And even then, she did not meet his eye. “I’m not persuaded that you have any great respect for the rules even now, Mr. Burke.”

  Silence fell again as she awaited the inevitable reprimand. Teasing banter was not a skill she had had occasion to perfect—not a skill a woman in her position would ever have occasion to perfect.

  Then a sound that wasn’t precisely laughter rumbled from the far end of the table. “Quite so, Miss Gorse.” His low murmur lodged somewhere near the base of her spine, sending an unexpected shiver of pleasure through her. “And that being the case, I certainly do not require silence from my young dinner companions.” Rosamund at last glanced up in time to see him look from one of his sisters to the other, one dark brow bent in a playfully suspicious arch. Her heart lifted with it. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

  Bell choked and sputtered. Molly, who was nearest, gave her an unceremonious whack on the back.

  Daphne, however, seized the moment, perhaps inspired by the teasing note in her brother’s voice. “Now that you mention it, Paris, we did have a lesson in zoology today.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, art,” squeaked Bell, her face contorted with worry.

  “Mathematics and economics.” Rosamund forced herself to speak again. “I took the girls shopping.”

  Bell gave an eager nod. “Miss Gorse bought a dress.”

  Paris’s dark eyes sought her out. Was he displeased that she had taken his sisters without asking permission? Displeased by her purchase? But there was a flicker in the depths of his gaze that hinted at something quite other than displeasure. Along with a twist of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile. “Shoes, too, I hope.”

  Her reply caught in her throat. How did he know? The faintest memory—or perhaps fantasy—sketched through her mind, of strong fingers caressing along her stocking-covered calf and over her ankle, slipping her ruined shoe from her foot.

  “No,” Daphne answered for her, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Just a dress.”

  “And underthings,” added Bell.

  He had not taken his eyes from her. Was it her imagination, or did they grow darker? She did not know how to read that expression, but it turned her insides to jelly, and she did not like—oh, twaddle. She might be lying to everyone else, but there was nothing to be gained by lying to herself. She did like the way it made her feel, though she knew she should not. Of all the foolish things she had done in the last three days, allowing herself to be attracted to Paris Burke was undoubtedly the most foolish of all.

  “I did not wish to keep the girls from home too long, Mr. Burke.” Her cheeks stung with heat. “Any additional items I may require can wait for another occasion.”

  “If I were you, Miss Gorse, I should get a bonnet next,” Daphne said, chewing as she spoke. Turning toward her brother, she added, “She wore that awful sunhat of Erica’s today, but thank God, now it’s ru—”

  “I must remind you that a young lady does not talk with her mouth full.” Rosamund spoke across her, firmly but gently.

  “Another English childrearing maxim, Miss Gorse?” Paris took a bite of bread. “I confess I’m curious about one thing, though,” he said after making a point of chewing and swallowing. “Where did the zoology lesson come into it?”

  China and silver rattled against the tray on which Molly was stacking the serving dishes. “Och, you know Grafton Street, Mr. Paris. Beastly when there’s a crowd.”

  Both of Paris’s brows lifted in patent disbelief. He once more looked from Daphne to Bell and last to Rosamund. Beneath the table, she could feel Bell’s legs bouncing with nervous energy. She scrambled for another line of conversation, anything to keep the secret of the rescued kitten. “Your sisters told me you had a meeting this morning, Mr. Burke. It went well, I hope?”

  “Unexpectedly so.” His feverishly bright gaze pierced her, unblunted by the awkward angle between them. Was the meeting, or its subject, the cause of his strange energy? “Rather exciting stuff, if I do say so myself. A case of possible smuggling at—”

  Daphne rolled her eyes. “That’s done it, Miss Gorse. Both he and Papa will talk about their cases for hours if you’ll let them. It’s always exciting and interesting and—”

  “Forgive me,” he said, looking anything but chastened. “I am prone to forget that everyone does not share my fascination with the law. Dare I hope you do, Miss Gorse?”

  A trap, surely. And she was teetering on the brink. If she blinked, drew breath, she would topple headlong into it. Did he suspect that she
had deliberately sought out a man of his profession? Worse, did he know that she was fascinated by him?

  Leaning back from the table as if from a precipice, she lifted her napkin from her lap and folded it beside her plate. “I have had no occasion to be involved with legal matters, Mr. Burke. Thankfully, I suppose most would say.”

  “Regrettably,” he countered with an expression just shy of wicked.

  She made herself look away. “If you’re quite finished, girls, we ought to excuse ourselves.”

  It would not have surprised her in the least to learn that in the Burke household, the ladies lingered at table with the gentlemen. It would hardly have surprised her even to be told that they all, from youngest to oldest, took port together. But whatever their previous custom, the girls scrambled to their feet now, tired of dancing around the subject of how their day had been spent and eager to check on the kitten. “Yes, Miss.”

  Paris stood too. “You’ll join me for tea, I hope, Miss Gorse? After the girls are in bed?”

  Swallowing against temptation, she curtsied. “A generous offer, sir. Thank you. But I believe it would be best if I retired.”

  As they neared the top of the house, they could hear the kitten mewing piteously. Daphne and Bell hiked their skirts to their knees and raced up the remaining stairs. Rosamund stumbled to follow them. In the girls’ bedroom, they found the little ball of fluff hanging from the curtain that covered their dressing area, unable to free itself to either climb higher or descend.

  Daphne rushed to unhook its tiny, translucent claws, then gathered the complaining creature to her chest. “Oh, poor thing. You’re all right now.”

  “I’ve been thinking. I want to call her Eileen.” Bell touched the soft fur, no longer gray, but silvery white after a thorough but careful wash with a rough scrap of cloth Molly had sacrificed for the purpose, dipped in a pan of warm water. “It means bright.”

  “But we don’t even know it’s a girl,” Rosamund observed.

  Bell frowned, unconvinced, and scooped the kitten from her sister’s hands. “What else would she be?”