The Lady's Deception

by Susanna Craig

  The castle’s massive door, oak studded with iron, swung inward seemingly of its own volition. As a result, he entered the castle unable quite to free his mind of Mary Fagan’s haunting tale. The eerie effect was exacerbated by the condition of the entry hall, where little had been done to bring things into the present century. Tattered tapestries lined damp stone walls and the skeletal head and antlers of an Irish elk hung over an outsized hearth, giving the impression he had stepped into Ireland’s past.

  While the servant who’d opened the door took the earl’s riding whip and gloves, the girl from the dog cart skipped into the hall, humming an unfamiliar tune. A few steps behind her came the other man, the brother of Lord Dashfort’s intended, he supposed.

  “Was there any post, Lord Setterby?” she paused to ask him. “Any news of your sister?”

  Clearly annoyed by the question, Setterby gave only a brusque shake of his head.

  To Paris’s surprise, the girl turned to him next. “It’s the strangest tale, Mr. Trenton. Several nights ago, Lord Setterby’s sister—why I suppose you would say she took ill. Alexander and I saw her, right before she wandered out of the castle after dark.” Something more than mischief flickered in the girl’s eyes. “I think the ghost must’ve got her. Kilready is ever so haunted.”

  Though she smiled as she spoke, her demeanor chilled him. “I, er, I had heard that, yes,” he managed to reply.

  “You’re Irish.” Setterby spat the word like a mouthful of a bad vintage.

  Well, Paris had not expected to continue to be mistaken for an Englishman here. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “From Dublin, sir.”

  Dashfort turned and once more looked him up and down. “I was not aware the surveying party included any Irishmen.”

  “Almost a week,” the girl continued pensively, oblivious to the men’s voices. “I do hope nothing terrible has happened to her.”

  “Enough, Lady Eugenia,” snapped Setterby.

  The boy, Alexander, entered the hall at last. “Were you speaking of Miss Gorse?”

  Miss Gorse?

  Paris would have given a great deal to have been able to recall the sharp intake of breath that escaped him at the sound of that name.

  Dashfort, thankfully, appeared not to have heard it. But Setterby fixed him with assessing eyes. Blue eyes, familiar in their striking shade. But far, far colder. “Is that name known to you, Trenton?”

  Years of courtroom experience aided his attempt to maintain a cool façade in the face of the unexpected. “Only as a common shrub, my lord. Prickly. With yellow flowers, I believe.”

  Beneath that calm surface, scattered thoughts galloped through his head at a pace his borrowed horse could never hope to match. Rosamund had come from Kilready Castle? He no longer wondered at the state of her dress, her shoes, her very being. No surprise she had fainted at the end of that journey. Why, it had to be nearly twenty miles! What could have—?

  But he knew the answer. The man responsible for her plight stood before him now. Or rather the men responsible, he amended silently, recalling his suspicions about her brother.

  He could still hear Rosamund’s trembling explanation of why she had left her previous “situation,” as she’d called it. There had been two children, of an age with Daphne and Bell, she’d told him. Alexander and Eugenia, of course. Whose father had imagined himself entitled to certain liberties…

  Paris crossed his hands behind his back, rather than trust himself not to grab Dashfort by the cravat and drive a fist into his face. A serving girl in a starched white cap—Mary Fagan’s handiwork, he supposed—appeared before him. “Shall I take you to Mr. Quin, sir?”

  Setterby continued to keep Paris pinned with a watchful gaze. He could not decide whether the man was satisfied by his reply—or rather, whether he believed it. Satisfaction was clearly not on order.

  Dashfort, however, waved a dismissive hand, and Paris quickly attached himself to the maid to lead him from the room. As they walked along an open corridor that ran along the courtyard, he stopped and patted his coat. “Oh dear, I’ve left some important paperwork in my gig.” A flicker of annoyance crossed the girl’s face at the delay. Doubtless she had been called away from more important tasks. “If you’ll just tell me which way I should go, I’m sure I can find Mr. Quin’s office,” he told her.

  Once she’d pointed out the way, she hurried off in the opposite direction, leaving him alone. Quickly, he made his way to the stables, only to discover that some remarkably efficient groom had thought to unhitch his gig from the winded jade. The time it would take to make the horse ready would be more than enough time for Setterby’s suspicions to form themselves into actions.

  Setterby. The man’s mount, a black stallion with a distinctive white blaze, stamped impatiently in a nearby stall, pricking its ears forward with interest. Still fresh; it would take more than a morning ride to wear out such a fine piece of horseflesh. And still saddled. Could Paris turn the stable hand’s mistake to his advantage?

  Offering a muttered and entirely made-up explanation to a nearby groom, he unlatched the door to the beast’s stall and led him to a mounting block. Horse theft. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up swinging at the end of a rope beside Tommy Fagan. Nevertheless, before any protest could be raised, he hoisted himself into the saddle and was gone in a thunder of hooves.

  He reached Merrion Square as afternoon turned to evening, having stopped at a posting inn to trade Setterby’s horse for one less recognizable but also less swift. Fatigue dragged at his heels as he dismounted, tempering his relief. He’d made innumerable missteps. Lost his way. Perhaps even given himself up for lost. Now, however, Rosamund needed his help. His protection.

  Was he capable of offering her anything at all worth having?

  Much to his surprise, Molly met him at the door. “Thank God you’ve come home, Mr. Paris,” she said, taking the hat he thrust into her outstretched hand.

  “Where’s Miss Gorse?” he demanded, making no attempt at pleasantries.

  “Gone.”

  The word was a quick stab, a deceptively shallow wound. The sort one attempted to shake off as an inconsequential scratch. “Oh. I see.” Of course she’d gone. He’d behaved very little better than Dashfort.

  Well, perhaps the best thing to do now was to let her go. Find some way to forget. He pulled off his gloves, thrust them in the pocket of his greatcoat. “Did she—did she happen to leave any message?” Curse that tiny flicker of hope. He waited for Molly to speak again, to drive the knife deeper, to gouge out that cursed optimism and replace it with pain.

  “I was in the kitchen with the girls when it happened. Fetchin’ the tea tray. But Cook hadn’t put the kettle on, you see. We had to wait for it to boil…” The pace of her tale reminded him of nothing so much as the wretched cart-horse he’d hired. “By the time we came upstairs again Miss Gorse had…well, she’d disappeared. No note,” she said at last. “Nothin’ at all.”

  Disappeared. Like Kilready’s ghost. With a quick nod, Paris stepped past her. Rosamund had already proved herself a courageous, resourceful woman. How foolish of him to imagine she might need his help. And in any case, Molly’s words were a timely reminder that he had Tommy’s defense to mount, important work to be done. Amends to make. Revenge to take.

  But first, perhaps, a drink…

  His foot was on the stair when she spoke again. “Mr. Burke?”

  The appellation settled over him, bearing with it the weight of responsibility and other qualities that were no part of him—not within this house, at any rate. He could not recall Molly ever addressing him as Mr. Burke before, not even in jest. And this was no joke. Her face, he saw with sudden alarm as he turned toward her, was creased with dread, aged ten years in a matter of days.

  “What is it, Molly? Is there something else?”

  “It’s the girls…”

 
Oh, God. He hadn’t even considered his sisters’ devastation. One more loss for them to face.

  “They figured out right quick that Miss Gorse had gone,” Molly said. “Bell had tears in her eyes, as you might figure. But Daphne…” She shook her head; for the first time in his memory Molly was at a loss for words. “I told them like as not she’d only stepped into the park for a breath of air, though I knew in my heart it weren’t so. I told them I’d go and have a look myself. When I went out, they were in the drawing room, playin’ with that kitten an’ drinkin’ their tea. I swear I no more than took a turn around the square. When I came back, not a quarter of an hour later…” She was twisting his hat around and around in her hands, mangling the brim, refusing to meet his eye.

  “Molly?” This sudden transformation was not the work of days, he realized, but the terror of an hour, or even less.

  At last she lifted her face. “When I came back, the girls had gone too.”

  Chapter 15

  With money she could ill afford to spend, Rosamund paid for a private cabin on the Claremont packet, bound for Holyhead. She had to have some place to hide during this, the most dangerous leg of her journey. Dangerous because she would have no way to slip from her pursuers’ grasp during the crossing, unless she chose to dive into the Irish Sea.

  The cabin to which she was directed was considerably smaller than the one she had occupied on the voyage going the other way. Then, of course, she’d shared the space with a lady’s maid, one hired expressly for the journey. Mrs. Sloane had refused to travel into the “savage kingdom,” as she called it, and much to Rosamund’s surprise, Charles had quickly dismissed the woman. Now, she better understood his decision. He had wanted her to have no familiar face but his own to turn to. No friend. Why, he’d even gone so far as to send the new maid on her way the moment they’d arrived at Kilready, lest she had developed some bond with Rosamund in the week they’d known one another.

  One quick glance took in the entire cabin. The narrow bed was attached to one wall, with space beneath for her trunk, if she’d brought one. On the opposite wall stood a washstand and a chair, both fixed to the floor. If she’d tried, she might have been able to touch both walls at once.

  But she didn’t try. In truth, she didn’t mind the tight space. It felt…secure, a stay against the wide world. A world in which Charles could be anywhere, watching her. A world in which she had nothing to her name but eleven shillings and sixpence, tied in a stolen handkerchief she treasured because it had belonged to Paris.

  A wave of nausea washed over her and she sank onto the floor. Not seasickness. Not yet, anyway. They weren’t under sail. She might instead have blamed the harbor stench, an unpleasant brew of salt, rotting fish, and tar. But the truth was, she was sick with fear. Until this moment, she had not dared to let herself think beyond the simple imperative of getting away from the place to which she would so easily be traced. Now, however, she had to face the enormity of her decision. Everything she had left behind. The uncertainty of her future. What would become of her once she was back on British soil?

  Fighting the temptation to crawl beneath the bed and hide like a child, she instead drew her knees up to her chest and let her cheek rest upon them. She was weary, that was all. Wearied by the long walk from Merrion Square to the docks at Dunleary. If she rested for a bit, perhaps all would become clear to her. Perhaps… Her eyelids drooped and she began to drift into sleep. Why, perhaps she could become a governess in earnest…

  A sharp rap on the cabin door roused her from something that had not yet chosen between dream and nightmare. She’d been in her bed in the Burke household. Paris had just gone from the room. The heat of his lips had not yet left hers. Now he was knocking to be let in again. To chide her further? To dismiss her? To kiss her again?

  Would she open the door, or tell him to go away?

  Her heart pounding, she managed to shake off the clutches of drowsiness and struggled to her feet, only to find the ship still steady beneath them. But the captain himself, praising the good weather and fine wind, had promised her they would set sail for Wales as soon as possible. The cabin had no window to tell her whether it was still afternoon or had turned to nightfall. No way of knowing whether she had slept soundly for an hour or merely dozed for a moment. Had there been some delay? Had Charles found her already, persuaded the captain to tarry at anchor until he could drag her ashore?

  Bang-bang-bang. The thin door rattled beneath a second application of someone’s knuckles. The person on the other side was unlikely to believe the cabin empty and go away if she did not answer. Refusing to let herself dwell in dreams, she drew back the bolt.

  With a flick of the latch, the door swung wide to reveal the first lieutenant, smart in his uniform, a stern sort of frown etched between his brows. And next to him, one on either side, stood Daphne and Bell.

  “Would you happen to know anything about these stowaways, ma’am? They claimed to be looking for a lady who answered your description. But these Irish urchins are notorious liars—I figure they saw you come aboard and concocted the tale on the spot.”

  “No,” she breathed, the sound hardly forming a word at all. Nevertheless, the lieutenant took it for her answer. A denial. The girls winced as he tightened his grip on their shoulders, preparing to take them away.

  “No,” she repeated, her voice stronger. “They’re not urchins.” Though they were remarkably filthy and tattered. What must they have endured trying to find her, to follow her? “I know them. Oh, girls—why?”

  The ship gave a great lurch.

  “No,” Rosamund said a third time. “They mustn’t stay—”

  But too late. The Claremont had cast off anchor and was finally underway.

  The motion tossed the girls into the tiny cabin, overfilling it. While they clutched her around the waist and sobbed out an unintelligible explanation for their presence, Rosamund fished in her makeshift purse for coins to pay their passage, assuring the lieutenant that they would all make do in the crowded space. For what choice did they have? She certainly could not afford a larger one.

  The girls continued incoherent until she managed to extract herself from their grasp and sink down to meet them at eye level. “Why—?” Why did you follow me? she had intended to demand.

  But Bell spoke over her. “Why did you leave us?”

  “Because I had to.” She would keep her voice firm. She would not be moved to tears at the sight of theirs. “I was sorry to do it, but I—”

  “You promised you would not go without saying goodbye.”

  “She lied,” said Daphne simply. Rosamund realized the elder girl had already swiped her tears away and schooled her expression into indifference. “Just like Paris.”

  “No, not just like Par—like your brother. Who, by the way, will be frantic when he discovers you gone.” Would he imagine she’d led his sisters astray? Or worse? “Does Molly know?”

  Daphne merely looked away. Bell shook her head. “She wouldn’t have let us out of her sight if she’d suspected what we were up to.”

  No, no, no. He would come after them, of course. Would her brother and Lord Dashfort accompany him? “There wasn’t time to explain. I received distressing news and I had to get right away. I have to—to go home.” Except she hadn’t any home. Oh, God.

  She sank back onto her heels. She was in danger of sliding all the way down to the floor and curling into a ball once more, but a sound stopped her. The tiniest, feeblest cry. Not the girls. Not even human.

  “Surely you didn’t—?” Her frantic gaze found a small basket clutched in Bell’s grasp, unnoticed until that moment. Before she could finish her question, the basket shook, seemingly of its own volition, and its lid lifted just enough to give a glimpse of Eileen’s pink nose and silvery whiskers.

  Absurd, really. Laughable. So why were there tears coursing down Rosamund’s face?

  Curiou
sly, the sight of her tears seemed to marshal the girls into action. Bell fished the kitten from the basket and held it out to Rosamund as a source of comfort. Daphne, always ready to demonstrate her status as the commonsensical elder sister, urged her into the chair and began to fan her face with her hand.

  By the time some lower member of the ship’s crew came about with water for the washstand and some very dry biscuits with tea, the three of them were piled in a giggling heap on the bed, using the ribbons of Rosamund’s new bonnet to urge the kitten to chase and pounce.

  “I’m sorry,” she told the girls earnestly as she dipped Paris’s handkerchief into the water to wipe their faces and hands. Her nonexistent linens were packed away in her nonexistent trunk. Thankfully, she no longer needed the handkerchief to hold her money; the two remaining coins fit perfectly well in the toe of her shoe. “I’m sorry I left without explaining why I had to go. I was—” But why hide it? People hid everything of value from children. “I was frightened.”

  “Of what, Miss Gorse?” Bell asked, trying to work out how to eat the hard biscuit with two missing teeth and another that was loose.

  Rosamund shook her head. That she couldn’t explain. She would not speak ill of their brother in front of them. She would give them no cause to imagine that any brother could be the cause of a sister’s fear.

  “People do remarkably silly things when they’re frightened,” remarked Daphne. She sat beside her sister on the edge of the bed with her feet dangling. Now and then, she swung them, forgetting perhaps her determination to be disapproving.

  “Yes,” Rosamund agreed. “Like running away without leaving a note.”

  “Or packing a bag,” Daphne countered.

  “Or packing a kitten instead!” chimed Bell.

  More laughter. It held the hysteria at bay, but only just.

  Thankfully the Irish Sea was not in a mood to dance one of its characteristic jigs. The Claremont sailed along smoothly, and neither Rosamund nor the girls showed any sign of seasickness.