The Lady's Deception

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by Susanna Craig


  A door slammed in the entry hall, followed by the stomping of boots. His father and brother-in-law returning from their expedition into the village, no doubt.

  Gabriel’s voice rang out: “You’ll never guess what I found in the snow.”

  “Hold that thought, my dear,” Paris murmured, brushing a kiss across her lips as he rose.

  When he reached the threshold of the study, he stopped short, not quite believing his eyes.

  “Galen?”

  His brother turned and hurried toward him, his gait stiff, but no longer requiring the aid of a walking stick. “Paris! I thought to surprise you. But I’m the one who got the surprise. How came everyone to be here?”

  After Paris had explained, he said, “I thought you and your Christ Church friends were celebrating the holiday in Bath?”

  “Oh, well. Don’t I see enough of Lambert during the term?” Galen shrugged, indicating that the change in plans was of little consequence, though the slight rise and fall of his shoulders wasn’t entirely convincing. “Hugh Pritchard declared there was bound to be better sport in London and managed to find a sleigh, of all things. I persuaded him to drop me off along the way.”

  “Your decision to come away from Bath wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr. Lambert’s sister, would it?” asked Rosamund, slipping her hand into Paris’s.

  “Rosamund,” cried Galen, ignoring her question but coming forward to kiss her cheek. “Are you well?”

  Her blue eyes twinkled. “I’m—”

  “Did I hear Galen’s voice?” Erica raced down the stairs, Tristan following at a more sedate pace with Arthur in his arms. The middle Burke siblings wrapped one another in a hug, Erica’s brilliant copper curls tangling with her younger brother’s mop of darker red-brown ones.

  As Cami had predicted, there were no more quiet hours to be had that day. Daphne and Bell were the next to discover Galen’s arrival, quickly claiming him for their side in the great snowball war. Then an hour or so later, not perfectly thawed and still replaying the highs and lows of battle, all but the very youngest members of the party seated themselves around a groaning table. Their appetites whetted by the exercise, they fell quickly on the repast, though full mouths did little to mute the constant hum—no, roar—of conversation.

  When Paris at last pushed his plate away, marveling over the fact that the true feast was not until tomorrow, Galen leaned toward him. “I have something for you.”

  He’d kept his voice low, but not low enough to prevent a number of heads from swiveling in their direction as he reached beneath the table and brought out a small wrapped package.

  “What’s this?” said Paris, taking it from him. “A book?”

  “Open it.”

  He peeled away the heavy paper to reveal a slim duodecimo volume, neatly bound in tooled green leather. Flipping to the title page, he read aloud, “Poems, from the Pen of a Gentleman and a Patriot, inspired by a Celtic Muse.”

  “Yours, Galen?” demanded Cami, craning her neck to see.

  Their brother blushed. “It’s not much, compared to what Cami’s accomplished. Or Erica, getting to name her discovery and present her findings to the Royal Society,” he demurred. “But the early reviews are heartening.” Proud siblings and prouder parents gathered around, dismissing his attempt at modesty and offering congratulatory hugs and back slaps and shouts. “I’ve got copies for all of you in my bag,” he explained. “But I wanted Paris to have the first, because he—”

  Doubted. Complained. Criticized. Reflexively, Paris shook his head. He’d been too hard on Galen when they were younger, too caught up in his own troubles to be all that an elder brother should.

  “Because he makes me proud to be an Irishman,” Galen finished.

  Something like quiet fell for just a moment, as Paris tried and failed to get words around the lump in his throat. Proud? Cami, whose novels were busily reshaping English opinion of their homeland, nodded her agreement with their brother’s claim.

  Perhaps there were many ways of being a patriot.

  While the book of poetry was being handed around the table, Erica wandered to the window and looked out. “It’s snowing again.” Though it would delay their homeward journey even longer, he fancied she didn’t sound disappointed.

  Their mother, however, sighed. “Oh, dear. I was looking forward to attending the midnight service at that charming little church in the village.”

  “It isn’t far,” insisted Gabriel. “After this marvelous dinner, I daresay a brisk walk would do us all good.”

  Murmurs rose and fell as everyone debated the matter, the depth of the snow, the length of the vicar’s sermons. For himself, Paris could not imagine a more fitting celebration of the season’s deeper meaning than this moment, this place, shared with everyone he held dear. His eyes sought and found Rosamund at the foot of the table. “Well, Mrs. Burke. Will we brave it?”

  She laid aside her napkin. For the first time, he saw that her plate had hardly been touched. “No, I don’t think so. You may go if you wish, of course, Mr. Burke. But as I’ve been trying to tell you all for hours…” Her gaze was clear, steady. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  * * * *

  Paris had no idea how much time had passed when he was finally allowed to enter his own bedchamber. The local midwife had been trapped in a neighboring village by the storm, and Tavisham hadn’t so much as an apothecary. But his mother and Cami, with their usual calm, matter-of-fact manner, had managed the situation admirably, while the rest of the family had taken it in turns to keep him from wearing a path through the rug on the study floor.

  The large window overlooking the back of the house glowed with the luminous darkness of a snowy night. By that curious light, he could just make out Rosamund’s shape in the bed, and the tiny bundle in her arms. For a long moment, he did not speak, not wishing to disturb them if they slept.

  “What’s that in your hand?” Rosamund’s voice sounded tired, but not weak.

  He managed to tear his eyes from her long enough to glance down at the crumpled sheet of paper he held. Laughter tickled in his chest. “Daphne and Bell’s list of names.” Slowly he moved toward her. The paper drifted to the floor. “But I confess I’m more interested in what you’ve got in your hands. Are you going to keep me in suspense?” Cam had told him only that mother and baby were well.

  At this distance, he could see Rosamund more clearly, a long golden braid hanging over one shoulder, stray hairs curling damply around her face. A soft smile curved her lips. “Your daughter.” He would have sworn that his heart flipped in his chest. She nodded for him to sit on the edge of the bed, then reached out to lay the baby in his arms. Not a moment’s hesitation, not a hint of doubt. His wife’s unwavering faith in him would never cease to amaze.

  When her own hands were free, she gently arranged the blanket around the tiny, wrinkled face. “Holly, meet your papa.” The baby stirred but did not wake, content to sleep in the safety of her father’s arms.

  “Holly,” he repeated. A fitting name for the newest addition to the botanically-inclined Burke family, certainly. And a fitting name for the daughter of his Rosamund: strong and beautiful and just a little bit prickly.

  “It’s perfect,” he whispered, carefully leaning forward to press his lips to Rosamund’s forehead. “She’s perfect. Our perfect Christmas gift.”

  Author’s Note

  The hero of this story was inspired by a single line in the “history” section of the Bar of Ireland’s website. In the late eighteenth century, “A good barrister was considered a major catch – and many women attended the Four Courts hoping to catch a glimpse of their heroes in action.” It wasn’t difficult to picture the sort of man who would have attracted those ladies’ attention. Because the leaders of the United Irishmen and the bloody and doomed 1798 Rebellion were drawn from the ranks of the Irish Bar (Theobald Wolfe Tone
among them), I knew such a man would likely have had strong political opinions, as well as intimate knowledge of violence, trauma, disappointment, and condemnation. Thus, Paris Burke was born.

  He’s introduced in his sister Camellia’s book, The Companion’s Secret. Paris disapproves of the conciliatory politics in the novel his sister has written, which I modeled after Sydney Owenson’s The Wild Irish Girl (1806), a so-called “national tale.” These stories used the metaphor of marriage to explore the limits and possibilities of the 1800 Act of Union between Ireland and Great Britain. Typically, an Irish heroine teaches an English hero about her homeland, and he comes to love her (and Ireland) in the process of getting his education. Paris, of course, finds himself in the inverse plot: an Irishman who falls in love with an Englishwoman. (Such a variation was rare; sometimes heroes don’t know what’s good for them.) I borrowed the notion of the heroine keeping a “pet Irishman” from another Owenson novel, O’Donnel.

  Oh, and if you, like Rosamund, wondered about the botanical meaning of his name, you shouldn’t be surprised to learn that it refers most commonly to the Paris quadrifolia, or “true lover’s knot,” frequently incorporated into Celtic symbolism.

  Don’t miss the rest of the adventures of

  The Burke Family in

  THE COMPANION’S SECRET

  and

  THE DUKE’S SUSPICION

  Available now from

  Susanna Craig

  and

  Lyrical Books

  About the Author

  Photo credit: Vicky Lea Hueit Photography

  A love affair with historical romances led Susanna Craig to a degree (okay, three degrees) in literature and a career as an English professor. When she’s not teaching or writing academic essays about Jane Austen and her contemporaries, she enjoys putting her fascination with words and knowledge of the period to better use: writing Regency-era romances she hopes readers will find both smart and sexy. She makes her home among the rolling hills of Kentucky horse country, along with her historian husband, their unstoppable little girl, and a genuinely grumpy cat. Find her online at www.susannacraig.com.

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