Page 10 of The Lady’s Deception

Paris, however, knew better than to dream such dreams. Just as he knew that his sisters were far better off under someone else’s tutelage and care. Even the sort of governess who seemed more accustomed to giving orders than taking them.

“Did Miss Gorse happen to mention where she last was employed?” he asked.

“Not a word of it to me, sir,” Molly replied as she crossed the threshold.

Nor to him. She’d walked a long way yesterday, that could not be denied. He recalled the sharp contrast between the condition of her clothing and its quality. Not exactly well-suited to the schoolroom, and far better than he would have imagined a governess could afford. Where were the rest of Miss Gorse’s things? Why had she walked so far? Had something driven her from her previous post, and if so, what?

The steady throb in his temples threatened to drown out those questions, despite their importance. He took another fortifying gulp of coffee and resolved to ask them as soon as she came downstairs. Yes, he trusted Mrs. Fitzhugh’s judgment; her employment agency had come highly recommended. But it never hurt to be thorough. Miss Gorse was, after all, quite young.

Not at all what he had been expecting.

Surely he could spare a few moments to look in on the schoolroom now and again. Observe the new governess at work.

For his sisters’ sake. Of course.

Chapter 5

When Rosamund had responded to Mr. Burke’s peremptory summons by naming the hour she would be willing to meet, she had been thinking only of a way to gain time, acting instinctively to avoid a confrontation, or worse, a dismissal. Until she had seen his expression, the sardonic arch to one brow, she had not fully considered how such a retort might be received from a…well, a servant, she supposed. Or as good as.

She had also neglected to consider the problem posed by the lack of a clock.

Well, there was a clock. An ormolu mantel clock shaped like a bird nesting in some otherworldly plant. Broken, like so many other things that had been stuffed into the attic and forgotten for years. Why couldn’t Mr. Burke have forgotten about her, too?

For a moment, she had actually let herself hope that the man had drunk enough last night to make remembering impossible. Though of course if he had, he surely would have stumbled when carrying her up the stairs, and then they would have ended up on the floor, dazed and breathless, their limbs tangled together…

“Do you think my brother handsome, miss?”

“I beg your pardon?” She shot a look at Bell, but could not bring herself to meet the girl’s gaze. She knew she’d been caught staring, once again, at the spot where he had stood. When he had appeared in the doorway, dark eyes narrowed, dark hair mussed, dark beard unshaven, she certainly would not have taken him for a barrister. A highwayman, perhaps.

“All the ladies seem to,” Daphne said. “Some of them even go to the public trials and sit in the gallery, just to ogle him in that silly wig. Can you imagine anything more dull?”

Rosamund reminded herself that her sole interest in Mr. Burke was his legal expertise. Her only concern was freeing herself from her guardian’s authority. “I’m sure his cases are fascinating,” she insisted, not quite sure whether she was defending him or the folly of her own sex. In any case, neither girl looked persuaded by the argument.

“Maybe.” Daphne shrugged. “Anyway, that was mostly before the fighting.”

Rosamund knew very little about what had transpired in Dublin last spring, beyond the London papers’ staunch reassurances that the Irish rebels had been easily routed and a French invasion thwarted. But yesterday’s walk through the compact city had made one thing clear: the upheaval would have been felt here universally.

“Before he joined the Knighted Irishmen,” Bell clarified.

“U-nited,” corrected Daphne, annoyed. She was clearly on the verge of appending the usual eejit, then realized what she’d admitted and slapped her hand over her mouth instead.

Rosamund only narrowly stopped herself from mirroring the gesture. Paris Burke was a member of the United Irishmen? But…but they were radicals. Traitors. Why, if that was true, he ought by rights to be in prison. Or…or dead.

“Everything changed because everyone left,” Daphne explained flatly, glossing over her misstep. “First Cami, then Erica. Now Galen’s gone to Oxford. And I know it’s only right that Mama and Papa wanted to visit all of them, but…”

Rosamund heard worry in Daphne’s voice, more than petulance. “You have one sibling still here.” Odd reassurance from one who knew, better than most, the woes that might befall a girl left alone in the care of her brother. She had no means to measure the strength of the Burke siblings’ bond except by the weakness of her own. Did Mr. Burke treat his sisters poorly? She would not exactly call his behavior toward them warm or loving. Neither had she observed any signs of fear in Daphne and Bell. Then again, even she had not always been afraid…

Daphne shrugged. “Sort of. He’s different now. Too busy.”

“Too angry,” her younger sister interjected in a hesitant whisper.

“In any case, he’s made it clear he didn’t want to be stuck with us.” A challenge flashed in Daphne’s eyes, though it did not entirely mask her hurt. “That’s why he hired you.”

Rosamund let her gaze wander to the window, streaked with grime like everything else. He hadn’t hired her. She hadn’t the faintest notion what she was about. And the girls—

Wait. Was that a clock? On the face of some building in the distance? She reached up to clean a circle on the glass. Yes. Yes, it was. With narrowed eyes she could just make out the time: a quarter of ten. She wiped once more, then realized she was using Mr. Burke’s handkerchief to polish the window. The once-pristine linen was streaked with black.

Balling the handkerchief in her hand, she turned back to her charges and mustered something she hoped would pass for a cheering smile. “Then we’d best get back to work.”