Page 23 of The Lady’s Deception

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?”

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.”