Page 3 of The Lady’s Deception

“If your tenants come up to scratch,” Charles sneered.

“They haven’t much choice, have they?” Lord Dashfort’s voice was an odd mixture of anger, desperation, and…guilt?

“From what I’ve seen, they haven’t much of anything. Except, that is, for the wily Mr. Quin.”

“He’s none of your concern,” snapped the earl. “You’ll have your money on Monday, Setterby. And on Tuesday—”

“On Tuesday, Rosamund will be yours to deal with.” A low laugh. “However you see fit.”

Despite herself, she hissed in a sharp breath at his dismissive words. Everyone knew that the first Lady Dashfort had died under suspicious circumstances. She might be Charles’s mere half-sister, but didn’t he care at all for what became of her? Since their father’s will had named him her guardian, she had come to expect Charles’s indifference. But this?

Slowly she backed away from the door. The door with no lock to protect her. And if she didn’t act quickly, she might find herself a prisoner at Kilready Castle, with or without a lock.

Before the echo of Lord Dashfort’s footsteps had entirely faded away, she turned and walked to the armoire. With one finger, she riffled through the dresses hanging there: elegant silks, soft woolens. Time and again Charles had told her he only wanted what was best for her. Like this visit to an old friend in Ireland.

Too far from home for her to resist what he had planned?

Quickly, she removed her nightgown, and slipped into the only dress she owned that did not require a corset or a maid’s assistance. She had been under her brother’s protection for most of her life. Or thought she had. Now, however, she was going to have to find a way to escape it.

Once clad in an airy confection of muslin in the newest style, far more suited to a ballroom than the outing she was about to undertake, she closed the inlaid door of the wardrobe with a snap. The weight of a bag of fine dresses would only hinder her getaway.

But where would she go? A sympathetic clergyman might be persuaded to take her in. Then again, perhaps it was only in novels that such gentlemen provided sanctuary to unfortunate women. She needed someone bold—or reckless—enough to challenge her brother over the matter of his guardianship. After all, she was nearly one and twenty, almost of an age to take responsibility for herself…though she hadn’t the slightest idea how to begin.

So, a lawyer? But she had nothing to offer such a man as compensation for his services. Charles controlled the family purse strings.

Well, she would have to find a way to do without money. If she could make her way to Dublin, surely someone would help her.

In a fit of resolve, she strode to the window. The full moon had risen higher, casting a glow almost as bright as daylight. Far below on the lawn, all was quiet. She let her eyes roam over the stretch of velvety grass and peer into the shadows beneath the shrubbery. Nothing. Not even a tomcat on the prowl. What had she seen?

A servant boy, or some child from the village. She must have imagined the resemblance. But when she tried to call up the unknown boy’s face, even her mind’s eye seemed determined to betray her. She could see only Alexander, or a child enough like him to be his—

Nonsense. Alexander’s only sibling was Eugenia. And Rosamund did not intend to be party to any arrangement that might give him another.

Stretching out her arm, she caught the shutter, jerked it inward, and latched it tight, throwing the chamber into darkness.

Chapter 2

At the knelling of church bells, Paris Burke swore—blasphemy, no doubt, but what did it matter? He was damned already.

He paused in his descent from Constitution Hill to shake the sound from his head. The call to Evensong at Christchurch? Surely not. The waters of the Liffey must be making the bells echo, doubling their peals. It could not possibly be as late as…

He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, tilted its face toward the fading sunlight, and at its confirmation of the hour, swore again.

During the years of his life when he might have offered ample excuses for running late—the combined and sometimes competing demands of the law and his hopes for Ireland’s liberation—only once had he failed to keep an assignation. The disastrous effects of that mistake would haunt him for the rest of his days. Fortunately, the consequences of missing an appointment with Mrs. Fitzhugh were not so dire. Nonetheless, he regretted what it revealed about the kind of man he’d become.

Tucking the watch away, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of King’s Inns—not with longing, precisely. Oh, the dinner in the commons had been good enough, and the wine had flowed freely. Time was, the company alone would have been enough to call him back. The brotherhood of jurisprudence. The discussions, the debates.

Tonight, though, he had felt certain absences too strongly. The faces that could no longer join them. The voices that would never be heard again. No matter how many times he had signaled for his cup to be filled, their ghostly shadows had refused to be dispelled.

For the first time, he was not sorry he’d been forced to give up his lodgings closer to the courts. The walk across the city would help to clear his head. And give him time to concoct some explanation for his lateness, though whatever he produced would do little to blunt the disappointment with which he was bound to be greeted.

He took another half-dozen strides, rounding the corner of Church Street to pass in front of the Four Courts. The last of the daylight cast a jagged chiaroscuro across the ground, the building itself too new for its shadows to have grown familiar to his eyes. From the gloom, something slipped into his path. What sort of claret had they been pouring, that it continued to conjure these spectral apparitions, this one with pale hair and paler skin? He swore a third time.

“You ought to mind your tongue in the presence of a lady,” the wraith said primly, stepping into the light and resolving itself into the perfectly ordinary figure of a blonde woman wearing a pelisse the color of Portland stone.

No, not perfectly ordinary. Perfectly ordinary women did not materialize on the King’s Inns Quay. They did not have hair the color of summer butter, spilling from beneath a ridiculous frippery of a hat that looked a little worse for wear. Nor did they have eyes the color of—well, no sea he had ever had the pleasure to know. With another shake of his head, he stepped closer, finding himself in need of the support of hewn granite.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said, warily watching his every move. Her brows knitted themselves into a tight frown. “A lawyer. You see, I—”