Page 35 of The Lady’s Deception

“You did, Molly. You did indeed.”

The arrival of these items required another fashion show. The shoes fit almost perfectly—how on earth had he managed that? The hat was trimmed with pink roses and blue ribbon a shade lighter than her dress. Almost the color of her eyes. It was difficult not to conclude that he’d chosen it specifically with her in mind.

The hat’s shape made it necessary to rearrange her hair. As she took it down and prepared to pin it up again, Bell gasped. “Your bruise, miss. It’s almost gone.”

Automatically, the fingertips of her right hand went to her temple. Had she really been here as long as that? “Why, I’d almost forgotten about it,” she murmured, though of course, she hadn’t. She was still dwelling too often on the feel of Paris’s arm about her waist as he’d helped her up the stairs afterward, the look of concern in his dark eyes as he’d examined the injury.

Once the bonnet was in place, Bell tied an uneven bow beneath Rosamund’s left ear, and the others both admired it. When she reached up to remove the hat again, Daphne shook her head. “Oh, please, Miss Gorse. It’s so pretty. Won’t you leave it on for just a little longer?”

The clock behind her cleared its throat and prepared to strike four. At the sound, she jumped and worry flitted into the girls’ eyes. The better part of another day gone and still no sign of Paris.

“You must fancy a cup of tea, miss,” said Molly. “Come, girls. You can help me put together a tray. Perhaps Cook will have baked something special…if that kitten hasn’t been after causin’ too much trouble downstairs.”

Over the tops of their heads, Rosamund mouthed her thanks to Molly. Molly only shook her head.

When the rumble of footsteps on the staircase had dissipated, the house returned to awful silence. Rosamund plucked out a few notes on the spinet, but it was too dear a reminder of Paris’s half-hearted attempt to play the instrument. So instead she returned to the table to put the pencils in their cases. Absently, she shuffled through the girls’ sketches. Not bad. Not terribly good, either, though Bell showed some promise. Perhaps she took after her sister Erica, whose drawings, she’d been told, lined the walls. Rosamund scanned the framed pictures and realized that what she had at first imagined to be the difference between amateur and professional work was simply a gradual increase in the young woman’s skill. Some, carefully inked and tinted with watercolors, might have come from the pages of the book Paris had given her to help her sleep.

Oh, he was everywhere and nowhere in this room, in this house, and she could not quite decide whether the greater mistake had been kissing him that night, or letting him go.

The rattle of the knocker on the front door made her jump. She waited a moment, but when the visitor knocked again and Molly gave no sign of coming up, she went down to answer it herself.

The gentleman who appeared on the other side of the open door was not Paris, though he shared the same dark hair and eyes. Taller, by a bit. And not half so handsome. “Ah,” he said, looking her up and down. She did not like the feel of his gaze on her. “You must be the new governess.”

Who was this man? And how had he recognized her? Panic fluttered through her chest, then sank through her stomach to lodge in suddenly wobbly knees. She gripped the door handle for support. “May I help you?”

He was still studying her. “You were on your way out, I see. Well, I’ll not keep you. Just tell Burke I’ve come, or I’ll show myself up—” He moved as if to go past her.

“Mr. Burke is not here,” she said, narrowing the opening between the door and its frame to the width of her face. “If you’ll give me your name, I’ll make sure he knows you called.”

“Not here? Never say he’s still at Kilready.”

The cold metal of the door handle bit into her hand as she clutched more firmly to keep herself from fainting. Her fingertips went numb. But she hardly noticed the discomfort, too distracted by the buzz of a single word in her ears. Kilready. Paris had gone to Kilready?

“I should’ve thought half a day there would tell him what he wanted to know,” the man was saying when she could focus her attention on him again. “Well, let us hope he gets the information we need. Oh.” He tipped his hat and smiled at her again. “Tell him Eamon Graves was here.”

Somehow she managed to nod. “Yes, Mr. Graves. I’ll see that he gets the message.”

Another appreciative look. “Enjoy your walk, ma’am.”

She shut the door without answering him. Without even hearing him. Paris had gone to Kilready Castle. He must have discovered, somehow, where she’d come from. And by now Charles and Lord Dashfort must know exactly where she was.

Oh, God.

Her hands rose to her temples, encountered the brim of the new bonnet, and in that instant, her decision was made. As Mr. Graves had so astutely observed, she was already dressed to go out. And go out she must—far away from here.

Stepping lightly, she hurried up the stairs and snatched her pelisse from the heavy old wardrobe. She still had a few of the coins Paris had given her. Was it wrong to take them? Wrong to keep his gifts, keep the new clothes the rest of his money had purchased?

Wrong to leave?

She’d promised the girls she wouldn’t go, and she hated breaking that promise. She also hated to add to poor, overworked Molly’s burden. But she couldn’t possibly stay here and wait for Charles’s arrival. And without any money, she would be right back where she had started. Quickly she gathered the remaining coins and tied them in a handkerchief. The handkerchief Paris had given her that first morning, still grimy from her attempt to clean the window with it. Between her thumb and forefinger she rubbed the rough embroidery of his initials stitched into one corner. By the loving hands of one of his sisters? Probably Bell, as the stitches were a trifle uneven.

After tucking the tiny bundle into the pocket beneath her skirt, she sent one last look around the room. If only there were some way to tell Daphne and Bell how sorry she was. Some way to say goodbye. In the drawing room, of course, were pencils and paper. If she went back there, she might write a note. But she hadn’t a moment to spare if she wanted to get away without being seen.

Well, when Paris returned—if Paris returned—he could explain it to them. The discovery of her duplicity would erase any sorrow the girls or Molly might feel over her abrupt departure.

She reached up one hand to adjust her new bonnet and tried not to think of why Paris had picked it. But it was impossible not to wonder whether he’d chosen a bonnet and a pair of shoes because those were the items that would allow him to send her on her way with a clear conscience. Oh, if he’d been disappointed in her work, shocked by her forward behavior, dismayed by her deception, why couldn’t he have simply dismissed her? He’d had no call to go to Kilready, reveal her whereabouts to Charles, and ruin everything.

Chapter 13