Page 36 of The Lady’s Deception

Paris had deliberately rented the shoddiest gig he could find, so as not to arouse suspicions. But the broken-down jade in its traces had been unintentional insurance. By the time they arrived in the village of Kilready, the gelding was favoring his left hind leg.

“Needs rest,” the blacksmith announced after taking one glance. “Three days, at least.”

Three days? Paris did not think it wise to argue with the burly man, who was evidently also the farrier and, for all he knew, the closest thing Kilready had to a cattle doctor. “Then can you recommend—?”

The blacksmith jerked his chin in the general direction of “up the road.”

“Much obliged.” Heaving his valise from the gig, Paris marched up the narrow track that led into the heart of the village. A dozen or so ramshackle buildings skulked in the shadow of Kilready Castle, perched high on the cliff’s edge in the distance. In the ancient days, the chieftain’s men would have seen invaders coming from miles away. Was that excellent vantage point being put to more nefarious uses now?

He directed his footsteps to the pub. Hanging crookedly above its lintel, a sign proclaimed “Good, Dry Lodgings.” He had his doubts about the accuracy of either adjective, but especially, given the moldering thatch, the latter. His spirits lifted, though, when he noted another hand-lettered sign, higher up and considerably more faded, which identified the establishment as belonging to one “P. Fagan.” Might the proprietor be some relation to the imprisoned boy? Could Paris put the unexpected delay in Kilready to good use?

Once he had entered and spotted the man behind the bar, he understood why the sign was faded. It must have been erected when P. Fagan was young, some sixty or more years ago. The pub was otherwise empty, though evening was coming on.

Despite his wizened stature and bent back, Mr. Fagan’s voice was strong when he called out, “Céad míle fáilte.”

A hundred thousand welcomes, the traditional Irish greeting to a stranger. The words echoed off rough, dingy walls. But Paris needed to be thought of as something other than a stranger if he hoped to get useful—incriminating—information about Dashfort’s involvement in whatever was going on at Kilready.

“Thank you kindly, Mr.—Fagan, is it?” He tried to keep himself from sounding too eager. The man might not be related to Tommy at all. “I was passing through when my horse took lame, and the blacksmith tells me I must trespass on your hospitality for a bit.”

Fagan looked him over, with curiosity rather than hostility. Nevertheless, Paris was glad he had not changed out of the clothes he’d worn to Kilmainham. Anything needlessly fine would attract the sort of attention he’d rather avoid. Something like recognition flickered into the older man’s eyes. “Sure, an’ you must be one of the Englishmen passin’ through to measure up the roads. ’Tis welcome you are to the best room I’ve got.”

What luck! A party of surveyors, of which Paris could pretend to be a member. It would give him a reason to be in the vicinity, and he could explain away his lack of equipment and maps by saying they’d been sent on ahead.

Nevertheless, his first impulse was denial. English surveyors… How could this man mistake a Dublin patriot for an—?

Doubt crept in before the thought could be completed. He was, after all, more than half English by blood. And he’d spent all his life with an English accent in his ear. Had it somehow become his voice too?

Not quite, surely. Oh, he might have picked it up a trace of it from his mother, or any number of Londoners he’d encountered during his time at the Inns of Court. But his mind went first to the voice that had struck him so forcibly a few nights back on the King’s Inns Quay. The one he caught himself listening for at odd hours. And though he knew that Mr. Fagan expected some reply, he could not bring himself to speak.

The barman seemed to sense that his remark had rattled his guest. “No matter, sir, no matter. Englishman or no, we bid ye kindly welcome to Kilready.”

Paris swallowed and forced a single word past his lips. “We?” Despite the empty pub, was the man was extending the greeting on behalf of the people of the village?

“My daughter lives here with me. Will I show you the room, then?”

Conscious suddenly of the shape of every sound that passed his lips, Paris nodded and removed his hat. He was exhausted, though the time spent in that rattletrap gig had contributed only a small share to his fatigue. How long since he’d had a decent night’s sleep? Or at least, one unaided by the stupor of a bottle. Almost a year…

Lately, however, it hadn’t been the old nightmares that kept him wakeful. New dreams had begun to creep into his heart.

Apparently, he had not yet learned how dangerous it was to dream.

The stairs were steep and narrow and led into a low-ceilinged attic. Nothing about the cottage ought to have been familiar. Still less should it have reminded him of the modern comforts of Merrion Square. And yet every creaking step called to mind a certain makeshift schoolroom. And its occupant. Rosamund. The governess who wasn’t a governess at all. Rather than bringing order and system to his home, she’d turned everything even more topsy-turvy.

He ought to be angry at her deception. His first concern upon discovering that he’d be delayed in Kilready ought to have been for his sisters, left longer in her care. Instead, he had wondered whether he would get back to Dublin in time to see her open the packages he’d sent. Would the bonnet he’d chosen please her? Would the blue ribbon match her eyes?

Would she kiss him again to express her thanks?

Just as he shook his head to clear it of such wayward thoughts, Fagan flung open a door and turned to say, “Here we be.” Seeing Paris’s fleeting expression of annoyance, a shadow crossed the old man’s eyes. “Tain’t much, I know. Not for an Englishman…”

“I’m not—” Paris began, then forced himself to break off his confession. It didn’t matter. Not really. He might call himself an Irishman, but he was not Irish in the way the people of Kilready thought of themselves. As far as they were concerned, he might as well be English—he was close enough as to make no difference to them.

Well, with any luck, they would show more interest in an exotic curiosity from that island across the sea than they would in a mere countryman. In the time he was going to be forced to spend here, perhaps they would even offer to educate him, as the Irish characters tried to teach the English ones in his sister Cami’s book. “I’m quite satisfied, Mr. Fagan,” he said, no longer as worried about his voice betraying him. “It’s a fine room.”

No doubt it was the finest room in the cottage, though it was not fine by any of the usual standards for measuring such things. Fagan crossed its entire length in a half-dozen steps and flung open the shutter covering the small, unglazed window in the gable end. The gray light of a dreary afternoon picked out the room’s scant furnishings: a sagging rope bed, a washstand with a chipped basin, a battered chair. Though musty with disuse—there was little in Kilready to attract regular visitors—the room looked clean. Clean enough.

“Shall I fetch you some hot water?” Fagan offered, returning.

At first, Paris did not hear him. After setting his bag on the chair and placing his hat on top of it, he had stepped to window, and his attention had been captured by the sight below. A woman, barefoot and bareheaded, paused in her labors to swipe the back of her hand across her brow, pushing damp, straggling hair away from her face. With the other hand, she pinned a loaded basket to her hip. She was spreading laundry over bushes and hanging it from branches to dry, though the air was cool and heavy with the promise of more rain. The sleeves of her ragged dress were rolled above the elbow, and even at this distance, he could see the pink scars of burns up and down her corded forearms. A strong woman.