Page 41 of The Lady’s Deception

Paris would have given a great deal to have been able to recall the sharp intake of breath that escaped him at the sound of that name.

Dashfort, thankfully, appeared not to have heard it. But Setterby fixed him with assessing eyes. Blue eyes, familiar in their striking shade. But far, far colder. “Is that name known to you, Trenton?”

Years of courtroom experience aided his attempt to maintain a cool façade in the face of the unexpected. “Only as a common shrub, my lord. Prickly. With yellow flowers, I believe.”

Beneath that calm surface, scattered thoughts galloped through his head at a pace his borrowed horse could never hope to match. Rosamund had come from Kilready Castle? He no longer wondered at the state of her dress, her shoes, her very being. No surprise she had fainted at the end of that journey. Why, it had to be nearly twenty miles! What could have—?

But he knew the answer. The man responsible for her plight stood before him now. Or rather the men responsible, he amended silently, recalling his suspicions about her brother.

He could still hear Rosamund’s trembling explanation of why she had left her previous “situation,” as she’d called it. There had been two children, of an age with Daphne and Bell, she’d told him. Alexander and Eugenia, of course. Whose father had imagined himself entitled to certain liberties…

Paris crossed his hands behind his back, rather than trust himself not to grab Dashfort by the cravat and drive a fist into his face. A serving girl in a starched white cap—Mary Fagan’s handiwork, he supposed—appeared before him. “Shall I take you to Mr. Quin, sir?”

Setterby continued to keep Paris pinned with a watchful gaze. He could not decide whether the man was satisfied by his reply—or rather, whether he believed it. Satisfaction was clearly not on order.

Dashfort, however, waved a dismissive hand, and Paris quickly attached himself to the maid to lead him from the room. As they walked along an open corridor that ran along the courtyard, he stopped and patted his coat. “Oh dear, I’ve left some important paperwork in my gig.” A flicker of annoyance crossed the girl’s face at the delay. Doubtless she had been called away from more important tasks. “If you’ll just tell me which way I should go, I’m sure I can find Mr. Quin’s office,” he told her.

Once she’d pointed out the way, she hurried off in the opposite direction, leaving him alone. Quickly, he made his way to the stables, only to discover that some remarkably efficient groom had thought to unhitch his gig from the winded jade. The time it would take to make the horse ready would be more than enough time for Setterby’s suspicions to form themselves into actions.

Setterby. The man’s mount, a black stallion with a distinctive white blaze, stamped impatiently in a nearby stall, pricking its ears forward with interest. Still fresh; it would take more than a morning ride to wear out such a fine piece of horseflesh. And still saddled. Could Paris turn the stable hand’s mistake to his advantage?

Offering a muttered and entirely made-up explanation to a nearby groom, he unlatched the door to the beast’s stall and led him to a mounting block. Horse theft. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up swinging at the end of a rope beside Tommy Fagan. Nevertheless, before any protest could be raised, he hoisted himself into the saddle and was gone in a thunder of hooves.

He reached Merrion Square as afternoon turned to evening, having stopped at a posting inn to trade Setterby’s horse for one less recognizable but also less swift. Fatigue dragged at his heels as he dismounted, tempering his relief. He’d made innumerable missteps. Lost his way. Perhaps even given himself up for lost. Now, however, Rosamund needed his help. His protection.

Was he capable of offering her anything at all worth having?

Much to his surprise, Molly met him at the door. “Thank God you’ve come home, Mr. Paris,” she said, taking the hat he thrust into her outstretched hand.

“Where’s Miss Gorse?” he demanded, making no attempt at pleasantries.

“Gone.”

The word was a quick stab, a deceptively shallow wound. The sort one attempted to shake off as an inconsequential scratch. “Oh. I see.” Of course she’d gone. He’d behaved very little better than Dashfort.

Well, perhaps the best thing to do now was to let her go. Find some way to forget. He pulled off his gloves, thrust them in the pocket of his greatcoat. “Did she—did she happen to leave any message?” Curse that tiny flicker of hope. He waited for Molly to speak again, to drive the knife deeper, to gouge out that cursed optimism and replace it with pain.

“I was in the kitchen with the girls when it happened. Fetchin’ the tea tray. But Cook hadn’t put the kettle on, you see. We had to wait for it to boil…” The pace of her tale reminded him of nothing so much as the wretched cart-horse he’d hired. “By the time we came upstairs again Miss Gorse had…well, she’d disappeared. No note,” she said at last. “Nothin’ at all.”

Disappeared. Like Kilready’s ghost. With a quick nod, Paris stepped past her. Rosamund had already proved herself a courageous, resourceful woman. How foolish of him to imagine she might need his help. And in any case, Molly’s words were a timely reminder that he had Tommy’s defense to mount, important work to be done. Amends to make. Revenge to take.

But first, perhaps, a drink…

His foot was on the stair when she spoke again. “Mr. Burke?”

The appellation settled over him, bearing with it the weight of responsibility and other qualities that were no part of him—not within this house, at any rate. He could not recall Molly ever addressing him as Mr. Burke before, not even in jest. And this was no joke. Her face, he saw with sudden alarm as he turned toward her, was creased with dread, aged ten years in a matter of days.

“What is it, Molly? Is there something else?”

“It’s the girls…”

Oh, God. He hadn’t even considered his sisters’ devastation. One more loss for them to face.

“They figured out right quick that Miss Gorse had gone,” Molly said. “Bell had tears in her eyes, as you might figure. But Daphne…” She shook her head; for the first time in his memory Molly was at a loss for words. “I told them like as not she’d only stepped into the park for a breath of air, though I knew in my heart it weren’t so. I told them I’d go and have a look myself. When I went out, they were in the drawing room, playin’ with that kitten an’ drinkin’ their tea. I swear I no more than took a turn around the square. When I came back, not a quarter of an hour later…” She was twisting his hat around and around in her hands, mangling the brim, refusing to meet his eye.

“Molly?” This sudden transformation was not the work of days, he realized, but the terror of an hour, or even less.

At last she lifted her face. “When I came back, the girls had gone too.”