Page 53 of The Lady’s Deception

He shook his head at the sight. “Or as eager to risk their necks.”

Beside him, Rosamund mustered a quiet laugh.

As they approached the center of the village, the girls spotted them. Holding hands, with Eileen tucked securely in the bend of Bell’s free arm, they jumped off the low ledge and came running across the hard packed dirt of the roadway that passed through the little town.

Their impending interruption prompted Rosamund to turn toward him and lift her face to his. The startling blue of her eyes was still marred by clouds of uncertainty, though he knew now the part of herself that she had been hiding behind them. Or thought he did.

“I cannot hope to repay your kindness in bringing me all this way,” she said.

“I could not do otherwise, Miss Gorse.”

“Indeed, you could. Some in your position most certainly would.”

She had known so few kindnesses, his Roisín. He wanted to reach out for her hand, to hold it in his, to share one last time the touch they both craved. But he would have to make do with words. “I do not always do what is right. My mistakes have caused real harm—especially to my family. But I think even Daphne and Bell would be willing to admit I am not so far gone as to abandon a young woman, penniless, hundreds of miles from anyone who could offer real help.”

For a moment, she said nothing in reply. When at last she parted her lips to speak, he was not entirely sure what to expect.

He could not have anticipated what came next.

“Your mistakes…” She seemed to be mulling over the possible meanings of the word. “Your involvement with the United Irishmen, do you mean?”

He managed, only just, to prevent a sharp intake of breath. “That is a matter best not discussed in public, Miss Gorse.” He tried to keep his voice light, relaxed. “Nor in private, to be quite honest. Molly told you, I gather?”

She shook her head. “Daphne and Bell.”

He hadn’t even realized his littlest sisters knew. But then, it had always been nigh on impossible to keep a secret in that house. If his private business had stayed private, Galen would never have found out, would never have gotten involved, would never have…

“Come on, Paris.” Bell grabbed his hand, the one that had started to reach for Rosamund, and began to pull him back in the direction of the inn. “I’m starving.”

“How far are we from London?” demanded Daphne.

“If all goes well, we should be there by teatime.” There would be a great deal of fuss over their arrival. Worry about their health and clothes and whether the kitten had fleas. Already he found himself wishing for an excuse to hold himself apart from it. Perhaps this had all been a dreadful mistake.

“Ooh! Look at that, Miss Gorse.” Daphne pointed toward an elegant equipage thundering into the inn yard, sweat flying from its quartet of prime goers and from the brow of the coachman as well. A crested carriage, he saw when it had slowed enough to be more than a blur of black and gold.

Rosamund’s fingers bit into his upper arm. “No.”

Her whisper ought not to have been audible above the pounding hooves and rattling wheels and jangling harness. But he heard it, nonetheless. Or felt it, perhaps, as if in spite of his best efforts, she’d become a part of him.

With her other hand she snagged Daphne and dragged them all backward, into the meager cover of the trail. “No. Oh no,” she was muttering, her eyes never leaving the carriage.

Even without recognizing the crest on its doors or hearing any explanation from Rosamund, he could guess that the coach held her brother. Confirmation was shortly supplied when Setterby opened the door and descended, followed closely by Dashfort. Rosamund was reduced to a low, anxious moan at the sight of the two men.

“What is it, Miss Gorse? Who are those—?” His arm slipped free from Rosamund’s grasp as his hand shot out to muffle the rest of his sister’s words. Bell’s tiny fingers dug into his other palm and Eileen gave a squeak of protest as the girl clutched her closer.

Despite the spectacle he felt certain the four of them must make, neither Dashfort nor Setterby glanced their way as they strode across the inn yard. How had Setterby found them so quickly? Followed them so precisely? With so little to guide him, how could he possibly—?

The coachman reached behind to toss down a satchel from the roof of the carriage. Similar, but not identical to the one Paris had carried with him to Kilready. The one he had left behind in his hired gig, labeled with a calling card bearing the address of his old Henrietta Street lodgings. From Kilready Castle, it would have been an insignificant detour, a few moments’ diversion, on the way to discovering his family home and the identity of his sisters’ governess.

If not for the unforgiving waters of the Irish Sea, the two men would have found them before now. Thanks entirely to his carelessness.

Frozen in her crouched position, Rosamund watched them through wary, hunted eyes as they disappeared into the inn’s public room. She’d feared just this moment, and Paris had imagined it impossible.

An hostler came from the stables, struggling under the weight of a yoke across his shoulders, bearing buckets of water for Setterby’s horses. They were to be rested, not changed. In other words, there would be no interval in which that carriage would be rendered immobile and he, Rosamund, and his sisters could get away in their own, which stood a few yards away, with fresh horses already hitched.

But Setterby’s coachman was distracted—someone from the inn had brought him a pint—and the postilion had wandered off to water the shrubbery. Now or never. With a sharp look for Daphne, whose wide-eyed nod showed she understood his wordless command, he lifted his hand from her mouth to clasp Rosamund by the elbow and urge her to rise.

She started and turned to look at him in abject terror. Her brother might be to blame for the fear in her eyes. But this? This was Paris’s fault. He’d led Setterby right to her.