Page 55 of The Lady’s Deception

Behind her, she could hear the bustle of the girls clambering out of the carriage, squabbling over who would carry the kitten’s basket, speculating eagerly over what their mother might say about Eileen and whether Cami would allow an animal in the house. The normality of it all brought a small smile to her lips. She cast a furtive glance over one shoulder and saw Paris speaking to the stranger; nothing about his posture indicated that the man was a threat. Perhaps he had been right when he had promised all would be well. Her fingers tingled with the remembered warmth of his touch.

And then she also remembered his determination to return to Dublin at the first opportunity. Perhaps that touch had been his way of saying good-bye.

This time, the violent shudder that rattled through her caused her to stumble on the second to last step. All at once the door opened and the girls rushed past her to enter the house. She might have lost her balance entirely if Paris had not materialized at her side and set one hand under her elbow to keep her on her feet. “No need to be nervous,” he insisted, though his own gaze was fixed on the cavernous entry hall and she thought she heard a note of uncertainty in his voice.

An old and suitably creaky butler bowed them in. “Mr. Burke, I gather. You are expected. I’ll show you upstairs.”

The girls’ voices ricocheted between the marble floors and a high coved ceiling painted with scenes from some mythological battle. Rosamund did not try to sort out which battle. At the moment, the real ones she faced were more than sufficient to occupy her mind.

With Paris’s hand still on her arm, she followed the butler. The girls fell in behind, muttering irritably about the slow pace the man set. They stopped before a tall set of doors, which a footman opened. The butler stepped inside. “Mr. Burke. Miss Gorse. Miss Daphne Burke. And Miss—”

Bell, seeing no need to wait for an introduction to her own family, charged into the room, Eileen’s basket in hand, and was greeted with a deep “Woof!” that seemed to vibrate throughout the house.

“Now, Elf. Behave.” A gentleman’s voice, fairly bursting with amusement. “And you must be Bell. What’s that you’ve got?”

Though she could not yet see into the room, Rosamund could hear Bell’s stammering answer. “A k-kitten. Her name’s Eileen.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps we’d best send Elf down to the garden until proper introductions can be made. Philpot?”

Framed in the doorway, the butler’s shoulders sank. “Yes, my lord.” He disappeared into the room and reemerged with one thin hand on the collar of an English mastiff whose head reached the man’s waist. A less effective stay against the dog’s obvious strength and energy, Rosamund could hardly imagine. The dog snuffed both her and Paris in passing, then thumped obligingly down the staircase, ignoring Daphne who had pressed herself against the wall.

In spite of herself, Rosamund sucked in a little gasp of surprise. But genuine bafflement had settled over Paris’s features, and he muttered, “Cami has a dog?”

“I guess we should show ourselves in, now we’ve been announced,” said Daphne and crossed the threshold.

Paris and Rosamund followed. The drawing room was large and elegantly furnished. Tall windows at front and back, framed by gold draperies, cast late afternoon light across blue and bronze papered walls. But what Rosamund noticed first were the people, a roomful of them, all approaching at once with exclamations of welcome and relief, laughter over the imagined altercation between dog and cat, questions that were fated to go unheard and unanswered. Irish voices and English ones. A flash of startlingly red hair. She hardly knew where to look.

Overwhelming, yes, because so far beyond her experience. And yet the warmth in the room drew her, drove back the chill of fear and loneliness. She wanted to step right into the middle of it, like one stepped into the comfort of a familiar embrace. She would have done, if not for the pressure of Paris’s fingertips just above her elbow.

He was hanging back, everything about him shuttered like a house battened down for a storm. Dread was etched into his face. He seemed to lack the power to take another step, and Rosamund found herself wondering whether he had grasped her hand in the carriage not to reassure her but to seek reassurance.

A woman with dark hair and spectacles struggled to rise from her chair, one hand on a belly swollen with child, and made her way toward them. “You must be Miss Gorse. Welcome to Finch House. I’m—”

“Lady Ashborough.” Paris spoke as if the name belonged to a stranger.

The lady sent him a sharp glance. She shared Paris’s raven hair, but her eyes were a brilliant shade of emerald green. “Camellia,” she finished, turning back to Rosamund. “Paris’s elder sister.”

Rosamund, feeling all the awkwardness of the sibling reunion, blurted out, “I’ve read your book.”

A fashionably-dressed gentleman glided over to their circle. “Many thanks, ma’am. My wife’s eager readers help keep us in dog food.” A wink creased the corner of his eye, and he bowed. “Ashborough, at your service.” When Rosamund rose from her answering curtsy, he held out an arm to her. “Allow me to make the introductions.”

Paris still had not released her. “No time for pleasantries,” he said shortly. His voice cut through the chatter and commanded the room to attention. “This is Miss Gorse.”

“Why’s everyone so interested in our governess?” Bell was standing in the center of the room, showing off Eileen to a woman with flaming red hair streamed down her back, kneeling on the floor before her: her sister Erica, Rosamund could easily guess. The Duchess of Raynham. There was something hoydenish about her—at least, that’s what Mrs. Sloane would have said. Rosamund, having never met either a hoyden or a duchess, liked Erica on sight.

Without lifting her eyes from the kitten, and yet giving the impression she saw a great deal, Erica said, “I don’t think she’s your governess anymore, Bell.”

At those words, Paris abruptly let go of her arm, and the space between them, a few inches at most, felt suddenly vast. “Miss Gorse needs your help.” He laid a curious stress on the word your, as if to exclude himself. His gaze had been traveling the room as he spoke, but something brought him up short. Squaring his shoulders, he gave a crisp nod. “If you’ll excuse me.” Before anyone could reply, he disappeared through the still open door.

“Ordinarily, we pretend Paris improves on acquaintance,” said the duchess. “But you must already know the truth, Miss Gorse.” Rosamund could not keep herself from starting at the remark. Erica gave an exasperated sigh—Rosamund knew, now, where Daphne had learned it. “I suppose someone should go after him,” she said, and when no one else either agreed or offered, she sighed again and rose.

“Wait, Erica.” The man who spoke had dark eyes, but his once black hair had been transformed over time to the shade of polished pewter. Paris’s father, undoubtedly. There was more of Ireland in his voice than in his son’s, but Rosamund had no difficult in determining who had taught Paris to speak in a way that made people listen.

He withdrew a folded paper from inside his coat. “See that he gets this.”

“Yes, Papa,” the duchess said, taking the letter and following her brother out.

When she had gone, Rosamund felt every eye in the room upon her. She hardly dared to step forward, though she knew she must. Once she could muster the strength, she moved to the center of the room. To Bell and Daphne, who were looking at her with expressions of hurt and betrayal.