Page 68 of The Lady’s Deception

“As her guardian, I have been tasked with managing my sister’s affairs. The details are nothing with which she need be bothered.”

“From what I know of Miss Gorse, I suspect she would not be at all bothered to learn that her father left her Tavisham Manor.”

He half expected her to faint. Or, at the very least, to sink into the chair by which she stood. Instead she charged forward and whirled to face her brother. “Charles.” Her voice was sharp, accusatory. “Is this true?”

Setterby shifted ominously, with clear intent to grab her by the arm. Instead he found his own arm pinned by Raynham. “You seem to have no proper notion of how ladies are to be treated, Setterby. I should very much enjoy an opportunity to teach you.”

“Is that a challenge, Duke?” Setterby wrested himself free. “You all heard him. Can I count on you to serve as my second, Dashfort?”

The earl’s narrow eyes widened as much as they were able and he stepped back from the fray. “I say, Setterby. I heard nothing of the sort.”

“I’ll remember your bravery, Dashfort,” Setterby sneered, shrugging his shoulders and tugging his coat sleeve into place. “And as to you, dear sister, I should expect to see your gratitude, not your condemnation. A word of thanks for how I’ve managed Tavisham to advantage all these years—”

“Your advantage,” Paris pointed out. “I spent the morning doing a bit of digging and managed to learn a few items of note. For instance: The terms of your guardianship require you to manage the estate in your ward’s best interest—”

“Which I have done. It’s a small property, no more than a few farms. Hardly enough to pay her dressmaker’s bill.”

“You were the one who insisted on the lavish gowns,” Rosamund said, her voice shaking. “You insisted on parading me about like a—a—”

“An heiress,” supplied Paris, more than a little fearful of the word she might choose instead. “You once told me, Miss Gorse, that you regretted having deceived me. It seems you were the one being deceived.”

“Heiress,” scoffed Setterby. “Do you dare to suggest that I have wronged my sister by using her small inheritance to find her a respectable husband? She has no other dowry.”

“Why could I not be allowed to choose for myself?”

“Because your brother wished to choose for you,” said Raynham darkly.

“And what of that?” argued Setterby. “Is that not part of my duty as her guardian and her only family still living?”

Ashborough crossed his arms behind his back and spoke in his driest voice. “Such selflessness.”

“Alas, not quite selfless, I’m afraid.” Paris tapped the parchment against his palm. “It would seem he planned from the beginning how Tavisham might best be used as a bargaining chip. I spoke just this morning with two gentlemen whom he approached last year, who could not meet his terms: Tavisham Manor and his fair sister, in exchange for—”

“Money.” Rosamund still faced her brother; Paris could see no more than the stiffening of her spine. “It wasn’t enough to humiliate me, to belittle me. Why, all this time you’ve been trying to—to sell me. To marry me off to the highest bidder.”

“It’s done as often as not,” Setterby insisted, leaping to his own defense. “What are dowries and jointures, after all? Marriage, my girl, is entirely an economic matter. If you’d done as you were told, you’d have been well-settled by now.”

“If I’d done as I’d been told, I’d be in misery right now.”

Dashfort gave an awkward cough, which had the unfortunate effect of drawing Paris’s attention. “It does sound as though Dashfort was willing to pay whatever price your brother asked,” Paris said. “But it seems the transaction was not entirely about money.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and it was very nearly his undoing to see the worry and pain flooding her eyes. “What, then?”

“You said it yourself not an hour ago, Miss Gorse,” said Raynham. “Power.”

Paris nodded. “Tavisham is what’s known as a pocket borough. Which means that this particular ‘small property,’ as your brother describes it, exercises rather an outsized influence on matters of great importance. Its owner effectively chooses a Member of Parliament and cannot be gainsaid. Your brother has exerted his pull over the election in the years since your father died, and it seems he hoped to marry you off to a man who would continue to be subject to his authority, to vote in the way he sees fit.”

Setterby sputtered but did not deny the claim. “Well, what of it? Would you have the country governed by just any fools?”

Rosamund ignored him. “But if it’s all to do with a seat in the British parliament, why should Lord Dashfort care? He’s already a peer.”

“An Irish peer,” Paris said as he dragged his gaze from Rosamund to the earl. “Here, I must indulge in a little speculation. I believe it comes down to this: Lord Dashfort has demonstrated a great wish to legitimize his claim to be an Englishman. An hereditary English estate would have helped him, or at least his son, achieve just that. It may also be that there are matters expected to come before Parliament in which he wished to have some voice. Perhaps he even foresaw a time when he might want the seat for himself. If the Act of Union is passed, the Irish parliament will be dissolved, and there’s no guarantee he’ll be given a seat in the British House of Lords. His title will be worth little enough then.”

During Paris’s speech, Dashfort had been moving unobtrusively toward the door of the library. With surprising lightness, Ashborough stepped into his path. “Don’t leave at intermission, my good man. I myself cannot wait to see the final act.” Dashfort winced.

“You shall have a great deal of difficulty proving I’ve done anything wrong in my management of Tavisham or my sister’s care,” Setterby said with a jeer of defiance. “Surely, Burke, you will not deny that the law allows a guardian to act as he sees fit.”

“The law may have very little to say on the matter,” Raynham said loftily, every inch a duke, “but I believe you’ll find there are still consequences for a man who mistreats his ward.”