Page 69 of The Lady’s Deception

Setterby seemed to consider those words a long moment, and Paris found himself holding his breath. Every criminal had a breaking point. How far would Setterby go to save his own neck?

The man’s shoulders dropped, only a fraction of an inch. But it was enough. His tone, when he spoke, was almost submissive. Wheedling. “Perhaps you gentlemen would be interested to learn how Dashfort acquired the funds with which he intended to pay me?”

Dashfort, who seemed to require a moment to grasp the implications of Setterby’s words, nodded along until Raynham’s dark gaze shifted to him. “I say, Setterby,” he squeaked. “We were at school together. You don’t mean to turn on me?”

“Oh,” said Ashborough gleefully, “I think he does.”

“It’s that decrepit old castle.” Setterby shook his head disparagingly. “Someday it’ll fall right into the sea. But for now, men run their boats right into its dungeon. Makes it easy to get around the British tariffs on goods from both France and Ireland.”

Raynham folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve got an associate at Whitehall who’s always glad to hear any tips about smuggling along the Irish coast.”

“It was never my doing,” Dashfort insisted. “The smuggling. Why, I was hundreds of miles away for the last ten years.”

“And you received no profit from it, I suppose?” Paris glanced toward Setterby and back again. “Paid no bribes?”

“I—” Dashfort shook his head, more in dismay than denial. “My late wife was determined to live in England, despite the expense. She hated Ireland, and for a time, she persuaded me to hate it too. To hate myself. I told my agent to find the money somehow. I—I didn’t let myself consider what that might mean.” His voice grew quieter still, and guilt suffused his face. “Still, it was never enough. Last year, I told her we would have to return to Kilready, and we…we argued, as everyone knows. Or pretends to know. She was hysterical. I—I didn’t push her,” he insisted, his gaze lost in the memory of that day. “She stumbled and fell before I could reach her. But it’s still my fault that the mother of my children is dead.”

After a moment, Paris said quietly, “I will not tell you that you can make amends.” A week ago, he’d set out on a quest, animated by two parts guilt and one part desire to avenge poor Henry. Now, however, he saw matters differently. What he sought now was a way forward. For those who had no voice. And for himself. “But there is something you can do. You can make sure your agent pays for the suffering he inflicted on others.”

“Quin? Was there really so much harm in what he did? A bit of this for a bit of that…”

“The harm,” Paris explained, an icy edge to his voice, “is to your son.”

Dashfort looked baffled. “Alexander?”

“Tommy Fagan. The poor child of your former maid, locked in a cell in Kilmainham for theft. He suffers from a condition called albinism—no color in his skin or hair. Quin’s been using the boy in his scheme, to frighten intruders—”

“Kilready’s ghost,” breathed Rosamund.

Paris nodded. Dashfort shivered.

“But if you can muster no sympathy for him,” continued Paris, “then by all means, think of Alexander, who must someday hope to make an honest living from his Irish estate, if you haven’t ruined it first, with your rackrenting and your absenteeism. Give him tenants who can earn their bread, rather than steal it, and I daresay he won’t find himself facing a rebellion.”

Abashed, Dashfort nodded. “The boy—Tommy. You can arrange his release?”

“No, my lord. But you can—in exchange for your testimony against Quin in the smuggling case. I shall send an express to an associate of mine regarding the matter, but you must return to Dublin as soon as possible to speak on Tommy’s behalf. The court will listen.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed, more readily than Paris could have hoped. “I’ll leave tomorrow. And once I’m there, I—I’ll stay. I’ll try to repair the damage I’ve done at Kilready. All of it. You have my word.” That announcement was met by stunned silence. “Forgive me, Miss Gorse,” he added with a bow in her direction and a sharp glance at Setterby. “Your brother used our old friendship—and my grief—to make me believe…” He shook his head, unable to complete the sentence. “I should have known better than to listen to him.” This time when Dashfort left the room, Ashborough made no move to stop him.

After a few moments, Rosamund asked, “What happens to Charles?”

Setterby still seethed nearby, kept quiet and in his place by the force of Raynham’s glare. “I suppose you’d be satisfied to see one of your friends here run me through?”

“On the contrary, Charles.” Rosamund’s eyes were wide with horror. “I never wished you ill. But you cannot continue to manage my life.”

“The terms of the will dictate that Tavisham Manor is yours when you reach your majority,” Paris explained.

“Why, that’s in less than a fortnight. I suppose that was your great hurry to find me and marry me off to Lord Dashfort?” she demanded of her brother, who could not deny the accusation.

“There are innumerable ways to make a man pay his debts,” Ashborough said. “I propose a written and signed confession—a sort of note of hand, if you will. To be called in at any time Miss Gorse feels necessary. The right word in the proper ear about your behavior, and you’ll be ruined, Setterby. Look what a little gossip has done to your friend Dashfort. That required no swords, no pistols, no courts of law.”

“Damn you all,” Setterby muttered. But his shoulders sank a notch lower in defeat.

“Come,” Raynham said, gesturing toward the study where Rosamund had hidden. “We’ll find paper and pen in here, I trust. Ashborough has other matters to which he must attend.” With a grateful nod, Ashborough left the room. “I may not have his experience with notes of hand, but I’m quite good at getting confessions.”

Raynham closed the door behind them, and suddenly, Paris was alone with Rosamund.

“That was quite an entrance,” she said. “I was a little afraid you’d left for Dublin without saying goodbye, even after…”