Page 13 of The Lady’s Deception

Chapter 6

Overhearing her huff of—surprise? outrage? perhaps a bit of both—as she left the room, Paris allowed himself the slightest of smiles. Miss Gorse, with her rudimentary Italian and her soft, well-manicured hands, had not been born to be a governess, he felt certain. A countess, perhaps…

Well, and suppose she had? he argued with himself. What of it? Even if her father were an aristocrat, he might have planned poorly and left his daughter at the mercy of the unforgiving marketplace. Many Irish households were eager for the supposed prestige an English governess conveyed, according to Mrs. Fitzhugh. And the world abounded with unscrupulous men waiting to prey on the vulnerable.

If he required proof of what Miss Gorse had told him about her previous post, he had only to think of the hole in her shoe. Did it matter that the shoe itself was an elegant little slipper designed for the sort of lady who never had to walk farther than the distance from the dining room to the drawing room? In some ways, that was the most damning evidence of all, a clear sign that she had fled without forethought, desperate to get away.

Nevertheless, it went against his nature to believe people. Years of courtroom experience had only exacerbated his skepticism. No one was ever entirely honest, and he knew, with the certainty of both a born cynic and a well-trained lawyer, that she had not been entirely honest with him.

He might have dismissed her for it. But weeks of fruitless searching had taught him how difficult it was to find a governess willing to accept a temporary position.

And God knew, even if his parents didn’t, that his sisters deserved better care than he could provide. Daphne and Bell missed their mother and their elder sisters. Without the qualities imbued by those three very different women—Mama’s gentleness, Cami’s stability, Erica’s energy—the whole household suffered.

Besides, everyone had something about themselves they would rather not show to the world, including him. Why should Miss Gorse be an exception? Her blue eyes, clear as a cloudless summer sky, yet somehow opaque, gave the impression she was hiding, however. Hiding deep within herself. So deep that for a moment he had felt certain she was lost and needed help finding the way out…

What a load of fanciful rot! Cami could put it in one of her books. As if one’s eyes revealed such things. As if he were in any way qualified to guide a lost soul.

With a vigorous shake of his head, he forced his attention back to the papers before him, an important case that might have been his, if circumstances had been different. Instead another barrister had taken it to trial and lost in spectacular fashion. Sometimes Paris amused himself—if amusement it could properly be called—with laying out the arguments he would have made. If circumstances had been different.

He could not say how much time had passed when shouted voices pulled his fitful attention from Blackstone. The noise was coming from the small garden behind the house. Pushing away from the desk, he rose and went to the window. A damp, gray morning had slid imperceptibly into a damp, gray afternoon, though it was not raining at the moment. He could only conclude that Miss Gorse’s schedule included exercise at… He tugged his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Three o’clock already?

In any case, the girls and their governess were playing cricket.

Well, playing might be an exaggeration. Miss Gorse was bowling, and the longer he watched, the more convinced he became that she had never even watched the sport before. Bell waved the bat about; there was hardly space in the back garden to swing it properly. Why hadn’t the three of them gone into the large and lovely garden at the center of the square? Though since Daphne appeared to be more interested in coaxing the neighbor’s cat through the wrought-iron fence than she was in fielding, perhaps a narrower compass for their game was best.

In an extraordinary act of sportsmanship, Miss Gorse called out words of encouragement to Bell, then screwed up her face in concentration as she prepared to bowl. Was she actually closing her eyes? Not that it mattered much. Bell almost certainly had her eyes closed waiting for the ball to come her way; Galen had never managed to break her of the habit. The first genuine smile in…oh, months…slipped across his lips as he watched Miss Gorse release the ball. Bell swung the bat wildly, elbows jutted out at fierce angles.

“Brilliant!” he exclaimed under his breath at the unexpected crack of contact. And then—

Strange how everything seemed to freeze: Bell’s and Miss Gorse’s arms upraised in celebration. The ball at the zenith of its arc. Then a rush of noise and motion: the ball’s sharp descent, Daphne’s scream of warning to Miss Gorse, who was oblivious to the danger. He was away from the window before the ball struck her, down the stairs and into the garden before either Bell or Daphne had reached her side.

He had expected to find her collapsed on the ground, in much the same posture as the night before. But she was sitting up, one hand and arm covering half her head, the other hand outstretched to his littlest sister.

“I’m all right, Bell. Truly,” she insisted, though she sounded pained. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Eejit, eejit, eejit,” Daphne was muttering as she came within earshot.

He was on the point of reprimanding her when Miss Gorse said gently but with surprising firmness, “What did I say about calling your sister rude names, Daphne?”

Daphne stopped a few feet away, her face set in a fierce frown. “I wasn’t talking about Bell.”

“Daphne Burke.” The voice that could compel a noisy courtroom to silence only made his sister fold her arms defiantly over her chest. “Go to your room. I’ll deal with you later.”

With a jut of her chin, she flounced away. Bell burst into tears, dropped the bat, and followed her. Ignoring them both, Paris sank to one knee beside Miss Gorse. “How bad is it?”

She shook her head, the slightest of movements, and her free hand turned from welcoming Bell to warding him off. “How could you, Mr. Burke?”

He rocked onto his heels. “How—how could—?” he echoed, bewildered. “What?”

“Could you not see that Daphne was upset? She needed…she needed…comfort. From her brother.” That little speech seemed to require a great deal of effort.

“Comfort?” Clearly, the blow had rattled the woman’s brain. “You’re the one who’s been injured, Miss Gorse.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, though the words were no more convincing this time. “Besides, Daphne was right.” What he could see of her face was curved into a feeble, self-deprecating smile. “I ought to have been more attentive.”

In his experience with such matters, which was not insignificant, innocent people were far more likely to shoulder blame than guilty ones. Why was she so ready to accept responsibility for an unfortunate accident?

The explanation grew clear when she added—no, begged, “Please, do not punish your sister.”