Page 22 of The Lady’s Deception

The leader leaned toward Bell. “Give ’im up,” he demanded.

Bell stomped one foot. “No.”

Only then did Rosamund see that Bell held something wrapped in her arms. Something living, although she couldn’t determine what sort of creature the girl had rescued. With a silent prayer that she wasn’t about to endanger the girl further, either by angering the boys or frightening a wild animal, Rosamund whipped the ridiculous bonnet off her head and began slapping them with it. Shoulders, faces, whatever she could reach.

The boys stood their ground for a moment, too surprised to do otherwise. Then two or three of them peeled away from the group, arms upraised and disbelieving expressions on their faces. One swore—or at least, she assumed the string of unfamiliar syllables that burst from his lips were curses, based on the wide eyes of his friends and the tinge of scarlet on his cheeks as he spouted the forbidden words. The leader stood his ground the longest beneath the onslaught, until one of the others tugged at his sleeve and jerked his chin up the street, giving either direction or warning. Rosamund lifted her bonnet for another swat to urge him on his way.

A moment later, the boys had melted into the bustle of the noonday crowd. Passersby seemed not even to have noticed the altercation. Rosamund wrapped her arms around Bell. As Daphne hurried toward them, Rosamund steeled herself against the girl’s favored imprecation.

But her first words were not at all what she expected. “That was brilliant, Miss Gorse!”

An unexpected blush prickled in her cheeks as she eased her hold on Bell. “I figured this hat ought to be good for something,” she said with a laugh as she looked down at the mangled and now grimy piece of linen.

Into the bonnet, Bell deposited the creature she’d rescued, turning the wad of fabric into a makeshift nest. A tiny gray kitten looked at them through blue eyes, and its head wobbled as it opened its mouth in a silent cry. “I couldn’t let them kill it.” Bell’s voice trembled.

“No, of course not,” Rosamund murmured as she cupped her hands more securely around the frightened animal.

“I really think it was your shrieking that drove the boys away,” Daphne said, reaching out one finger to stroke the kitten’s fur. “Though that hat would be enough to scare anyone.”

“Shrieking? I…shrieked?”

Bell nodded solemnly. “Like a banshee.”

Rosamund didn’t know what that meant, but she doubted it was a good thing. Certainly not ladylike—or governesslike. Dimly, she registered the disapproving woman still standing in the doorway of the apothecary’s shop, watching them.

“Come, girls. Let’s go home.” Kitten clutched in her hand, she set off in what she hoped was the proper direction.

“You mean, we can keep it?”

The creature was hardly old enough to be separated from its mother. Scrawny, probably sickly. Doubtless crawling with fleas. Molly would have a fit. Mr. Burke would have yet another reason to dismiss his sisters’ governess.

“Of course.”

Bell squealed, startling the kitten. Daphne grinned. “I’m sorry I called you an eejit yesterday, Miss Gorse.”

Rosamund gave what she hoped was a stern look. “Apology accepted, Daphne.” But she kept any note of triumph from her voice. Because, in the end, Daphne was right—she was an idiot.

The sort of idiot who played at being stern, then told her charges they could keep a pet without consulting their brother.

The sort of idiot who had laid awake for hours poring over every word the man had spoken. And many he had not.

The sort of idiot who had just bought a dress she could hardly afford because it would set off the gold of her hair and deepen the blue of her eyes. And who could not wait to see his reaction to it.

Chapter 9

When Molly had delivered Eamon Graves’s early note, asking Paris to meet to discuss a case, he’d never once considered declining the invitation. To be sure, he had no particular desire to talk with the man. But anything that got him even half an English mile away from Rosamund Gorse was better than the alternative: lying in bed for another moment, knowing she was lying in a similarly situated bed just a wall’s width away. Plaster and lathe were proving inadequate antidotes to his interest.

As expected, he found Graves in Dublin’s most popular coffeehouse at a table framed by a window, a spot that inevitably drew the eyes of passersby, both inside the shop and on the street. Graves coveted attention.

“Burke.” The man’s voice boomed as he rose and gestured toward the seat opposite, almost as if he were genuinely enthusiastic at the meeting. The man was a consummate actor, Paris would give him that. Because of those skills, some reckoned him a better barrister than Paris. Because of those skills, Paris knew better than to trust him.

“Graves.” The chair scraped noisily across the floor as Paris pulled it from beneath the small table. With leisurely movements, he removed his hat and pulled off his gloves before sitting down. Dark paneled walls absorbed much of the light from the window, casting the alcove into dimness. Cozy, he supposed one might call it. If one fancied cozying up with a snake.

“I’m pleased you could meet me on such short notice.” Graves signaled to a waiter to bring another cup. “I expected you to cry off, claim you were too busy playing nursemaid.”

“I’ve hired a governess for my sisters,” Paris explained shortly, resentful of being made to think about Miss Gorse.

“Good. The courtrooms of Dublin have missed you.”