Page 24 of The Lady’s Deception

“I see.” Paris drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I suppose no one is eager to take on the boy’s defense.”

“It isn’t the sort of case on which reputations are built,” Graves agreed, a sneering twist to his expression. “But I didn’t think you’d mind.”

No, Paris cared little for his reputation now. And evidently, Graves was counting on that fact.

If Paris succeeded, then the boy—doubtless another Irish pawn exploited by his master, whether or not any laws had been broken—might be saved. And if Dashfort’s crimes were exposed, Paris would have gone a little further toward atoning for his mistakes, particularly where Henry Edgeworth was concerned. Of course, revenge wouldn’t restore Henry’s life, nor the lives of so many others who had been lost in the fight for freedom or executed afterward. But it would be better than nothing.

Wouldn’t it?

“One question, Graves.” He curved his hand around his cup. “Are you trying to save me, or destroy me?”

Graves chuckled. A shade too heartily, perhaps. “If you have to ask…”

Paris gave a humorless laugh in reply. Nevertheless, after a moment’s reflection, he raised his cup in a sort of toast to seal his fate. He drank deeply, though the coffee had gone cold.

“Very good,” Graves said. “I knew you would see things in the proper light.” He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a folded paper, and slid it across the table to him. “The information you’ll need…”

Paris palmed the note without reading it. This was neither the time nor the place to indulge his curiosity. With a nod, he rose to leave, but not before he snapped a coin onto the table. Best not to be indebted to Graves, not even for the price of a cup of coffee.

Chapter 10

“So glad you could join us, Miss Gorse.”

At first Rosamund assumed Paris’s words were sarcasm, a gibe at her lateness, though she hadn’t heard any clock in the house strike the hour. But his face was…well, she knew no better word to describe his expression than keen. Sharp as a whetted blade.

Standing at the head of the table, he radiated a strange, yet compelling energy. His garnet colored coat, a striking shade under any circumstances, was especially so given his dark coloring. The boyish, tousled waves of his black hair hinted that he had spent the better part of the day brushing it out of his eyes, evidently his habit when he was preoccupied. One persistent lock slipped forward even now. And from beneath it peered eyes that made her feel…well, wanted.

The sensation was more than a little unsettling.

Thankfully, Molly chose that moment to step into the room with a tray full of steaming dishes. Quickly, Rosamund seated herself. Not opposite Paris, as he had suggested with a nod of his head, but beside Bell on one of the long sides of the table, at an angle that put him out of her direct line of vision, and she out of his.

For the next few moments, they were absorbed in filling their plates. The only words exchanged were those to the purpose, to “pass the creamed turnips” or “mind the salt” when the cellar was nearly overturned by a careless hand.

Accustomed to quiet dinners, she thought little of the silence that fell over the room as they began to eat. Mrs. Sloane had been at best a taciturn companion, and in recent years Charles had rarely visited Tavisham Manor. Over time, she had learned that if silence did not exactly aid digestion, it was better than complaint and derision.

But of course silence was not the norm in the Burke household. Paris cleared his throat. “I can’t recall a meal in which my sisters had so little to say.”

Rosamund suspected that the girls had decided not to speak at all, rather than risk the truth slipping out. That afternoon, the four of them—Molly included—had come to a grudging agreement: to say nothing to Paris about the kitten until the moment was right. Wait until he’s happy about something, Bell had insisted, to which Daphne had replied that the kitten would be a fully grown cat if they waited so long as that.

“Perhaps,” Rosamund ventured, “they are simply putting into practice the old maxim that children ought to be seen and not heard.”

Daphne’s face contorted as if she were trying to make sense of words spoken in an unfamiliar language. “What sort of rubbish is that, Miss Gorse?”

Sardonic humor twitched at the corners of Paris’s mouth. “An English maxim, I daresay.”

Bell looked thoughtful. “I’ve never heard Mama say that. But if she ever did believe in such a rule, I suppose Erica broke it so often, she grew weary of repeating it and gave it up.”

“Paris would have broken it first,” said Daphne matter-of-factly.

“Girls!” Rosamund exclaimed, both horrified and, God help her, envious. What would it be like to speak to one’s brother as Daphne and Bell spoke to theirs? Not to fear some wounding reply…or worse?

“Do you doubt I was a rule breaker, Miss Gorse?”

She stabbed blindly at her plate and put a forkful of something—roast beef—in her mouth to give herself a moment to think of a suitable reply. It was too tender to provide an excuse for much delay, but nevertheless she chewed thoroughly and swallowed and dabbed her lips before answering. And even then, she did not meet his eye. “I’m not persuaded that you have any great respect for the rules even now, Mr. Burke.”

Silence fell again as she awaited the inevitable reprimand. Teasing banter was not a skill she had had occasion to perfect—not a skill a woman in her position would ever have occasion to perfect.

Then a sound that wasn’t precisely laughter rumbled from the far end of the table. “Quite so, Miss Gorse.” His low murmur lodged somewhere near the base of her spine, sending an unexpected shiver of pleasure through her. “And that being the case, I certainly do not require silence from my young dinner companions.” Rosamund at last glanced up in time to see him look from one of his sisters to the other, one dark brow bent in a playfully suspicious arch. Her heart lifted with it. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”