Page 30 of The Lady’s Deception

The guard’s eyes narrowed, clearly weighing whether or not to use the weapon on Paris. Paris held his ground. At last, the man grabbed his keys and thrust one into the lock. On rusty, squawking hinges, the door swung open just wide enough to admit Paris, then slammed shut again. Once more the key grated in the lock. By sheer force of will, Paris contained the familiar shudder of dread that accompanied the sound.

Privacy was a thing unheard of in prison. He’d planned defenses and heard confessions within these cells, while other prisoners chimed in with unsolicited advice and opinions. But this time, perhaps because of the boy’s illness, the crowd held back a bit, leaving as wide a berth as possible around the body curled on the mangy straw. Only the woman stayed close enough to hear their quiet conversation.

“Do you know him?” Paris asked her.

She hesitated, then shook her head. When she laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder, he moaned. “Fever,” she explained. “Though not so’s t’ make ’im mad. Come now, Tommy, show yourself. Here’s Mr. Burke come t’ halp ee.”

He couldn’t remember having seen the woman before. But perhaps he had. Or perhaps his reputation had preceded him—whatever it might be. He squatted in the muck and joined the woman in her efforts to rouse Tommy Fagan.

At last the boy eased from the coil into which he’d wound himself and rolled onto his back, eyes still tightly closed. Paris could not prevent a gasp from escaping his lips. Fagan was crusted with dirt. Tracks had formed on his cheeks where tears had fallen and not been wiped away. Neither the dirt nor the tears surprised him. Beneath the layer of grime and the slight flush of fever, however, the boy’s skin was almost translucent, like a creature born and raised in utter darkness. His hair, which poked through the holes in a tattered wool cap, was whiter than Rosamund’s kitten. The effect was unearthly: a child formed of smoke or light, liable to be snuffed out by a strong breath of wind.

Nevertheless, his grip was firm as he fumbled for and found Paris’s hand. “Help me,” he whispered through dry, cracked lips.

With the woman’s assistance, Paris lifted the boy to a sitting position, then slipped a flask from the deep pocket of his greatcoat. “Water,” he explained.

The woman lifted one shoulder. “Pity.”

Tommy drank greedily, the flask fastened to his lips so that not a drop escaped. When he’d drained its contents, his eyelids at last fluttered, then lifted, revealing surprisingly ordinary brown eyes, dull with fever. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re Thomas Fagan?”

“Aye.”

“And you came to Dublin from Kilready Castle?”

The eyelids drifted closed again. “Aye.”

“What made you leave?”

“I couldn’t go on—” He drew a rattling breath, eyes still closed. “Couldn’t go on doin’ his biddin’. ’Tis wrong, what he’s doin’. Same as stealin’.”

“I’ve heard there’s smuggling going on near Kilready, Tommy. Is that it? Is that what you’ve been involved in?” The boy nodded. “Will you tell me who’s behind it?”

He did not answer. The woman, still supporting one of the boy’s shoulders, gave him a gentle shake. “Go on, then, Tommy. Why should you hang for another’s crime?”

“Th’ agent. Mr. Quin.”

Paris was careful to keep his voice calm, matter-of-fact, though a great deal rode on the answer to his next question. “And from whom does Mr. Quin take his orders?”

Tommy’s chest rose and fell with a labored breath. “’is lordship. Who else?”

“The Earl of Dashfort.”

“Aye.”

The exchange had cost the boy a great deal of effort, and Paris thanked him. “It’s my hope that if Dashfort’s involvement can be proved, the law will deal more lightly with you, Tommy.”

“An’ more harshly with ’im?”

“A peer has certain protections under the law. But I’ll do my best to see justice served.”

“Tain’t right, is it?” he cried.

“The inequalities in our system? No, indeed. But—”

Tommy went on speaking, apparently without hearing Paris’s reply. “Tain’t right for a boy to wish ’is da ill. But ’e don’t…” His narrow shoulders shook with a sob.

A quiver started low in Paris’s gut, part excitement, part trepidation, and part reaction to the horrors that pressed in on him from all sides. Tommy Fagan was Dashfort’s byblow? Had Graves suspected anything of the sort? Did Dashfort himself know?