Page 34 of The Lady’s Deception

Bell, wide-eyed, offered an even less consoling option. “Perhaps he’s hurt and can’t come home.”

Rosamund realized that, despite her own anxiety as to the cause of his prolonged absence, it was down to her to distract them all. “Come, come, girls. No moping. I propose we spend today in the drawing room.”

Daphne shifted from skeptical to petulant. “Doing what?”

She thought for a moment. “Sketching. The light is good, and we can use the botanical prints in your father’s study for our models. When we’ve had our fill of that, we’ll practice on the spinet. And if you’re very diligent scholars,” she said, taking Bell by the hand, “we’ll have dancing when we’re through.”

“I like that idea, Miss Gorse,” Bell said. “Except for practicing the spinet.”

Rosamund only smiled and directed her toward the stairs, and the girls trooped out with minimal grumbling. Molly motioned for Rosamund to hang back. “You don’t suppose—?”

“No, Molly. I don’t,” she said, hoping to convince herself. “Either his work has delayed him, or the condition of the roads. Don’t you recall how it rained the day before yesterday?”

“Speakin’ of his work, I think he’s come to like the drawing room undisturbed.”

“All part of my secret plan. He’ll sense that his domain has been invaded and come charging home to restore peace and order.”

Molly laughed but shook her head. “Mr. Paris never showed any sign o’ bein’ fey, Miss Rosamund. Why, for all that black hair, he’s only got half a drop of Irish blood in ’im.”

“Well, we’ll just have to hope it’s enough.”

At midday, a sharp rap on the door to the street rattled Rosamund, who had managed to keep the girls absorbed by their sketches. “My brother isn’t likely to knock at his own front door, Miss Gorse,” Bell pointed out.

“No. No, of course not.”

“Unless,” Daphne suggested while sharpening her pencil, “he’s lost his key.”

So they all sat in hopeful alertness, waiting for his tread on the stairs. And they all sagged with disappointment when Molly appeared in the doorway with a paper-wrapped parcel. “For you, miss. The boy said he come from Mrs. Teague’s.”

“Oh, the dress,” cried Daphne, brighter than she had been all day.

Bell jumped up and down. “Try it on!”

To distract them, and to give herself something to do, Rosamund obliged. In her chamber she changed out of the dress she’d borrowed from the wardrobe—her own muslin had borne the brunt of the papier-mâché paste—into the new smoke blue wool. It fit well; Mrs. Teague knew her craft. When she peered into the looking glass, she could see how the blue of the dress deepened the blue of her eyes, just as she’d imagined. Paris’s favorite color.

But would he ever see it?

Plastering a smile on her face, she went back down to the drawing room, where she was greeted with Molly’s vigorous nod of approval, Bell’s squeal, and Daphne’s brusque, “It’ll do.”

“Such a fine gown calls for dancing, don’t you think, Miss Gorse?” Bell asked.

It wasn’t fine, of course. It was perfectly plain. Nothing to grace a ballroom. Nothing compared to the dress she’d ruined with a long walk through wet grass, a ride in a farmer’s cart, the mud and muck of the streets of Dublin, and two handfuls of pulp suitable for map-making.

Rosamund twirled. “Of course.”

At first she played the spinet while the two girls took turns dancing in rollicking steps with Molly, and then with one another when the housemaid declared she had work to do. After several songs, she invited Daphne to sit down at the instrument and was pleasantly surprised by her musical skill. If Paris returned she would suggest that harp lessons might be in order after all. When Paris returned. To the strains of the same Irish tune he had played just a few nights ago, Rosamund taught Bell the chassé and the allemande.

The dancing lesson was also interrupted by the sound of the doorknocker. Once more they listened as Molly made her way to the door. An exchange of words, muffled by distance. Then Molly again appeared in the doorway. “Two packages for you this time, Miss Gorse.”

Baffled, she allowed each of the girls to untie the strings of a box, unfold the paper, and open it. “Ah,” exclaimed Bell, peering into her sister’s box. “A bonnet, of course.” Then she tipped up the box she had opened to display its contents. “And shoes.”

“But when did you find time to shop for them?” Daphne wanted to know.

“I, uh… I sent Molly.” Pray God the maid would play along, for she too must know that Rosamund could not have bought them. “With very specific instructions.”

The items could only have been chosen for her by Paris. And only after that night… He had asked about her purchases over dinner. They’d kissed. Then, the next morning, he’d disappeared. But before leaving town, he must have gone to Grafton Street and ordered these items to be delivered to her. Why?

“Och, aye,” Molly said, sounding slightly startled. “And didn’t I do well, Miss Rosamund?” Her sharp eyes took in every detail of the dainty bonnet as Rosamund traced a fingertip along the unblemished sole of one shoe.