Page 38 of The Lady’s Deception

“There’s no need,” he insisted, but she was not to be put off, so he surrendered the jug and while she was ladling water into it, some from a bucket of cold water, some from a boiling kettle, he reached into the basket, pulled out a cravat, and draped it over a nearby branch.

When the jug was full, she set it on the ground, then stepped to the mangle and began to turn the handle, making no remark as he continued to hang items to dry. “I’m Mary Fagan,” she said at last when she paused to shake the stiffness from her arm.

An overture? “Pleased to meet you,” he said. But to his nod of greeting she said nothing in reply. After he’d hung the last of the items in the basket, he picked up the jug. Best to return to the cottage, before the water turned cold. He could make another attempt at conversation later. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She made no acknowledgment of his departure. Inside the pub, two more tables had filled with men whose dirty boots proclaimed them farmers. Tenants of Dashfort’s, no doubt. This time, whether anyone spoke to or about him, he could not be certain, for they conversed entirely in Irish. Quickly, he crossed the floor and went up the stairs to his room.

He was a stranger here, all right. Cami’s fable about the possibility of sympathetic Anglo-Irish relations had been just that: a fable. Three days in Kilready—hell, three years—would not be enough for a supposed Englishman to earn these people’s trust.

And without it, he had very little chance of saving Tommy Fagan and even less chance of bringing the Earl of Dashfort to his knees.

Chapter 14

Paris had misjudged the people of Kilready in one respect. Three days was more than enough time to learn the story of Mary Fagan’s downfall. In sordid detail. From the mouth of almost every resident of the village…except, of course, for Mary herself.

He knew, for instance, how Mary had got above herself and dreamed of becoming a parlor maid at Kilready Castle. How, instead of being grateful to the housekeeper for taking on a clumsy girl, Mary had shocked the village by “throwing herself on His Lordship’s, er, charity.” Later, when the earl had gone to London and brought back a bride, the countess—“God rest ’er”—had straightaway sent Mary home in disgrace, rounded belly and all.

It took no great feat of imagination to construct another narrative of events, one in which Mary was not villain but victim. But the people of Kilready stuck stubbornly to their version, perhaps because Mary herself was too stubborn to contradict them—cold, hard, proud were the words he heard used to describe her again and again.

“What became of her child?” he had asked on occasion, always with the image of Tommy Fagan, lying ill in prison, burned onto his mind’s eye.

That question had invariably been met with shrugs. “Och, his mam’s not likely to be after showin’ off a bastard, now, is she?” he’d been told. Not a soul seemed bothered by the boy being hidden away. Not a soul seemed to realize the boy was likely gone from Kilready for good. And if these people did not care, for what sort of future was Paris attempting to save him?

On the morning of the third day, Paris awoke filled with a sense of desperation. How much longer was he going to be trapped here? He’d largely failed to persuade the people of the village that he was a sympathetic ear for their troubles. He was wasting his time in Kilready, time better spent helping Rosamund out of whatever predicament had forced her to flee. Time better spent persuading her to trust him, no matter how he’d behaved in the past.

After washing and shaving in what little water was left in the washbasin, though it was cold, he dressed in his last clean shirt. He was knotting his cravat when Mary Fagan rapped on the door.

“The blacksmith was just here, sir,” she called from the corridor. “Left your horse and gig waitin’ outside.”

He stepped to the door and opened it before she could leave. “Excellent news.”

She glanced around the room, pausing over the coat lying at the foot of his bed, the finest one he’d brought. “Looks like you’re after goin’ somewhere.”

“I need to talk with Mr. Quin, Lord Dashfort’s agent.” He doubted the man would be foolish enough to reveal anything of value. But at least then Paris could tell himself that he’d be as thorough as possible in his investigation.

“You’ll likely find him at the castle.” Like her eyes, her voice was wary.

“I’ll call there on my way out of town. Thank you.”

She nodded, turned to go, then paused. “Before you go to the castle,” she murmured over her shoulder, “you’d best know it’s haunted.”

“Oh, come now, Mistress Fagan,” he scoffed. “Surely you don’t believe—”

She chuckled. Or perhaps cackled would have been a more accurate description. “Gor. Mistress Fagan,” she repeated disbelievingly. She turned around to face him again and quietly shut the door behind her. “Go on. Have a seat.” She nodded toward the rickety wooden chair, over which he’d flung his greatcoat.

When it appeared he had little choice but to obey, he eased himself onto the chair. “All right.”

She perched on the edge of the bed. Facing her across the narrow room, he saw for the first time the remnants of prettiness in her face. Had circumstances all but stripped her of her youthful beauty? Or did she hide its signs deliberately now, knowing she’d caught Dashfort’s eye and hoping to catch no one else’s?

“I hear tell you like a story, sir,” she said after a moment. “Leastways, I know you’ve heard mine.”

Her words left no room for denial, though he would have liked to have made one. With one finger, he traced a crack in the chair’s joinery. “I have. But as to this nonsense about a ghost—”

She wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Hush. I know there’s a ghost. Seen him wit’ my own eyes, haven’t I? An’ so’s Mr. Quin. That’s why I’m tellin’ you.”

He parted his lips to express something—his disbelief, his incomprehension—but a sharp look from her kept him silent.

“If you go up there, he’ll be worried you came back because something got missed. A road he wants on no surveyor’s map, that’s certain.”