Page 40 of The Lady’s Deception

Lost in his thoughts, he did not immediately hear the little girl’s squeal. Or rather, the sound did not register. Too familiar, too much a part of the noise that surrounded him daily. But of course this squeal could belong to neither Daphne nor Bell. In the moment it took for that realization to settle over him, a boy’s voice added to the din of thundering hooves and rattling wheels.

“You there! Look out! I can’t—!”

Paris tightened the grip on his horse’s head, and the skirts of his greatcoat rippled as the dog cart and its occupants raced past. In a spray of gravel they managed to stop before crashing into the stable block.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy said breathlessly as he jumped down and raised his hat, quite the little gentleman. He glanced up at the girl on the seat, the one who had squealed. His sister, Paris guessed. “We oughtn’t to have been going so fast.”

The girl’s face bore no signs of chagrin. In fact, Paris recognized amusement twinkling in her eyes. The pair of them looked to be close in age to Daphne and Bell, the boy clearly the elder by a year or two, though slight of build. Both were fashionably and expensively dressed. And the boy spoke with an unmistakably English accent.

But all of those details were insignificant beside one glaring fact: The boy might have been Tommy Fagan’s twin. Oh, this boy’s hair was straw blond, rather than white, and his skin was fair in an ordinary way. The eyes, though, were the same hazel-brown, and the narrow features were unmistakable. It was like looking at a watercolor version of a familiar pencil sketch.

The commotion had drawn several hands to the door of the stable, though not one of them stepped out or spoke. Before Paris could think of what to say to the children, two men on horseback thundered into the courtyard. The boy fidgeted with the reins.

“What ho, my boy?” called the one in the lead, a man with the same blond hair and close-set, brownish eyes. He stopped before them, while the second man held well back, too distant for Paris to see anything of his features. “Didn’t I warn you not to let Crispin have his head?”

“It won’t happen again, sir,” the boy vowed in a voice that wanted to waver.

The girl’s smile curved wickedly as she shook her head, perhaps intending to underscore her brother’s promise, though the gesture gave the impression of adding to their father’s scold. Although she was still sitting primly on the seat, with her hands folded neatly in her lap, Paris wondered suddenly whether those hands hadn’t in fact been holding the reins.

“Are you—?” The boy swallowed. “Are you harmed, sir?”

“Not at all,” Paris reassured the boy. “But I daresay your father’s advice is sound.”

His words drew the attention of the man who could only be Lord Dashfort. “You are a stranger to Kilready, sir.” He looked Paris up and down. “A gentleman, by your dress.”

“The name’s Trenton, my lord,” he said with a bow. “I’ve come to speak with Mr. Quin.”

He might not have known that Dashfort stiffened at his words if his mount hadn’t tossed its head. The earl laid a steadying hand along the animal’s neck. “What about?”

“I’m with the surveying party that passed through last week. I was delayed in the last village by a disagreement over a property boundary. I assure you I won’t take much of his time. I would not wish to distract him from your lordship’s more pressing business.”

That answer seemed to soothe the ruffled the earl, who dismounted rather heavily and motioned for one of the stable hands to take his horse. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward the castle. “I’ll have a servant show you to his office.”

The castle’s massive door, oak studded with iron, swung inward seemingly of its own volition. As a result, he entered the castle unable quite to free his mind of Mary Fagan’s haunting tale. The eerie effect was exacerbated by the condition of the entry hall, where little had been done to bring things into the present century. Tattered tapestries lined damp stone walls and the skeletal head and antlers of an Irish elk hung over an outsized hearth, giving the impression he had stepped into Ireland’s past.

While the servant who’d opened the door took the earl’s riding whip and gloves, the girl from the dog cart skipped into the hall, humming an unfamiliar tune. A few steps behind her came the other man, the brother of Lord Dashfort’s intended, he supposed.

“Was there any post, Lord Setterby?” she paused to ask him. “Any news of your sister?”

Clearly annoyed by the question, Setterby gave only a brusque shake of his head.

To Paris’s surprise, the girl turned to him next. “It’s the strangest tale, Mr. Trenton. Several nights ago, Lord Setterby’s sister—why I suppose you would say she took ill. Alexander and I saw her, right before she wandered out of the castle after dark.” Something more than mischief flickered in the girl’s eyes. “I think the ghost must’ve got her. Kilready is ever so haunted.”

Though she smiled as she spoke, her demeanor chilled him. “I, er, I had heard that, yes,” he managed to reply.

“You’re Irish.” Setterby spat the word like a mouthful of a bad vintage.

Well, Paris had not expected to continue to be mistaken for an Englishman here. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “From Dublin, sir.”

Dashfort turned and once more looked him up and down. “I was not aware the surveying party included any Irishmen.”

“Almost a week,” the girl continued pensively, oblivious to the men’s voices. “I do hope nothing terrible has happened to her.”

“Enough, Lady Eugenia,” snapped Setterby.

The boy, Alexander, entered the hall at last. “Were you speaking of Miss Gorse?”

Miss Gorse?