Page 42 of The Lady’s Deception

Chapter 15

With money she could ill afford to spend, Rosamund paid for a private cabin on the Claremont packet, bound for Holyhead. She had to have some place to hide during this, the most dangerous leg of her journey. Dangerous because she would have no way to slip from her pursuers’ grasp during the crossing, unless she chose to dive into the Irish Sea.

The cabin to which she was directed was considerably smaller than the one she had occupied on the voyage going the other way. Then, of course, she’d shared the space with a lady’s maid, one hired expressly for the journey. Mrs. Sloane had refused to travel into the “savage kingdom,” as she called it, and much to Rosamund’s surprise, Charles had quickly dismissed the woman. Now, she better understood his decision. He had wanted her to have no familiar face but his own to turn to. No friend. Why, he’d even gone so far as to send the new maid on her way the moment they’d arrived at Kilready, lest she had developed some bond with Rosamund in the week they’d known one another.

One quick glance took in the entire cabin. The narrow bed was attached to one wall, with space beneath for her trunk, if she’d brought one. On the opposite wall stood a washstand and a chair, both fixed to the floor. If she’d tried, she might have been able to touch both walls at once.

But she didn’t try. In truth, she didn’t mind the tight space. It felt…secure, a stay against the wide world. A world in which Charles could be anywhere, watching her. A world in which she had nothing to her name but eleven shillings and sixpence, tied in a stolen handkerchief she treasured because it had belonged to Paris.

A wave of nausea washed over her and she sank onto the floor. Not seasickness. Not yet, anyway. They weren’t under sail. She might instead have blamed the harbor stench, an unpleasant brew of salt, rotting fish, and tar. But the truth was, she was sick with fear. Until this moment, she had not dared to let herself think beyond the simple imperative of getting away from the place to which she would so easily be traced. Now, however, she had to face the enormity of her decision. Everything she had left behind. The uncertainty of her future. What would become of her once she was back on British soil?

Fighting the temptation to crawl beneath the bed and hide like a child, she instead drew her knees up to her chest and let her cheek rest upon them. She was weary, that was all. Wearied by the long walk from Merrion Square to the docks at Dunleary. If she rested for a bit, perhaps all would become clear to her. Perhaps… Her eyelids drooped and she began to drift into sleep. Why, perhaps she could become a governess in earnest…

A sharp rap on the cabin door roused her from something that had not yet chosen between dream and nightmare. She’d been in her bed in the Burke household. Paris had just gone from the room. The heat of his lips had not yet left hers. Now he was knocking to be let in again. To chide her further? To dismiss her? To kiss her again?

Would she open the door, or tell him to go away?

Her heart pounding, she managed to shake off the clutches of drowsiness and struggled to her feet, only to find the ship still steady beneath them. But the captain himself, praising the good weather and fine wind, had promised her they would set sail for Wales as soon as possible. The cabin had no window to tell her whether it was still afternoon or had turned to nightfall. No way of knowing whether she had slept soundly for an hour or merely dozed for a moment. Had there been some delay? Had Charles found her already, persuaded the captain to tarry at anchor until he could drag her ashore?

Bang-bang-bang. The thin door rattled beneath a second application of someone’s knuckles. The person on the other side was unlikely to believe the cabin empty and go away if she did not answer. Refusing to let herself dwell in dreams, she drew back the bolt.

With a flick of the latch, the door swung wide to reveal the first lieutenant, smart in his uniform, a stern sort of frown etched between his brows. And next to him, one on either side, stood Daphne and Bell.

“Would you happen to know anything about these stowaways, ma’am? They claimed to be looking for a lady who answered your description. But these Irish urchins are notorious liars—I figure they saw you come aboard and concocted the tale on the spot.”

“No,” she breathed, the sound hardly forming a word at all. Nevertheless, the lieutenant took it for her answer. A denial. The girls winced as he tightened his grip on their shoulders, preparing to take them away.

“No,” she repeated, her voice stronger. “They’re not urchins.” Though they were remarkably filthy and tattered. What must they have endured trying to find her, to follow her? “I know them. Oh, girls—why?”

The ship gave a great lurch.

“No,” Rosamund said a third time. “They mustn’t stay—”

But too late. The Claremont had cast off anchor and was finally underway.

The motion tossed the girls into the tiny cabin, overfilling it. While they clutched her around the waist and sobbed out an unintelligible explanation for their presence, Rosamund fished in her makeshift purse for coins to pay their passage, assuring the lieutenant that they would all make do in the crowded space. For what choice did they have? She certainly could not afford a larger one.

The girls continued incoherent until she managed to extract herself from their grasp and sink down to meet them at eye level. “Why—?” Why did you follow me? she had intended to demand.

But Bell spoke over her. “Why did you leave us?”

“Because I had to.” She would keep her voice firm. She would not be moved to tears at the sight of theirs. “I was sorry to do it, but I—”

“You promised you would not go without saying goodbye.”

“She lied,” said Daphne simply. Rosamund realized the elder girl had already swiped her tears away and schooled her expression into indifference. “Just like Paris.”

“No, not just like Par—like your brother. Who, by the way, will be frantic when he discovers you gone.” Would he imagine she’d led his sisters astray? Or worse? “Does Molly know?”

Daphne merely looked away. Bell shook her head. “She wouldn’t have let us out of her sight if she’d suspected what we were up to.”

No, no, no. He would come after them, of course. Would her brother and Lord Dashfort accompany him? “There wasn’t time to explain. I received distressing news and I had to get right away. I have to—to go home.” Except she hadn’t any home. Oh, God.

She sank back onto her heels. She was in danger of sliding all the way down to the floor and curling into a ball once more, but a sound stopped her. The tiniest, feeblest cry. Not the girls. Not even human.

“Surely you didn’t—?” Her frantic gaze found a small basket clutched in Bell’s grasp, unnoticed until that moment. Before she could finish her question, the basket shook, seemingly of its own volition, and its lid lifted just enough to give a glimpse of Eileen’s pink nose and silvery whiskers.

Absurd, really. Laughable. So why were there tears coursing down Rosamund’s face?