Page 57 of The Lady’s Deception

“May I ask about the character of this Lord Dashfort?” asked Mr. Burke.

“He’s the one whose wife died last spring, isn’t he? She took a tumble over a balcony railing after the servants had heard them arguing.” As Lady Ashborough related the story, she exuded a sort of veiled irritation. No doubt an author who had dared to compose such a tale would have found the plot decried as unrealistic by the reviewers. “An accident, it was said, though no one in the ton believed it. I remember Aunt Merrick delightedly reporting how often the man received the cut direct at any event he dared to attend. Eventually he was driven out of town, back to his Irish estate. The only punishment he received, as I recall.”

“Yes.” The lump in Rosamund’s throat had expanded to the point she could barely force words around it. “He is eager to remarry so that his children may have a mother’s care.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Burke cupped his chin in one hand and tapped a deliberative finger against his lips. “A compelling cause, I’m sure. To Lord Dashfort, at least. Though one might expect your brother to express some qualms about giving his sister to a man so careless with wives.”

A laugh stirred in Rosamund’s chest, thankfully blocked from escape by the lump in her throat. Feminine hysterics, Charles would have called her reaction. He had no qualms where she was concerned, no feelings at all.

“He never wanted the responsibility of my guardianship.” Rosamund forced herself to say aloud the truth that had been haunting her for years. “He wants to be rid of me.”

At those hoarse words, Mrs. Burke’s grip on Rosamund’s hand tightened almost painfully. “Hmm,” said Mr. Burke, tapping his finger against his mouth to punctuate the sound. She tried to decide whether he found her explanation reasonable, or if the sound indicated skepticism. The whole company waited, but he offered nothing more.

“Then he is a fool, Miss Gorse,” pronounced Camellia with a strange expression on her face. “But brothers sometimes are fools.” She reached beneath her spectacles to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Gabriel, ring for tea, please.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t time, dear,” began her husband.

Camellia stopped him with a raised finger, reminding Rosamund rather abruptly that she was the eldest of the siblings and accustomed to being in charge. “Yes, yes. You want to hurry Miss Gorse away. Never mind that the poor woman is hungry and travel weary and frightened. Let her have a cup of tea.”

Lord Ashborough nodded and went to the bellpull. Critics of Lady Ashborough’s book often speculated about the degree to which the authoress had managed to tame her husband, who was accounted to have been a scoundrel. Rosamund believed she knew the answer.

When the maid arrived, Lady Ashborough said, “The tea tray, please. And be so kind as to tell my brother and sister, wherever they may be hiding, to join us.”

The maid curtsied. “Yes, my lady.” The young woman disappeared into the corridor and returned before a full minute had passed. “Begging your pardon, my lady,” the maid said. “But Mr. Philpot says that Her Grace and Mr. Burke left the house a quarter of an hour ago and didn’t say when they’d be back.”

Camellia looked as if it required all her reserves of patience not to snap at someone. “I should have been the one to talk to him.”

“Absolutely not,” her mother and Lord Ashborough said together, their voices a mixture of worry and alarm—whether for Camellia’s sake or Paris’s, she couldn’t be sure.

The fingers of Rosamund’s free hand dug into the arm of the sofa. She had known he was reluctant to come to London. His words at the last posting inn. The tight grasp of his hand in the carriage at the moment of their arrival. His sudden retreat. She hadn’t understood, however, what fueled his reluctance. She realized now the bitterest irony: The very thing she wanted most was the thing he was trying to escape. Pain had awaited him here, pain felt on all sides. Both his parents and his siblings were irritated by his behavior, obviously. But beneath their irritation, she sensed concern. Fear. What had happened to drive this wedge between Paris and his family?

And by seeking assistance from them, would she be the cause of driving it deeper?

“Forget the tea, Mary,” Lord Ashborough said. “Forgive me, Miss Gorse, but my wife needs to lie down.” With a start, Rosamund realized that tears had begun to leak from beneath the rims of Lady Ashborough’s spectacles.

“I never intended to be the cause of so much trouble—” Rosamund began, rising.

Mrs. Burke, who had also come to her feet, took her hand and patted it again. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, dear. We’re grateful you’ve brought Paris back to us.”

Then the three of them left the room, the marquess and his mother-in-law on either side of Camellia, who was vigorously waving off their attempts to fuss over her.

Rosamund had nearly forgotten Mr. Burke until he spoke behind her.

“Please forgive Gabriel, Miss Gorse. I’m afraid impending fatherhood has him rather on edge.” His wry laugh reminded her of Paris’s. “He is usually a most charming host, but I suppose no one is at their best when they’re worried about what the next day will bring.”

To that, she could readily agree.

With a wave of his hand he invited her to sit down once more on the sofa. “Put yourself at ease, my dear,” he insisted as he took the place beside her. “The matter with your brother is well in hand.”

She wanted desperately to believe that was true, and it was difficult not to have faith in Mr. Burke, who spoke with assurance and smiled in a fatherly way.

“Tell me,” he said, clearly trying to distract her, “what sort of pupils did you find my young daughters?”

“A credit to their first teacher,” she answered honestly. “Clever and bright. Astute observers.” Though lately, what they’d been observing was the growing attraction between Paris and Rosamund. Do you think my brother handsome, miss? I saw him hold your hand. I saw you kiss. What would their father think of those lessons?

He laughed, clearly pleased by her praise of his methods. “I’m delighted to hear it. I’ve made a fair few missteps in my time. But that is how we learn, eh? Trial and error. Children especially must be allowed to make their own mistakes—and be forgiven for making them.”

Mr. Burke’s child-rearing practices certainly had nothing in common with Charles’s.