Page 6 of The Lady’s Deception

Despite the soft surface on which she now lay, her muscles’ assorted twinges and aches pushed her to recall yesterday’s uncomfortable adventure. The dark, dreary walk from the castle to the village and beyond. Begging a passing farmer to take pity on her. The jouncing, jostling ride in his cart, seated atop a sack of grain, holding a pair of chickens and fending off the advances of a persistent nanny goat that had taken a fancy to her chip bonnet. Another long walk from Dublin’s outskirts into the city proper, through unfamiliar streets, amid unfamiliar faces, her destination uncertain. Pain in her feet, her legs, her head…

More wisps of memory floated through her mind, thinner now than high clouds on a summer’s day. She’d found herself in the shadows of some hulking building near the river. She’d met…a man. A handsome, dark-haired man. Too handsome to be trusted. But in an extraordinary turn of events, Mr.—Burke, wasn’t it?—had claimed to be a lawyer. He’d also clearly been expecting someone. A woman. And she’d…oh, had she really let him imagine she was the one he sought? Had she foolishly accompanied him to his home? And had she—had she fainted?

Again, her body remembered. Strong arms. The soft wool of his coat and the mingled scents of tobacco and his cologne. The welcome cocoon of heat, when she’d been so cold. He’d carried her up the stairs. He’d put her to bed. He’d—

Involuntarily, her fingers—her ungloved fingers—curled into the textured surface of a quilted linen coverlet.

“Look, Daph! She moved!”

The whisper, somewhat louder than before, came from inside the room.

“I told you she wasn’t dead.” A second girl’s voice, laced with exasperation. “Eejit.”

All at once Rosamund opened her eyes, tossed the blanket aside, and sat up, ignoring the protest of muscles whose very existence was something of a revelation, trying not to squint against the morning light. Two pairs of eyes peered over the foot of the bed, staring as if she were indeed a corpse come back to life.

She’d only been able to spare half an ear to Mr. Burke’s ramblings about his sisters, focused as she’d been on setting one foot in front of the other and swallowing the gasp of pain that rose to her lips with each step. Something about how he’d found himself unexpectedly responsible for their care and in need of assistance. And he’d assumed, somehow, that Rosamund was a—a governess. Absurd, really.

Then again…

A quick glance around the chamber revealed a second, neatly-made bed, a plain, old-fashioned wardrobe, a sturdy desk. A comfortable room in a modest, respectable home. Her brother would never think to look for her here.

In exchange for food and shelter, in exchange for the perfect hiding place, could she pretend to be a governess? Like the Burke girls, she’d never had one. Could she give instruction in French, mathematics, ladylike deportment, and…and whatever else governesses did?

Rosamund shifted her gaze from one sister to the other. They were watching her eagerly now. Expectantly. No, this would be no game of pretend. Not to them.

Well, then. What would a governess do next?

She fixed the elder girl with what she hoped was a stern eye. “You mustn’t call your sister an—” Truth be told, she wasn’t quite sure what the girl had said. But the tone in which the unfamiliar word had been spoken had been sufficient to make its meaning clear. “Ladies do not hurl insults.”

The younger gave a triumphant smile. “Yes, miss,” her sister murmured, almost penitent.

With Herculean effort she hoped would pass for ladylike grace, Rosamund swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat, ramrod straight in spite of the hollow feeling in both her head and her belly. She motioned the girls to stand in front of her and studied them for a moment. Their soft brown hair reminded her of Eugenia Carteret’s, but there the resemblance ended, for she could by no means imagine their expressions capable of that child’s sly knowingness. “I do not believe we were properly introduced last night.”

“I’m Daphne,” the elder said. “Daphne Burke. And this is Bell,” she added, nudging her sister into a curtsy.

“French for beauty,” Rosamund observed.

“No,” the girl in question corrected boldly. “Bell.” She shifted her hips so that her softly rounded skirts swayed in imitation of a ringing bell. “It’s short for Bellis.”

“We’re all named after plants,” Daphne explained. “Bellis is daisy and daphne is—”

“Poisonous!” piped Bell.

Rosamund could not keep her lips from twitching with amusement, but thankfully she managed to avert a very un-governesslike laugh.

“Papa studies botany, you see,” Daphne went on, shooting Bell a disapproving look.

“So does Erica.”

Another unusual name. “Your…sister?”

“Yes, our middle sister. This is her room. Or was. She’s married now, to an Englishman. And so is Cami—Camellia. The eldest of us. She’s—she’s in…” Daphne screwed up her face as if trying to remember the name of a place, then beamed as she parroted what she’d been told: “She’s in expectation of a happy event.”

“It means she’s having a baby,” Bell explained in a confidential whisper, not unlike the one that had woken Rosamund.

Rosamund’s lips twitched again. And when she nodded, she kept her head bowed a moment longer than was strictly necessary to hide her expression. Precocious? Was that the word to describe the girls’ behavior? Would it be her job as governess to check it? What a shame that would be…

“That’s why Papa and Mama went to London,” Daphne went on.