Page 67 of The Lady’s Deception

“Stay the hell out of my affairs, Ashborough.”

“Gladly. Get the hell out of my house.”

Her brother was all cold fury. She thought for a moment that he really would leave. But Lord Ashborough had a keen instinct for just how far a man could be pushed. Charles rocked back on his heels and folded his arms across his chest. “Not without my sister.”

“No.” As she pushed into the room, four heads swiveled in unison. For just a moment, her resolve faltered. Old habits—even bad ones, like deference and obedience to her heartless brother—were not easy to break. Charles would have lunged toward her, but Raynham rose and stepped between them. She continued speaking as if there’d been no interruption. “And if you try to force me, I’ll—I’ll tell everyone I saw a ghost at Kilready Castle.”

He’d so often tried to make her believe what wasn’t true or forget what was. But she suspected that whatever perverse value she held for him would be sorely diminished if the world thought her mad.

Dashfort looked stunned. “You what?”

“You dare to threaten me with some nonsense from a gothic novel? Well, keep it up and you’ll soon find yourself living in one. The day you turn one and twenty, I’ll wash my hands of you,” Charles snarled. “You’ve got nothing to your name—why, I’d wager even that dress is borrowed. If you won’t marry Dashfort, how do you mean to survive?”

She willed her spine straighter. “I’ll work. I’ll find a post as a governess—”

“A governess? You’ll be lucky to find work as a scullery maid when I’m through. You’ll have nothing, nothing!”

The hinge on the door leading into the library from the corridor creaked as it swung inward. She realized now that it must never have been shut tight after her brother and Lord Dashfort had been shown in.

Paris stepped into the room. He did not look at her. His dark eyes were fixed squarely on her brother. Despite his rather rumpled clothes and unshaven jaw and mussed hair—he’d been running his hands through it again—he commanded perfect attention when he spoke, as he always did.

“That’s a lie, Lord Setterby. And you know it as well as I.”

Chapter 23

Paris forced himself not to look at Rosamund, though she was all he saw.

“Burke.” Setterby spat out his name and Paris nearly smiled. Anger was easy to manipulate. “You dare to show your face after what you’ve done?”

He did laugh then. “And what sin is it you suppose I’ve committed, my lord?” The viscount could have no idea.

“You abducted my sister.”

“What patent nonsense is that, Charles?” Her voice sliced the thick air between them. “You’ve been the one attempting to violate my will.”

Paris couldn’t have scripted a more perfect opening. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the paper Erica had given him the day before. He’d forgotten all about it until the early hours of the morning, when he’d awoken alone and needed some diversion to keep himself from seeking out Rosamund.

He stepped forward. “Speaking of wills…”

Setterby, who had turned toward his sister, spun around again, his face a startling shade of puce. “How’s that?”

“This is a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Charles Gorse, Ninth Viscount Setterby,” he said, holding up the folded parchment. “Your father, yes?”

Some of the color left the man’s face. His eyes, ordinarily so like Rosamund’s, were hard as slate. “Of course.”

“Which of us, sir, will have the pleasure of telling your sister what it contains?”

Ashborough gave a theatrical gasp. “Oh, dear. The plot thickens. My wife will be sorry to have missed this. She might write it into her next book.”

Annoyance flickered across Setterby’s countenance. “So glad to furnish amusement, Ashborough. As to the will, it’s all legal flourishes, dry as dust. My chit of a sister can have no interest in, nor comprehension of, such a document.”

Paris could see Rosamund’s lips part as she prepared to challenge her brother, so he continued smoothly, “The law does indeed have its peculiar forms. Shall I translate it for her, Setterby? Or will you?”

“There’s nothing to explain.” Setterby gave a dismissive wave of one hand. “My father’s will named me her sole guardian. What else about that paper can concern her?”

“I suspect she might feel some interest in other portions of it. Her inheritance, for example.”

Rosamund gasped, as he had expected. Equally expected was Lord Dashfort’s impassivity. Of course he’d known. Only Rosamund had been kept in the dark.