Without craning her neck or shifting her position, she could watch the scenery outside the windows change. The houses grew larger, the streets wider and quieter. She might now, if she looked, be able to sort out one carriage from the next, to determine how closely Charles followed. Only Paris’s touch kept her from moving, from torturing herself.
“Cami lives here?” Bell’s question held a mixture of awe and worry. She stroked Eileen’s fur with vigor, like a mother cat trying to make her baby look respectable. The kitten tolerated the attention for a few moments before crouching and springing with a wobble from Bell’s lap to Paris’s, her favored spot. The slightest grimace flickered across his face as her claws sank through his woolen breeches.
“Yes,” he said as the carriage rolled to a stop on one of the tree-lined streets of Grosvenor Square. “Just here.”
Liveried footmen came down the steps of the townhouse to help them from the carriage. Unceremoniously, Paris plucked Eileen from his leg with his free hand and nodded for Daphne to open to the basket. Once the kitten had been secured, he opened the door and stepped down to help Rosamund out, all without releasing her hand, his touch light but still a source of strength.
Her feet on the ground, she scanned the street. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw a man, not in livery, perhaps not even a servant, approach the carriage to speak to the driver. Instinctively, she sought to raise the alarm, but Paris handed her off to a footman before she could speak.
Realizing that to linger in the open might be dangerous if Charles were in fact close behind them, she hurried toward the stairs instead. The house itself was five stories tall and nearly as wide—to call it imposing would hardly do it justice. The home of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England. Surely even Charles might quail a bit at the thought of knocking at its front door, to say nothing of attempting to enter uninvited.
Behind her, she could hear the bustle of the girls clambering out of the carriage, squabbling over who would carry the kitten’s basket, speculating eagerly over what their mother might say about Eileen and whether Cami would allow an animal in the house. The normality of it all brought a small smile to her lips. She cast a furtive glance over one shoulder and saw Paris speaking to the stranger; nothing about his posture indicated that the man was a threat. Perhaps he had been right when he had promised all would be well. Her fingers tingled with the remembered warmth of his touch.
And then she also remembered his determination to return to Dublin at the first opportunity. Perhaps that touch had been his way of saying good-bye.
This time, the violent shudder that rattled through her caused her to stumble on the second to last step. All at once the door opened and the girls rushed past her to enter the house. She might have lost her balance entirely if Paris had not materialized at her side and set one hand under her elbow to keep her on her feet. “No need to be nervous,” he insisted, though his own gaze was fixed on the cavernous entry hall and she thought she heard a note of uncertainty in his voice.
An old and suitably creaky butler bowed them in. “Mr. Burke, I gather. You are expected. I’ll show you upstairs.”
The girls’ voices ricocheted between the marble floors and a high coved ceiling painted with scenes from some mythological battle. Rosamund did not try to sort out which battle. At the moment, the real ones she faced were more than sufficient to occupy her mind.
With Paris’s hand still on her arm, she followed the butler. The girls fell in behind, muttering irritably about the slow pace the man set. They stopped before a tall set of doors, which a footman opened. The butler stepped inside. “Mr. Burke. Miss Gorse. Miss Daphne Burke. And Miss—”
Bell, seeing no need to wait for an introduction to her own family, charged into the room, Eileen’s basket in hand, and was greeted with a deep “Woof!” that seemed to vibrate throughout the house.
“Now, Elf. Behave.” A gentleman’s voice, fairly bursting with amusement. “And you must be Bell. What’s that you’ve got?”
Though she could not yet see into the room, Rosamund could hear Bell’s stammering answer. “A k-kitten. Her name’s Eileen.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps we’d best send Elf down to the garden until proper introductions can be made. Philpot?”
Framed in the doorway, the butler’s shoulders sank. “Yes, my lord.” He disappeared into the room and reemerged with one thin hand on the collar of an English mastiff whose head reached the man’s waist. A less effective stay against the dog’s obvious strength and energy, Rosamund could hardly imagine. The dog snuffed both her and Paris in passing, then thumped obligingly down the staircase, ignoring Daphne who had pressed herself against the wall.
In spite of herself, Rosamund sucked in a little gasp of surprise. But genuine bafflement had settled over Paris’s features, and he muttered, “Cami has a dog?”
“I guess we should show ourselves in, now we’ve been announced,” said Daphne and crossed the threshold.
Paris and Rosamund followed. The drawing room was large and elegantly furnished. Tall windows at front and back, framed by gold draperies, cast late afternoon light across blue and bronze papered walls. But what Rosamund noticed first were the people, a roomful of them, all approaching at once with exclamations of welcome and relief, laughter over the imagined altercation between dog and cat, questions that were fated to go unheard and unanswered. Irish voices and English ones. A flash of startlingly red hair. She hardly knew where to look.
Overwhelming, yes, because so far beyond her experience. And yet the warmth in the room drew her, drove back the chill of fear and loneliness. She wanted to step right into the middle of it, like one stepped into the comfort of a familiar embrace. She would have done, if not for the pressure of Paris’s fingertips just above her elbow.
He was hanging back, everything about him shuttered like a house battened down for a storm. Dread was etched into his face. He seemed to lack the power to take another step, and Rosamund found herself wondering whether he had grasped her hand in the carriage not to reassure her but to seek reassurance.
A woman with dark hair and spectacles struggled to rise from her chair, one hand on a belly swollen with child, and made her way toward them. “You must be Miss Gorse. Welcome to Finch House. I’m—”
“Lady Ashborough.” Paris spoke as if the name belonged to a stranger.
The lady sent him a sharp glance. She shared Paris’s raven hair, but her eyes were a brilliant shade of emerald green. “Camellia,” she finished, turning back to Rosamund. “Paris’s elder sister.”
Rosamund, feeling all the awkwardness of the sibling reunion, blurted out, “I’ve read your book.”
A fashionably-dressed gentleman glided over to their circle. “Many thanks, ma’am. My wife’s eager readers help keep us in dog food.” A wink creased the corner of his eye, and he bowed. “Ashborough, at your service.” When Rosamund rose from her answering curtsy, he held out an arm to her. “Allow me to make the introductions.”
Paris still had not released her. “No time for pleasantries,” he said shortly. His voice cut through the chatter and commanded the room to attention. “This is Miss Gorse.”
“Why’s everyone so interested in our governess?” Bell was standing in the center of the room, showing off Eileen to a woman with flaming red hair streamed down her back, kneeling on the floor before her: her sister Erica, Rosamund could easily guess. The Duchess of Raynham. There was something hoydenish about her—at least, that’s what Mrs. Sloane would have said. Rosamund, having never met either a hoyden or a duchess, liked Erica on sight.
Without lifting her eyes from the kitten, and yet giving the impression she saw a great deal, Erica said, “I don’t think she’s your governess anymore, Bell.”
At those words, Paris abruptly let go of her arm, and the space between them, a few inches at most, felt suddenly vast. “Miss Gorse needs your help.” He laid a curiou
s stress on the word your, as if to exclude himself. His gaze had been traveling the room as he spoke, but something brought him up short. Squaring his shoulders, he gave a crisp nod. “If you’ll excuse me.” Before anyone could reply, he disappeared through the still open door.
“Ordinarily, we pretend Paris improves on acquaintance,” said the duchess. “But you must already know the truth, Miss Gorse.” Rosamund could not keep herself from starting at the remark. Erica gave an exasperated sigh—Rosamund knew, now, where Daphne had learned it. “I suppose someone should go after him,” she said, and when no one else either agreed or offered, she sighed again and rose.
“Wait, Erica.” The man who spoke had dark eyes, but his once black hair had been transformed over time to the shade of polished pewter. Paris’s father, undoubtedly. There was more of Ireland in his voice than in his son’s, but Rosamund had no difficult in determining who had taught Paris to speak in a way that made people listen.
He withdrew a folded paper from inside his coat. “See that he gets this.”
“Yes, Papa,” the duchess said, taking the letter and following her brother out.
When she had gone, Rosamund felt every eye in the room upon her. She hardly dared to step forward, though she knew she must. Once she could muster the strength, she moved to the center of the room. To Bell and Daphne, who were looking at her with expressions of hurt and betrayal.
“Not our governess?” Daphne spoke first, not just her face but her entire body pinched and wary.
“I owe you an apology, Daphne. And you too, Bell,” she said, shifting her gaze from one to the other. “The truth is, I never was your governess.”
Bell tipped her head to the side. “Of course you were. You built us a schoolroom and you taught us loads.”
“It was only ever a temporary post.” Rosamund tucked a soft brown curl behind the girl’s ear. “Only until you were reunited with your parents.”
“But what about Paris?” Daphne folded her thin arms across her chest, withdrawing even further into herself. “I saw you—” Heat rushed into Rosamund’s cheeks, but she made no attempt to stop the girl from speaking. “In the carriage. I saw him hold your hand.”
This time, Rosamund would not deny it, though she could only guess what his family must think. “Yes, he did. I am very grateful to him for bringing me all this way and for trying to comfort me when I was frightened. I scarcely deserve such kindness. You see, I deceived your brother. When I learned he was in search of a governess, I let him believe I was she.”
“You lied?” Bell inched closer to her sister.
Daphne appeared to consider this revelation for a moment. “I think…I think perhaps she felt she had to,” she explained to Bell. “Remember what she told us in the ship? And remember those men? That’s why she was frightened. That’s why she left us. Isn’t that right, Miss Gorse?” With earnest eyes, she looked up, seeking confirmation.
Rosamund could only nod. Laying a hand on Daphne’s shoulder, she faced the others. “I hope all of you can forgive my duplicitousness. Although I wish it were in my power to contradict Mr. Burke’s claim, I’m afraid he spoke the truth. I am very much in need of assistance. My brother, Lord Setterby, is no more than a few hours from London. We crossed paths on the road, though I do not think he saw us. And Lord Dashfort, the man he insists I marry, is traveling with him.”
A gentleman came forward, tall and sharp featured, with tawny hair. He moved with confidence, the sort of man used to taking charge. “Raynham, ma’am.” His bow was stiff but not unfriendly, features too harsh to be handsome. “A pleasure to meet you. You must be fatigued after your journey. Won’t you sit down?”
He gestured toward the sofa and the empty seat beside a woman of fifty-something, with dark blond hair—or perhaps light brown, shaded with gray. Paris’s mother, she supposed. She had hazel eyes, more green than brown, though they lacked the gem-like intensity of her eldest daughter’s.
“An excellent idea,” proclaimed Lady Ashborough, who looked on the verge of collapse herself. Well, not collapse. It would be difficult to image her susceptible to such weakness. But it was easy enough to see how she might topple forward and end up like a trapped tortoise, unable to right herself again. With one hand on her back and another on her husband’s arm, she made her way to a chair and gingerly lowered herself into it.
Raynham remained standing. “If I may, ma’am,” he said, addressing his words to Mrs. Burke, at present fussing over Daphne and Bell, who had followed Rosamund to the sofa. “I know how eager you must be to spend time with your youngest daughters. But the conversation of adults cannot be entertaining to them.” Then, to Rosamund’s surprise, he unbent, lowering himself to look Daphne and Bell in the eye. “My sister, Lady Viviane, has asked if you might keep her company this evening, at my stepmother’s house.”
Though Rosamund recognized the move was intended to ensure the girls’ safety, she expected some resistance to the offer. But the duke had a way of speaking that made refusal difficult. With a quick glance at one another, they nodded.
“May we bring Eileen?” Bell asked.
He smiled. “I suspect my sister would never forgive me if I said no.” He rose. “If you’ll wait for me on the landing, we can be on our way in five minutes.” After kissing their parents and their sister, the girls went to the door.
The knot that had begun to form in Rosamund’s stomach swelled, rising into her throat. Absurd to feel alone, for the room was still half full of people. But they were strangers. Paris had gone and now Daphne and Bell were leaving. For a week, she had allowed herself to live the ridiculous lie that they were—could be—her family. This, however, was their real family, and now she had no connection to it, beyond her desperation and their charity, both of which she wished to be able to deny.
Once the girls were gone, the duke turned to address Rosamund again. “I believe it will be best for you to stay with me and my wife, Miss Gorse. Every step between you and Setterby that can be lengthened or redirected is to our advantage.”
Our. Could he understand the comfort that single word brought? The knowledge that she was not alone. And yet, discomfort lingered. Because it seemed clear the word did not comprise Paris.
“My secretary, Mr. Remington, will accompany you to Laurens House whenever you are ready.”
“Secretary?” Amusement curved Lord Ashborough’s lips. “Not that I doubt Remy’s ability to write a neat hand. But I expected a somewhat flashier title for his new post. Aide-de-camp, perhaps.”
“I wonder which of us you intend to skewer with that remark,” Raynham replied, also amused, she decided, though she had not been sure of it at first. The two very different men, linked by their two very different wives, though sisters, appeared to have reached a somewhat uncomfortable accommodation.
“Myself, of course,” answered Ashborough with another smile, before growing serious. “Remy gave the coachman clear instructions?”
“Naturally.”
“What—what sort of instructions?” Rosamund dared to ask. He must have been the man she’d noticed on the street.
“Though Burke’s letter was full of reassurances about your earlier escape, I nonetheless anticipated Setterby might be searching for you,” Raynham explained. “Mr. Remington merely offered your driver an…incentive to return from whence he’d come by a different route. To forget his passengers and where he delivered them. In cases like this, you see, I prefer a bit of insurance to prevent loose lips.”
Just how much experience could a duke have with cases like this? “But my brother already knows—”
“Too much, yes. But rest assured. You shall have nothing to fear from him. We are prepared to meet him in your place, whenever he arrives.” A nod of his head made clear that we referred to him and Lord Ashborough. She was less certain what was meant by their willingness to meet her brother. A conversation? A duel? “If you wi
sh it.”
Did she wish it…whatever it might be? There was an appeal in avoiding another confrontation with Charles. A separate appeal in telling her brother just what she thought of what he had done, and what he was trying to do.
Paris’s mother reached for her hand and patted it reassuringly. “Thank you,” Rosamund managed, looking from one gentleman to the other. The duke bowed and was gone.
“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.
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