“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.
“Take my elder son, for example,” he continued. “I have been tempted to rail at him many times in his life. If I’d thought it would do even a bit of good, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But no one could be harder on Paris than he is on himself. He’s burdened himself with an enormous load of guilt for things far beyond his control.”
Mistakes, Paris had called the incidents that ate at him, the same word his father had used. Had he learned from them? He’d certainly suffered for them. “And I’ve only added to his burden,” she whispered.
Mr. Burke shook his head. “Oh, I do not mean to minimize your struggles,” he said quickly when she started to protest. “Or even his role in exacerbating them. Paris can be, er, difficult.” With that, he rose and paced a few steps away. “For almost a year, he’s been hiding from those who love him. I feared we’d lost him. Now, he’s come back to us. Something’s changed, certainly. And I think I know what.” He turned to look at her, his dark eyes knowing yet pained. “My son cares for you. Enough to brave a most difficult reunion.” The slightest hesitation. “Am I right in thinking you care for him too?”
Mr. Burke was as astute an observer as his daughters. Or nearly so. Care was such a—a cautious word to describe her feelings for Paris. Love, then? She knew so little of love…just enough to know that it would be foolish in the extreme to have fallen in love with a man who tried to hide his own pain behind a sardonic, charming smile.
Well, Charles had often called her a little fool. Perhaps he hadn’t always been wrong.
Somehow, she managed to nod. “But every time I think we’ve reached an understanding, he…” She glanced toward the door through which Paris had exited.
“I see.” With a thoughtful nod, he returned to the seat beside her. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I was just as hard-headed once and nearly lost the love of my life. You see, when I met Mrs. Burke, I was a poor law student with decidedly modest prospects. She was the daughter of an earl. Her father threatened to disown her if I persisted in my suit. I was ready to concede defeat, even over her protests. I believed she was too good for the likes of me.”
She thought of the way Paris held himself apart from her. Everything he’d said. You’re English. My sisters’ governess. A viscount’s daughter. Every label he’d chosen placed her somehow beyond his reach. Above his touch.
“What happened to change your mind?”
“She, er…” Uncertainty, and more than a little embarrassment, flickered across Mr. Burke’s face. “She tricked her maid, sneaked into my rooms, and, er, made her wishes in the matter quite clear.”
Mr. Burke’s meaning was equally clear. Heat swept into Rosamund’s cheeks.
“And did—did her father disown her for what she’d done?” she asked. Despite Mr. Burke’s assurances, fear of Charles loomed large. And not just fear for herself. He had the power to make Paris’s life miserable too.
“Oh, yes. Only after he died was she able to reconcile with her brother. She still will not answer to ‘Lady Anne,’ though it is her rightful title.”
It was a sort of warning, Rosamund supposed. Things surely had not always been easy. But perhaps nothing worth having ever was. “If I may be so bold, sir,” she said, “I believe I understand why a lady would be more than content to be Mrs. Burke.”
At that, Mr. Burke fairly beamed.
But would his son be so
easily persuaded?
Chapter 20
Paris was out the door and onto the street without considering where he meant to go. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Anywhere he would not see the stricken, angry, disappointed faces of his family, the ones he’d failed more times than he could count. All that mattered now was that he’d done what he’d set out to do. Daphne and Bell were once more safe in their parents’ care. Rosamund would get the help she needed. And he would get…away.
He’d not gone far before he heard the sound of someone following him. Some bit of madness made him hope it might be Rosamund, but he ruthlessly snuffed out the thought—he might want her, but she was too smart to take such a foolish risk for him. He’d put her in enough danger already.
Whoever was following moved swiftly to catch up. He slowed his steps. He’d acted childishly enough already.
“Lovely afternoon for a walk, really.” Erica fell in beside him, wearing neither bonnet nor pelisse nor gloves. After six months of marriage, she exhibited no outward signs of change, though her husband, the Duke of Raynham, was by Cami’s description a stern and orderly gentleman, a true high-stickler. In short, everything Erica was not. “But I suppose that’s not why you left. It’s a lot, isn’t it? All of us in one room…”
“Not all of us.” He hadn’t realized how much of his dread—his hope—had been focused on looking his brother in the eye, until he’d scanned the sea of faces and seen that Galen was not among them.
“Galen wanted desperately to be here when you arrived. But Papa forbade it.”
Of course. His father had always been adept at managing conflicts among the six of them.
“He insisted that Galen stay at school, or else he wouldn’t be prepared for examinations at the start of Easter term. Galen tried to argue—something about the true test of a great poet,” Erica went on with a shrug. “But you can’t win an argument with Papa.”
“No, indeed.” He’d wondered from time to time why his father had never completed the necessary terms to become a barrister. He would have been formidable in a courtroom, impossible to rattle.
She looped an arm through his, easily matching his pace with her athletic stride. “Where are you guiding me, dear sister?” he asked.
“Not far. Curzon Street. With Mama and Papa at Cami’s, I thought you might rather stay with me.”
A reprieve. A kindness he did not deserve. And damn but if his first thought was not to wonder where Rosamund would sleep.
“It will be a short stay,” he told his sister. “I intend to return to Dublin as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if I can manage it. An important case.”
Surprise flickered into her expression, but she nodded. “Papa mentioned how hard you’ve been working of late.”
He couldn’t bear what sounded suspiciously like praise. “I have. But I see now I was a fool to think I could ever make amends.” The confession came out as a whisper, hardly audible over the noise of even the quiet Mayfair streets.
She heard him, though. “Amends?” Pausing in the middle of a crossing, she fixed him with a stare. “Amends for what?”
Erica did not merely march to her own beat. She danced her own steps to music no one else ever heard. In childhood, she had been the earliest source of his discontent, the annoying, interrupting, pestering little sister with whom he’d thought he had nothing in common. Except, of course, Henry Edgeworth.
Quickly he dragged her out of the street. “Let’s not have you run down by some dandy in a high perch phaeton. I don’t need yet another stain on my conscience.”
“Another…?” She stared up at him, sudden comprehension in her eyes. “Oh. I should have known…”
He expected her to rail at him on the spot. Instead, they walked the next two blocks in stony silence. But at soon as the butler had shown them into Laurens House—a double-front brownstone that might have passed for unassuming beside the extravagance of Finch House—she turned on him with that familiar flash of fire in her eyes and said, “How dare you?”
He let himself be half-led, half-pushed into a nearby salon. The footman’s face betrayed not one whit of surprise as he pulled the door closed behind the duchess.
With four fingers planted against Paris’s chest, she gave him an easy shove onto a brocaded sofa. He supposed he ought to be grateful it wasn’t the floor. He might have resisted her—though a life spent half outdoors had made her surprisingly strong. But he was tired, and he knew he’d had this coming for a very long time. “How dare I what?”
“Make all of this—any of this—about you?” Her arm flailed out in a wide arc; if he had not leaned back, she would have struck him across the face. He tried to convince himself it would not have been deliberate. “Henry and Galen and… A Thiarna Dia,” she muttered, borrowing one of Molly’s favored Gaelic epithets. “The failure of the uprising does not rest on your shoulders.”
He could not help but wince. “Not on mine alone, no. But I have my share to bear. Whose fault was it that Henry and Galen got involved? Whose fault that Galen will be a cripple for the rest of his life and Henry—? God, Erica.” He drove his fist into the cushion beside him, wanting pain and feeling nothing. “Henry’s dead. I was supposed to be there with him. But because I was careless and let Galen out of my sight, I had to rescue my little brother first. And when I finally got to Henry…” He could feel the tremors start deep within him as the memory rose like a gory specter. “I wish I could tell you his last words were of you. But I don’t know what they were. I was too late. Afterward, I sat in our kitchen with his blood on my hands—his actual blood—and heard you tell me that I was the reason for your misery.”
Erica flopped down beside him and circled his balled fist with her hands. “In more than twenty years you’d never listened to me. Why did you have to start then?” Chidingly, she shook her head. “I was frightened. Furious. With you. With…the universe. I adored Henry. I begged him not to risk his life.”
“While I urged him on.” He shook his head. “Can you forgive me?”
“No. I can’t.” When he would have pulled away, Erica’s fingertips dug into his knuckles. “Don’t you see? I can’t forgive you because I don’t blame you. Henry believed in the cause of a free Ireland. He died for it. Don’t diminish his death by making it about something else—by making it about you.”
“Even though he—?” He bit off the words. The truth that was not his to tell.
“Loved you?” she finished in a whisper. “I didn’t realize you knew.”
Guilt will destroy you, people said. If only it were true. If only the guilt and the grief he felt had been capable of truly devouring him. Then surely, surely he wouldn’t still feel this much pain…
He managed to nod. “Yet I would have let you marry him—let him marry you—”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her toss her head. “That’s just what I mean, Paris. Let him? Let me? You take responsibility for things that have very little to do with you. You assume you know best. Henry was honest with me. He genuinely wanted my happiness. I accepted his proposal knowing he desired men. Knowing that, for a time, he fancied you—despite the fact that you’re a selfish ass, as he used to say.”
He flinched at the truth of those words, then absurdly found himself fighting a laugh. Henry would indeed have said just that. Erica smiled too through the tears welling in her eyes. Her voice was softer when she continued. “That doesn’t mean he let you exploit his love. It doesn’t mean he didn’t love Ireland too.”
Oh, there was balm in her words, and he wanted desperately to be soothed by it. Healed by it. But surely, surely, the wound was too deep…
“I’m your brother, Erica. The eldest son. I was…I was supposed to watch over you. Take care of you. And Galen and Daphne and Bell, too. Instead, Cami had to come all the way from London, with that—that English devil, and—”
“Are you referring to her husba
nd?” Abruptly, Erica released his hand. Her voice held a very Cami-ish note, and if she too had worn spectacles, she would have been peering over them disapprovingly.
“Her husband now.” He made no effort to keep the sneer from his voice. He’d tolerate the man, for both his sister’s and Rosamund’s sake, but he didn’t have to like him. “I suppose we can be grateful he married her at all.”
For a moment, his sister simply stared at him. “What are you implying, dear brother?”
Heat spread above his collar. “I think you know. Cami’s been wed just seven months. Yet she looks as if she’s going to bring that rake’s child into the world tomorrow.”
Twice she parted her lips to answer him, then stopped the words from coming—an uncommon response from the sister who had always been inclined to speak first and think later. “Do you know what I think?” she said at last. “I think your hatred for Lord Ashborough has nothing to do with him being a rake. Or an Englishman. I think you hate him because he had the audacity to save you—at a moment when you weren’t sure you wanted to be saved.”
He let his gaze wander the room, though he could take in nothing of its finery. His mind had returned to that night in the kitchen at Merrion Square, Ashborough risking his neck to help an enemy—because Cami, the woman he loved, had asked it of him.
When had Erica grown so wise?
“It’s not about you, Paris,” Erica said again, as if she intended to go on saying it until he believed her. “Our sister is incandescently happy. It would be hard to imagine a more perfect match. She’s found a man as clever as she is. He supports her writing unconditionally.” With one fingernail, she traced the flower pattern beneath her hand. “And as to the other…well, I’m sure you know as well as I what might happen between a man and woman on a long journey by carriage.” He was grateful not to have to meet her eye. “But the fact of the matter is, Cami’s as big as a barn not because the baby is coming too early for propriety’s sake, but because there are two babies.” She paused. “Gabriel’s beside himself with worry about it. His mother died in childbirth.”
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