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If Benjamin, the youngest Brockman brother at seven-and-twenty, was present, however, he’d give Ronan a cocky salute and make a ridiculous inquiry about whether he was wearing undergarments, had applied bear oil to style his short hair, or some other equally inappropriate query.

Benjamin was the opposite of Sanford in every possible way, from Benjamin’s fair coloring to his easygoing, jocular temperament. Ronan fell somewhere in the middle, which was why he was oft’ called upon to act the peacekeeper between his two vastly different brothers.

Their half-sisters, Corrina and Marissa, resembled their mother—Ronan and his brothers’ stepmother—from the marchioness’s ashen curls to her pale blue eyes. Whereas Marissa possessed her mother’s calm, gentle temperament, Corrina possessed the fieriest temper of all of the Brockmans.

Concealing a wide yawn behind his hand, Ronan pulled the door shut on his rented rooms with the other. He blinked wearily, his eyes gritty and dry from too little sleep.

Lord, he was bloody tired.

He hadn’t climbed into his somewhat inviting bed until the first rays of dawn shamelessly flirted with the horizon.

Why in God’s holy name was he being beckoned at this hour?

More on point, how had Father even known he’d returned from the United States? The ship had only dropped anchor early this morn.

A wry grin tilted Ronan’s mouth at one corner.

Father knew everything.

A mouse didn’t fart in Pelandale House without the estimable Marquess of Trentholm knowing.

Likely, he’d had someone watching the docks for days in anticipation of Ronan’s return.

That wasn’t unusual.

Father kept close tabs on all three of his sons. Not only because he was controlling and commanding, which being a marquess, he was, of course. But because he also genuinely cared about his heir, spare, and third son.

Naturally, he worried over his two cossetted daughters, but the majority of their care he left to his wife’s competent hands.

Even at nearly thirty, being the middle son and having been sickly as a child, Ronan received the greatest percentage of his father’s…not precisely fussing, but definitely interference and concern. Never mind that Ronan had served as a sub-lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy for six years and survived the Nightingale’s sinking.

He traced a fingertip the length of the scar running from his left ear, over his jaw, down his neck until the thin, jagged line disappeared into the hastily tied folds of his lopsided cravat.

In point of fact, he was lucky to have survived.

Many—too many—had not.

A hazy image blocked his vision, and the paneled corridor faded away to that fateful day and the horrors he’d tried to forget: The screams of the wounded and dying. The deafening blast of cannon fire from the pirate ship. Acrid smoke. Searing heat. Agonizing pain. Agony so overwhelming, he’d begged for death.

He was one of only eleven men able to escape. They’d spent days crowded into a single lifeboat floating in the North Atlantic Sea with no food and little water.

A new camaraderie—more profound and more meaningful—had sprung up among those survivors. When one faces death with someone, it changes one—melds men together on a primal level and in a manner difficult to express with words.

Eventually, a Dutch cargo ship had spotted their small craft bobbing in the icy sea and rescued them. Most of the sailors left the navy within a year or two of that disastrous event, but they’d stayed in touch, nonetheless.

Not regularly, however.

For men, at least those he was acquainted with, weren’t the best at correspondence. Nevertheless, occasionally, a letter found its way to him, and sporadically, he’d respond. Lieutenant Lewis Masterson had arranged a few reunions, and every man who’d survived the Nightingale’s sinking and who also still drew breath made a point to attend.

Sadly, at their last meeting, their number had dwindled to eight. Time and age offered no partiality to any man, lowborn or high. Rich or poor. Decent or depraved. Each eventually faced his Maker and was held accountable for his actions and words.

Giving himself a mental shrug and shaking his head and shoulders to dispel his dark reverie, Ronan made his way through the shadowy corridor, down the narrow stairwell, and out to the waiting coach. As always, the conveyance shone like a well-polished stone.

Praise God it was February, and no blaring sun blinded him, worsening his already pounding head. Lack of sleep always had that effect on him. Until he slept it off, the drums echoing inside his skull would continue to thunder mercilessly.

As Ronan approached, Pillington promptly opened the coach door.

Still pondering why his father couldn’t have waited until a more hospitable hour to demand his second son play attendance upon him, he gave the servant a sardonic upward bend of his mouth and climbed inside.