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Nothing. Not a jot.
Mayhap Mother could be persuaded to lend her aid? Or…to take Masterson’s daughters under her comforting wing and let— What were their names?
He paused to search the archives of his mind.
Bellamy and Arabelle.
Yes, that was right.
At least he remembered that much about them. If he’d been required to inform anyone their ages, beyond young, he’d have failed, however.
In any event, perchance, Mother would agree it was best for everyone to have Bellamy and Arabelle live with the marquess and marchioness. Constancy and stability. Two parental figures were better than a rapscallion bachelor.
Not that Ronan lived a licentious existence. Because he didn’t.
Neither was he particularly pious.
True, he’d begged the Almighty to spare his life when the Nightingale sank and thanked the Lord profusely afterward as well. Yes, he attended services regularly when in London and even prayed every now and again. But he didn’t consider himself a devout man.
Rubbing his nose, he shook his head.
Even as he pondered the possibility of his parents assuming responsibility for the Masterson girls, he knew full well that his optimism was misplaced.
Nay, the glint in his stepmother’s eye yesterday did not suggest she would alleviate him of this new, wholly unwanted obligation.
There might be another recourse other than accepting the guardianship.
Would Masterson have appointed Ronan if there were?
No.
Not a leper’s chance of an invitation to court, he wouldn’t have done.
Lieutenant Masterson wasn’t a man to leave anything to chance.
“Bloody d—,” Ronan squelched the vulgar oath rising to his tongue.
As he turned to make the return trip across the Aubusson cranberry, juniper-green, and tobacco-brown carpet, his attention fell on the two letters stacked in the right corner atop Father’s desk.
He’d perused both innumerable times and grudgingly admitted that his sire had been right to have read the missive from Bralen. Particularly as the solicitor had called at the marquess’s residence no less than five times in the past several weeks in an effort to contact Ronan.
The man’s dedication to his duties was commendable, if somewhat annoying and perhaps even overbearing. Hadn’t he repeatedly been told that he’d be notified the instant Ronan returned to England? At which time, the impending guardianship would be discussed down to the last maddening detail.
Did that Bralen fellow think calling every week would expedite the ship’s voyage? Alter the ocean’s currents? Impact the winds? Lessen the cargo hold’s heavy load, which caused the vessel to ride low in the water?
In truth, Ronan mightn’t have returned to England for another month or two or even more.
Guardianship.
A low growl slipped past his lips.
He’d truly been named a guardian, and to a pair of young females at that.
What in God’s holy name did he know about such matters?
Again, something akin to dread burgeoned through him from his taut stomach to his constricted throat. At the forest-green, velvet festooned draperies, he pivoted and marched in the other direction again.
The second letter, only received a few days ago from a Miss Mercy Feathers, wasn’t as official as Bralen’s. Yet the missive could never be misconstrued as anything but an artfully crafted, professional correspondence.
