Page 17

Although Miss Feathers’s letter was proper to the extreme, Ronan couldn’t help but sense an undercurrent of disapproval woven into her perfectly articulated script.

Bralen’s letter succinctly informed Ronan he’d been appointed guardian to Masterson’s daughters and steward of their inheritance upon Lieutenant Lewis Masterson’s demise on 7 January 1818.

However, Miss Feathers had politely inquired precisely when Ronan intended to meet his wards of seven weeks and two days—a definite jab there—and whether it would be prudent for her to search for a new governess position.

The latter was a definite not-as-long-as-he-drew-a-breath no.

At least Miss Feathers—

How long had she been governess to his wards—er, soon-to-be wards?

He speared a glance toward the letters once more.

Ah, yes.

She had been employed as their governess for five years.

At least Miss Feathers knew the Masterson girls well. And, of course, the girls would need a governess until he’d determined what to do with them. Someone they knew and were comfortable with was all the better. It would save him a tremendous amount of inconvenience and time. Not to mention alleviating distress for the children.

Plowing his fingers through his already mussed short hair, Ronan stopped at the window on the other side of the study that looked out upon the street. The dark, dreary, and blustery day kept all but the most intrepid inside. Even as he watched the few brave souls scuttling along the lane, a rickety hired hack rattled to a stop before the mansion.

The miserable, swayback nag pulling the equally saggy and worse-for-wear conveyance half-heartedly swished her tail in a defeated manner. The poor old creature ought to be inside a warm stable munching warm mash instead of plodding London’s rain-slickened streets.

Carrying a walnut-colored leather satchel, a little stick of a man emerged from the vehicle. Even from this distance, Ronan could see the sharp angles of Bralen’s skeletal cheek and jawbone. His functional black-caped cloak whipped around his stick-like calves as the solicitor held one bony hand to his hat. Squinting against the blustery wind, he peered up at the house.

Feeling like a child sneaking a peek at guests attending a glittering ball, Ronan edged into the draperies. Bralen was not at all the type of solicitor he’d expected Masterson to have retained, but appearances were oft’ misleading.

That was one reason why Ronan generally gave everyone the benefit of the doubt and strove not to be judgmental. More than once, that philosophy had landed him in a spot of trouble.

For the truth of it was that appearances could and often did say a great deal about a person. And while it was noble and benevolent to assume people were good and honest, many—a great many to be perfectly candid—were rotten and corrupt to their putrid cores.

A few moments later, Sturges rapped upon the doorframe of the open study door. “Joseph Bralen, Esquire, sir.”

Standing before the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, Ronan lifted his attention from the frolicking flames.

“My lord.” Sans his outerwear, Bralen gave a smart bow before his keen gaze raked over Ronan.

And found him wanting.

Ronan saw it in the faintest twitch of the man’s upper lip and the disparaging, minutest narrowing of his eyes. And the way his attention had lingered on Ronan’s less than artful cravat.

On the other hand, Mr. Bralen’s neckcloth was a well-starched, simple but precise execution of folded and tied perfection.

In truth, Ronan didn’t give a donkey’s bray what the spindly solicitor thought of him.

“I beg your pardon for my tardiness. The roads were unusually congested for this time of day,” Bralen said while taking in the room.

“It is of no matter, Mr. Bralen.” Ronan swept his arm toward the desk. “Please. Have a seat.”

After the slightest hesitation, the solicitor dipped his nearly bald head and marched toward the desk, his damp shoes squeaking with each step.

Squeak. Squelch. Squeak. Squelch.

Like a mouse. Or rat.

“The marquess will not be joining us?” Bralen asked, opening the clasps of his portfolio. He glanced up expectantly as Ronan took the chair behind his father’s impressive desk.

“No. My father will not.”