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Ronan leaned back into the chair, putting off an air of false serenity. Another trick he’d learned to put his adversaries at ease.
Was Joseph Bralen, Esquire an adversary?
Time would tell.
Originally, Ronan had intended to retain Miss Feathers as governess for the time being. However, if what Bralen alluded was true, that would be impossible. A woman of loose virtue would tarnish his wards’ reputations.
“Have you any basis for your theory?” he asked casually, mindful of making Bralen believe they were of a like mind. “Any witnesses to her…ah…indiscretions or immoral behavior?”
Dirt-brown eyes glittering with cruel delight, Bralen nodded, looking very much like a trained parrot. “’Tis common knowledge in Rochester. Several people insinuated as much to me when I made inquiries about the extent of the lieutenant’s debt. Also,” he went on, his scrawny chest swelling in self-satisfaction, “when I advised the merchants to extend no further credit in Lieutenant Masterson’s name.”
What in hellfire?
Not only had this maggot not provided monies for Masterson’s household to live on, but he’d also severed all lines of credit too.
How had they managed?
Perhaps desperation had prompted Miss Feathers’s bold correspondence.
Guilt tightened the wad in Ronan’s stomach. Though why he should feel guilty when he hadn’t even been aware of Masterson’s passing made no sense.
“That, Mr. Bralen, is gossip. I do not base decisions or actions on rumors or tattle. Have you anyone, a single person, who can vouch with absolute confidence that Miss Feathers was Lieutenant Masterson’s mistress?”
The solicitor gave an eager nod again as he withdrew another document and slid it across the desk to Ronan.
Ronan glanced down, and his stomach constricted impossibly more.
The deuced guardianship contract.
“Yes, indeed, my lord,” Bralen, all but crowed. “A former maid, Cammie Sumner, vowed she’d seen Miss Feathers leaving the lieutenant’s bedchamber on multiple occasions.”
You are right to be concerned on Mercy’s behalf, Purity.
Please keep our dear friend in your prayers. Doctor Morrisette
told me just yesterday afternoon that he has heard ugly whispers in
Rochester about Mercy. Brandon says his patients babble on about all manner
of things, and many of them love nothing better than to share the latest on dit.
They claim Mercy was the lieutenant’s mistress. Of course, we know how utterly
ludicrous such an accusation is. Regardless, if this defaming slander spreads,
she might not be able to find a new position. I must warn her.
~ Mrs. Joy Morrisette in a letter to Miss Purity Mayfield
Rochester, England
Masterson residence
4 March 1818
Midmorning
Hands on her hips, Mercy perused the salon she’d just tidied. Another task she’d taken on since the last maid had left five days ago. That same day, Mercy had tossed the only remaining bouquet of wilted lilies in the rubbish bin. If she never saw another lily for as long as she lived and breathed, she would not regret it.
