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his wards are not little boys, which I believe he would be quite adequate

at supervising. No, indeed. Ronan’s charges are young girls. I shall keep you

abreast of all the details. The Masterson sisters arrive within a fortnight.

I think Ronan shall surprise us all, however—most of all himself.

~ Miss Corrina Brockman in a letter to Miss Cathryn Knighton

Masterson residence

Twenty very long minutes later

Having been relieved of his greatcoat, gloves, and hat by Miss Feathers, Ronan paced Lieutenant Masterson’s comfortable salon as he awaited the arrival of his charges and an overdue introduction. The tasteful furnishings were homey and welcoming, though no fire burned in the hearth as the chilly day would seem to require.

Likely, the tastefully decorated salon was only used for company, and as Miss Feathers hadn’t expected anyone today, no fire had been lit. He could appreciate the wisdom of economizing but couldn’t help but wonder if the rest of the house was as drafty and cold.

A shame the place was already on the market.

Though the estate lacked the majestic rolling lawns and grand sweeping drive of Kelvingrove Park—the marquessate’s country seat—it truly was a charming home in a bubonic fashion.

Ronan couldn’t quite stifle the guilt that poked him at his decision to sell Masterson’s property. He had authorized Mr. Bralen to discreetly put the place on the market that afternoon they’d met in the Marquess of Trentholm’s study.

He had the unpleasant task of informing his new wards and their governess of that unfortunate situation. This house was their home no longer, which they might’ve expected temporarily. However, he felt quite certain that no one, other than Mr. Bralen and perhaps Masterson himself, had considered they would never walk these halls again.

For all of ten irrational seconds, Ronan had pondered purchasing the property himself but had discarded the notion just as speedily. It was one thing to visit his wards at their home when they were the beneficiaries of said property. It was another thing entirely to acquire the mansion and then try to explain to Masterson’s daughters why it was no longer theirs.

It was much too complicated, and in the long run, Ronan feared it might’ve led to thorny relationships. Better, in this case, for the girls to start anew in London surrounded by his family. Father had a lovely country seat and multiple other mansions scattered around England. Mayhap one of those would become Bellamy and Arabelle’s permanent residence.

Which meant Ronan would be under his father’s thumb all the more.

A coarse sailor’s curse tickled the back of his teeth, but he restrained himself and instead muttered “Sweet Jesus” beneath his breath.

Unlike his brothers, he wanted to make his own way in the world. He didn’t want the fact that his father was a powerful lord to pave the way for opportunities or favors. Ronan far preferred to forge his own convoluted path, even if that meant he made mistakes. So far, his judgment and investments had proved sound, and he’d amassed a small but respectable fortune.

Although Ronan had intended to set out for Rochester straightaway after meeting with Joseph Bralen, the marquess, of course, had much different plans. Plans which included preparations for Masterson’s daughters' arrival in Mayfair. Therefore, Ronan would also move back into the Trentholm mansion, set back from the street and conveniently—or most inconveniently—possessing several unoccupied bedchambers.

Neither of his parents would hear of him letting a house in London to accommodate his new wards when there were well-appointed bedchambers, a nursery, and a schoolroom sitting empty in the ostentatious manor. Nor would they conceive, as he’d already deduced, that the girls should take up residence in Mayfair while he retained his comfortable bachelor’s rooms.

That desperate dream had been the stuff of which fantasies were spun.

Of all the things Ronan had envisioned after learning Masterson had appointed him guardian to his daughters, taking up residence under the Marquess of Trentholm’s roof once again had not topped the list as desirable options.

In fact, it wasn’t on any list. Ronan had never expected to reside under his father’s roof again except for an occasional visit.

Nonetheless, he’d finally conceded to the logic of such an arrangement. Once the necessary details had been attended to and his belongings had been delivered to his former bedchamber, a peculiar sense of peace had settled inside him.

This was the right thing to do—the best thing for Arabelle and Bellamy.

For now, at least.

Ronan was no chucklehead. He readily acknowledged that he required his mother and sisters’ help in this endeavor. What he knew about raising little girls wouldn’t fill a salt spoon.

The image of Miss Mercy Feathers’s expression when he’d addressed her by her name and then introduced himself brought another round of chuckles. A concert of emotions had played across the delicate angles of her face: incredulity, shock, mortification, resignation, and finally, obsequiousness.

Why the latter peeved him, he couldn’t identify. He far preferred the spirited woman who’d yanked the door open and told him to be on his way than the deferential servant who’d led him to the salon.

Bralen had mentioned the governess was pretty.