Page 47 of No Lady for the Lord

What the devil? Something was too smoky by far.

I do so appreciate the offer, Chasity, but I cannot bring myself to leave the children.

Lord and Lady Ceddes neglect them dreadfully, barely taking the time to come down

to the country seat twice annually and then only for a fortnight. The Ceddes are vain,

contrary, and vexingly difficult on a good day. For certain, I would be better off

teaching at Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies. Pomeroy is off to

Harrow next year, and the Ceddes have mentioned sending the girls abroad.

Perhaps I can come then if a position is still available.

~ Miss Purity Mayfield in a letter to Miss Chasity Noble

Pelandale House

Mercy’s bedchamber

Three hours later

Mercy wasn’t sure how she managed to get through the past three hours with her poise and dignity intact.

Pluck, fortitude, and pure mulish determination. That is how.

The charming chamber, more befitting a welcome guest than a governess, had taken her quite by surprise. Indeed, her room at Masterson’s had been comfortable, and she’d lacked for nothing. Nonetheless, that bedchamber had clearly been intended for a servant.

This delightful room with its cream background silk wallpaper that was covered in ferns and flower sprays, the plush green velvet draperies suspended on brass rosettes and held back with a matching silk cord, and the thickest Aubusson carpet she’d ever stood upon provided the perfect backdrop for the rosewood empire furnishings.

In truth, she felt more like an honored visitor than an employee.

Lying on her back upon her deliciously soft mattress—it felt as if she rested upon a fluffy cloud—topped with a floral yellow, ivory, and green coverlet, she closed her eyes and pressed a palm to her pounding forehead.

Headaches rarely inconvenienced her. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d been afflicted by one. Rubbing little circles with her fingertips upon each temple, she attempted to ease the thrumming.

She could only suppose it was the strain of a long day’s travel and being thrust into a new household. Pointedly avoiding looking at Ronan as much of the journey as possible while her stomach roiled with tension and nerves had strained her to the extreme too.

After Lady Trentholm had shushed her flabbergasted daughter, the kind woman had ushered Mercy and the girls into the drawing room and politely inquired about the journey. The whole while, Mercy was very aware of the concert of six gazes studying her with uncanny scrutiny, including Ronan.

Naturally, she’d dredged up her equanimity and pretended Lady Corinna’s openmouthed outburst hadn’t shaken Mercy to her toes. It had, of course. She’d be a self-deceiving fool to deny it.

It had also raised questions. Lots of questions.

Duke of who?

Who was this Adelhied Tyndal?

Why had Lady Trentholm interrupted her daughter?

Did Ronan know?