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If a pretty gown cheered them up, then so be it. Lovely frocks that dripped with ruffles and bows and buttons and lace, if they so desired. Ronan would speak with Mademoiselle De la Cour himself regarding the matter.

Would a dozen for each of his wards suffice? Naturally, with matching slippers and any other fripperies necessary.

Mercy would know what was needed.

He’d ask her. It would give him just the excuse Ronan desired to have a few moments alone with her without his conscience chiding him like the flames of hell licking at his heels.

You are a bounder and a churl, Ronan Mitchell Forsythe Brockman.

So much for his over-zealous conscience keeping silent.

Devil take scruples and integrity.

It is the oddest thing. Lady Corinna acted as if she recognized me.

She mentioned a duke too, but Lady Trentholm cut her off before she said his name.

So far, there has been no discussion of terminating my position. Nonetheless,

I cannot squelch my growing unease. The Brockmans know something they aren’t

telling me. I’m sure of it. Do you suppose I should write Mrs. Shepherd?

Would she be forthright with me? Can she be?

~ Miss Mercy Feathers in a letter to Miss Purity Mayfield

Le Belle Haute Couture

Bond Street

Quite pleased with his decision, Ronan strode across the wooden floor to do just that. “Bellamy, do you like that color?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed and nodded. “Pink is my favorite color. Then green, lavender, red, and blue,” she elucidated in quick succession. Wrinkling her nose, she said, “I quite dislike brown, orange, and gray.” Giving her gown a rueful glance, she added, “And black.”

What little girl didn’t?

“Lord Ronan?” Arabelle, who’d been silent up to this point, bounced on her toes and tugged at his sleeve.

Something unfurled behind his breastbone at her trusting gesture. “Yes, Arabelle?”

“I adore yellow like sunflowers and blue like robin eggs. And the color of the ocean too.” She plucked at her skirt. “Not this awful black like all of the joy has been sucked from the fabric.”

He couldn’t argue with her assessment.

“My favorite color is green,” Ronan volunteered. Fern green, to be precise. Much like a pretty governess’s eyes. “What’s yours, Miss Feathers?”

The startled look Mercy speared him before narrowing her eyes all but shouted, “I know what you are up to, and I’m not having a bit of it.”

Bellamy puzzled her forehead. “What is your favorite color, Miss Mercy? You always wear the same gray, dark blue, or dull brown.”

“It’s dark red.” A rosy hue tinged Mercy’s cheeks.

Well, I’ll be buggered.

Ronan would also vow she didn’t own a single red article of clothing.

Red was a scandalous shade to favor. And yet, it was perfect for this woman with streaks of fire in her hair and embers smoldering beneath her modulated decorum.