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Mercy stepped to her side, careful to keep her face averted from Miss Knighton.
She shouldn’t be ashamed, especially since neither Ronan nor she had any idea what Miss Knighton’s exclamation meant. Or what Corinna’s had, for that matter.
“I’m sorry,” Mercy said, sinking onto her haunches before Arabelle. She took both of the little girl’s hands in hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “But we will have to visit Gunter’s another day.”
“Not a bit of it,” Mother corrected, though she winced when she spoke. She indeed was miserable. “I shall gladly accept your offer, Miss Knighton.”
“I shall as well,” Corinna put in with a sideways glance toward Mercy. “We’ve simply heaps to catch up on, Cathryn.”
“Well, it’s settled then,” Ronan said, somewhat mollified. Five stuffed into a carriage was loads better than seven.
Not five minutes later, he sat in the landau, his back to the driver. Rather than sitting beside him, Marissa had taken the seat between Arabelle and Bellamy. That meant Mercy was obliged to sit beside him.
He didn’t believe his youngest sister was matchmaking. Since the girls arrived, Marissa had treated them like adored younger sisters. They obviously felt the same way and sought out her company whenever possible.
Mercy spoke not a word as the coachman maneuvered the conveyance through the thronging street toward Berkeley Square. Facing slightly away from the occupants, she stared out the vehicle.
Ronan didn’t miss the slight furrowing of her brow or the occasional tightening of her lips. He’d wager his new shipping investment in The Arcturus that she was pondering Cathryn Knighton’s outburst and Corinna’s alacrity in hushing her friend. Probably Mother’s too.
He loathed the uncertainty and confusion that flashed in Mercy’s eyes, but he positively despised the glimmer of fear there as well.
What did she have to be afraid of?
“Lord Ronan?”
He turned his head at Arabelle’s inquiry.
“May Miss Mercy have an ice too? Please?”
Mercy jerked her head toward Arabelle. “Darling, that’s not necessary.”
“But you’ve never tasted an ice either, Miss Mercy,” Bellamy protested.
“Never? Truly?” Marissa asked, her eyes owlish with astonishment. No doubt she, who’d lived a cosseted, privileged life, couldn’t fathom going without anything. “Not a sorbet or cream ice either?”
A small smile drew Mercy’s mouth upward. “I’m not aware of any establishment that serves ices, cream ices, or sorbets in Rochester.”
Or Essex, he’d vow.
What Father had shared about Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women this morning had proved most intriguing.
Most intriguing, indeed.
I am sure you can understand the delicacy of the situation.
My patrons entrust me with anonymity and absolute discretion.
I have given my word not to divulge their identities, and as a Christian,
I am honor-bound before the good Lord to keep that vow.
My wards are not even aware of who their parents are. I regret
I cannot be of further service regarding your inquiry.
~ Mrs. Hester Shepherd in a letter to Lord Trentholm
Gunter’s Tea Shop
