Page 6

The girls had been utterly inconsolable at the loss of their beloved father.

Even now, damp spots marred Mercy’s bombazine gown from their recent bout of tears.

She troubled her lower lip, alternating her attention from the fire, her charges, and the doleful scene beyond the window. The storm appeared to have blown itself out or moved farther away. The rain had slackened, as had the wind.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Weeks without a word back from the girls’ new guardian—Lord Ronan Brockman. Mercy only knew his name, not what his naval ranking had been. She presumed from the “Lord” before his name that he was a younger son.

Irritation welled at his inconsideration. Perhaps his lack of response meant he didn’t mean to accept the guardianship after all. Mr. Bralen hadn’t specified what happened then, but Mercy felt confident the consequences wouldn’t bode well for the girls.

Mayhap she ought to take matters into her own hands and write this Lord Ronan Brockman formerly of his Majesty’s Navy and make inquiries herself.

The idea wiggled around in her mind for a few blinks and then took root.

Mercy straightened on the sofa, disrupting Fluffer-Muffer’s slumber.

Dare she?

The cat gave her a one-eyed “What are you doing?” insipid glance before closing said eye once more. Less than a blink later, soft feline snores joined the fire and storm’s chorus.

Do I dare?

Yes? Yes!

The more Mercy thought about it, the more the idea of writing to Lord Ronan Brockman had merit. Surely his address was contained somewhere amongst the lieutenant’s will and the rest of the information Mr. Bralen had deemed necessary to leave.

Those papers still lay undisturbed atop Lieutenant Masterson’s desk.

Why hadn’t she considered this before?

It made perfect sense.

Mercy could introduce the girls to their guardian—explain their likes and dislikes and their valid concerns. She could pave the proverbial way for Arabelle’s and Bellamy’s transition to a new life. Help to smooth that change.

Who better, in truth, than Mercy to do so?

That dried prune Mr. Bralen hadn’t cared about the girls’ feelings. He’d simply said to have them packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice, constantly referring to them as the Masterson girls. Like they were inanimate objects without feelings to be loaded onto a freight cart.

What if Ronan Brockman is just as uncaring?

If he ignored her missive, then she’d have to consider alternate plans. However, nothing this side of death would keep her from helping Arabelle and Bellamy by whatever means she could.

Mercy set a disgruntled Fluffer-Muffer on the floor and stood.

Tail swishing, the cat arched her back in irritation and made little chirping noises. Her sign that she was well and truly miffed.

“I’m sorry, Fluffer-Muffer. You’ll have to find another place to doze other than my lap.”

With a haughty flick of her tail, the imposed upon feline minced to a nearby chair and jumped onto the cushion.

No creature was capable of a greater silent put down like a miffed cat.

Reaching a hand out to each girl who glanced up at Mercy quizzically, she squeezed their fingers. “I need to write a very important letter, darlings. Could you entertain yourselves in the nursery until I am finished?”

Clasping hands, they nodded in unison, their big, cinnamon-brown eyes brimming with curiosity.

“Might we have warm milk and biscuits?” Bellamy asked, generally the bolder of the two.