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Not well, of course. Ronan knew the intricacies of le beau monde’s snobbery.
Society seldom allowed grace or clemency for the under orders but excused themselves all manner of offenses, including shunting unwanted by-blows into obscurity.
Accused, tried, and convicted all because of something Mercy had no control over. How did those born on the wrong side of the blanket differ in character, integrity, and honor from those with the advantage of their sire’s surname?
“So those of us without the benefit of parents sanctified by marriage vows are not permitted to hold respectable positions? Our parents’ sins must cast a shadow of shame upon us and smudge our reputations, making us less deserving?” Less worthy?” She gave him a reproving look. “That is rather archaic, don’t you think?”
“Aye, it is,” Ronan admitted with a half-nod.
A dribble of perspiration trickled down his face and over his scar, and he swiped it away. He must be miserably warm in his coat. Mercy only wore a light muslin shawl over her gown, and it had long since slid to the seat. Her plain straw bonnet provided shade from the sun without the added warmth of her black bonnet.
Stop it. Ronan Brockman doesn’t merit your empathy.
“But, Mercy, that doesn’t change the fact that we live in a culture where such ill-fated truths have long-reaching and irreparable consequences. I’m not saying that it’s right or that I even agree. I’m just stating the facts. I need to know what I’m up against in order to keep Arabelle and Bellamy safe. You too, for that matter.”
That last bit took her aback.
Me too?
He was right, of course.
Mercy was as impressed with Ronan’s logic as she was vexed with the irrefutable facts he so calmly presented. He would’ve done well in Parliament, given his glib tongue and disarming mannerisms. And charming smile. Don’t forget that rakish flash of teeth that could turn bones to butter.
Why, Ronan almost had her sympathizing with him, and he was Mercy’s accuser. No, that was too strong a word. Perhaps he only sought to uncover the truth about her parentage, but to what purpose?
Childish laughter brought both of their heads up suddenly, and they swiftly put more distance between them. Marissa and the girls were almost upon the conveyance. Their faces shining, slightly red from heat and exertion, they appeared to have had a romping good time.
“We will continue this conversation later,” Ronan said in a low tone for Mercy’s ears alone before flashing a welcoming smile as he stood and climbed down to assist them.
That is what I’m afraid of.
“Lord Ronan, I made a friend,” Arabelle said, turning to wave at a little dark-haired girl clambering into a curricle several feet away. “Her name is Caroline Bedford.”
“Did you now?” Ronan handed her in and then her sister. “Marissa, would you mind terribly sitting beside Miss Feathers so that I might hear all about Arabelle’s and Bellamy’s adventures?”
Marissa sliced him an odd look but shrugged as he helped her inside the landau. “Of course not.”
“Thank you,” he said.
As Marissa settled beside Mercy, she sighed and proceeded to wave her fan vigorously. The slight breeze rustled her bonnet’s lavender bow. “Lord, but it’s hot. I could bathe in a tub of sorbet right now.”
Eyeing Ronan from beneath her lashes as he attentively listened to his animated wards, Mercy’s stomach sank. They were bonding with him. It thrilled and grieved her. She wasn’t as indispensable as she’d been even a fortnight ago.
Perhaps it was time to consider a position at Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies.
Have you ever wondered who went to the effort to see us secretly placed at
Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women?
Was it a guilty parent wishing to secretly provide for us?
A remorseful third party intending to give us a future?
An ashamed relative wanting to be rid of us?
Will any of us ever know who we really are?
In truth, do we want to?
