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For one horrible heartbeat, she feared she and Ronan had been found out, but then the marquess yelled again.
“Where are you, Ronan?” The marquess actually shouted for his son. “Sturges. Where is my son?”
What in the world?
His lordship had never raised his voice above a well-modulated tenor that she was aware of. Always impeccably in control, he used his facial expressions to convey his emotions. One arch look was enough to send servants scurrying in every direction.
“Ronan?” Mercy exchanged a bewildered glance with Ronan.
He lifted a shoulder in an I-have-no-idea motion. “I am clueless about what is going on.”
“Ronan!” The marquess’s voice reverberated off the ceiling.
Brow furrowed in consternation, Ronan strode to the door. Before he could open it, the panel swung open to reveal a highly agitated Lord Trentholm and his eldest son, Sanford, the Earl of Renshaw. The men plowed into the room, raking their gazes over the occupants and then searching the corners as well.
What were they looking for?
“Father?” Ronan angled his head inquisitively, his tone cautious. “What has you in such a dust-up?”
Cheeks ruddy, Lord Trentholm furiously waved a creased paper in the air as he stomped farther into the library. “Benjamin has eloped to Scotland! Eloped, I say. Two days ago.”
“Eloped?” Ronan parroted, looking to his brother for clarification. “Benjamin has eloped?” he asked incredulously. “Blast. I didn’t think—”
“With an actress or a stage performer of some sort,” the earl sneered, his lip curling almost ferally. The icy disdain in his voice would’ve frozen the River Medway in August. “A commoner, and if the gossips are to be credited, the by-blow of a courtesan to boot.”
The earl slapped his fist into his palm, cursing beneath his breath.
Mercy had no idea he held the lower classes in such contempt. It wasn’t uncommon, of course. But Ronan never had, and she’d mistakenly believed…
No. That wasn’t true.
She knew Ronan was a rarity amongst his peers. That was one of the things she loved about him.
Talking animatedly, their voices low and urgent, the trio converged in the center of the room. An occasional curse filtered Mercy’s way and several more withering remarks directed at Lord Benjamin’s new wife—all delivered in scathing tones by Lord Renshaw—as well.
Seemingly forgotten, Mercy gathered the books she’d taken such pains to find, then edged toward the door. This assuredly was not a discussion meant for a servant’s ears. Besides, the girls were due home any time.
“Why didn’t he say anything?” the marquess asked, hurt riddling his question. “If he loved the girl, why did he keep her identity a secret?”
“He mentioned her to me recently,” Ronan confessed. His back was to her, his hands braced on his narrow hips. “I didn’t think the relationship had become so serious.”
“And you didn’t think to inform me or your mother of something so important?” his father demanded.
Drawing himself up, Ronan faced the irate marquess.
“Benjamin is an adult, and therefore is capable of knowing his own mind and heart, Father. He also asked me to keep his confidence. It was not my place to say anything to you.” He cut his fuming brother a speaking glance. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Never has the Brockman lineage been tainted with a commoner’s blood,” Lord Renshaw spat. “Let alone with a baseborn’s and a trollop’s.”
Mercy winced inwardly, feeling each harshly spoken word as if struck by the verbal blows. The earl might not be directing them toward her, but she felt them as if he had.
Perhaps guilt about kissing Ronan accounted for her reaction. She had no doubt if Lord Renshaw had come upon her and Ronan in an embrace, she would, indeed, be the target of his wrath at this moment.
The marquess, looking very much like he’d taken a blow to the gut, brushed a hand over his forehead and gazed out the window. He wasn’t as angry as he was wounded, she decided. He was a man who cared deeply for his family, and his son’s eloping struck a painful blow.
Mercy sincerely prayed it didn’t cause a rift between father and son.
“I cannot conceive it,” Lord Renshaw ranted. “A common slut now bears the Brockman name.”
