Page 74
“Oh, Arthur.” Shaking her head and pressing a palm to her chest, Lady Trentholm released a little moan. As if suddenly remembering she’d asked to speak to Mercy, she searched the room until she found her. “Miss Feathers, please do sit down. I fear you won’t want to be standing when I share what I have learned.”
Ronan was at Mercy’s side in an instant. After taking the books and laying them on a table, he escorted her to a chair kitty-corner to the sofa. Silently, he urged her down onto the plush cushion.
“It’s all anyone could speak of at the Countess of Hurtley’s today,” Lady Trentholm said. “I vow there were two score women in attendance, and everyone, positively everyone, spoke on it at length.”
Corinna nodded, a grim line replacing her earlier grin. “Indeed, they did. And asked us the most intrusive questions. It was far beyond the pale.”
“Mother?” Ronan encouraged. “What has that to do with Miss Feathers?”
Pale and distraught, the marchioness just shook her head and finished drying her tears.
Ronan looked to Corinna, but she also shook her head and actually retreated a step. “’Tis better coming from Mama.”
Good heavens.
What could be so cataclysmic that vivacious Corinna was subdued?
Unless…
A niggling suspicion had begun to grow deep inside Mercy. One she couldn’t allow to form completely or she’d dissolve into a watering pot. One that was guaranteed to disrupt her life further.
The look Corinna sent Mercy brimmed with compassion and unexpected support.
Dread squeezed Mercy’s ribs tighter and tighter until she could scarcely draw in a breath.
“The rumor mills are all abuzz.” Lady Trentholm sucked in a long, steadying breath as she untied her bonnet, then lifted it from her head. “Lady Amhurst arrived in London yesterday.”
Off came one glove, which her ladyship carefully set upon the sofa’s arm.
“Since her arrival, she’s been asking about our Miss Feathers,” she continued, seemingly oblivious to the people waiting impatiently upon her every word.
“One would think she would direct her questions to us,” her husband offered pragmatically.
“One would think,” Ronan echoed.
With extraordinarily precise movements, the marchioness removed the second glove, pulling the tip of each finger loose first. “I believe the delicacy of the situation has her…reluctant to impose until she had facts.”
Ronan mumbled something under his breath which might very well have been a curse.
By that time, Mercy was ready to scream in frustration. She crossed her ankles and threaded her fingers together.
Patience, she told herself.
Patience is a virtue.
Be patient in affliction.
Bah, how can I be patient at a time like this?
Lady Trentholm brought her gaze up to meet Mercy’s, and she realized with a start, the woman had been procrastinating. “She believes you are her daughter, Mercy. She doesn’t care who knows it either. She wants to meet you. I expect she shall call tomorrow.”
Mercy felt every ounce of blood drain from her face at the same instant Ronan’s hand came to rest upon her shoulder. He gave a slight squeeze, and she fought the rush of tears the tender gesture caused. How she wanted to reach up and grip his hand. She needed his sturdy strength at this moment.
She didn’t dare, of course.
Lord Renshaw might have an apoplexy or paroxysm.
Lady Trentholm’s attention gravitated to Ronan’s hand upon Mercy’s shoulder, and her eyelids flexed almost imperceptibly. Corinna on the other hand winked, the minx.
