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So did Mercy, for that matter. But unlike the feline, she knew one didn’t always get what one wanted. In all honesty, one seldom did. Life consisted of compromises and concessions—the relinquishing of dreams for the contentment of reality.

Or, if not precisely contentment, then acceptance. To do otherwise led to bitterness and resentment.

“Meow. Meeooow,” came the cat’s plaintive cry as she rubbed against Mercy’s ankle.

“Ronan’s not here, Fluffer-Muffer,” Mercy informed the miffed cat. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

After she’d fainted last night, Ronan had insisted she take the day off from lessons and from overseeing her charges. Marissa and Corinna had taken the girls for an outing to St. James’s Park, where they were to meet Cathryn Knighton and her nieces. Afterward, they were to luncheon at the Earl of Towler’s.

All of the Brockman males were mysteriously absent—not that Mercy found the Earl of Renshaw’s nonappearance objectionable. He was an obnoxious boor.

Lady Trentholm had appointments at the milliners and glovers, according to Sturges. The butler had assessed her with renewed interest this morning when Mercy had come down to break her fast. Undoubtedly, every servant knew the prattle about her and wondered at the veracity of it.

Sometime before Mercy awoke from a fitful slumber, Ronan had slipped a note beneath her bedchamber door. It resided inside her apron pocket, and she slipped a hand in to finger the crisp edge.

He possessed neat, sloping penmanship. The letter had been much like the man. Bold, decisive, and forthright.

Mercy,

I pray this note finds you fully recovered from yesterday. I’ve asked my sisters to mind Arabelle and Bellamy for the day. The day is yours to do with as you wish. I have directed the servants to see to your every need.

Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.

I would ask that you not leave Pelandale House, however. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you why that would be unwise.

I shall be home this afternoon, and we can talk further then.

Ever Yours.

R.

Ever Yours.

A pipe dream, but a lovely one.

Fluffer-Muffer prowled away to explore beneath a bush where a little brown wren had disappeared.

Mercy wished she was as easily entertained.

In point of fact, she was bored.

Had Mercy dared to defy Ronan and take up a needle, she highly suspected the servants wouldn’t have permitted it. In truth, the household ran so efficiently that all of the girls’ garments had already been repaired by a maid.

She honestly had nothing to do…other than perusing the volumes of Debrett’s, presumably still in the library. The events of the last day had made that research somewhat moot now.

Her suspicions had all but been confirmed.

She couldn’t help but marvel at God’s purpose and design in all of this.

Could Lady Amhurst honestly be her mother? Why, by all that was holy, was the woman so indiscreet with her inquiries? She must know the tattle her questions were causing.

Shading her eyes with one hand, Mercy took in the scrupulously tended beds.

Not many flowers bloomed this early in the season, but a few sunny daffodils and a rainbow of tulips and hyacinths tipped their faces up to greet the sun. During Mercy’s tour of the house and grounds upon her arrival, Mrs. Webber had explained the marchioness had ordered the bulbs directly from Holland.

Reaching a partially secluded nook hedged in on two sides by pink blooming hawthorn bushes, she spied a bench. She’d forgotten about the cozy retreat she’d only caught a swift glance of during her previous tour.

Sighing, she sank onto the black wrought iron bench beneath a matching wrought iron arbor. Rose brambles wove in and out up the sides and covered the top in a verdant tangle. Not even a hint of a rosebud could be found amongst the plethora of green leaves.