CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      London, 1811

      CHANCE BECKET SAT IN the formal drawing room of his Georgian house located in Upper Brook Street, not two blocks from Hyde Park, unaware of his expensive, fashionable surroundings.

      No, not unaware. Uncaring.

      How could he not care? Wasn’t this what he wanted, what he’d always wanted? What he worked for, what he longed for…what he had achieved almost entirely on his own?

      Perhaps that was the rub. He had done nothing entirely on his own. His extensive education had been a gift from his father, Ainsley Becket, the mysterious, reclusive and very wealthy Becket of Romney Marsh.

      This house? This house had been a gift from his late father-in-law. Even the furnishings, the fine silk sofa he slouched in now, had come to him along with his wife, Beatrice.

      Chance sipped from the wineglass that had moments earlier dangled from his fingertips, nearly spilling onto the fine Aubusson carpet.

      He was a sham, a farce, living no more than the shallow dream of a reality that had fallen far short of all his youthful expectations. Gentlemen were born, not constructed out of whole cloth. All he’d achieved was the pretty shell; there was nothing pretty inside.

      And yet, this was all he had, all he could ever hope to have, which was why Alice had to be rescued from him before she became as shallow and unfeeling as himself.

      “Mr. Becket, sir? There is still one more waiting on you downstairs. Perhaps you are fatigued. Shall I send her off? Or do you wish to see her?”

      Chance blinked away his self-pitying thoughts as he looked at his butler. “Forgive me, Gibbons, I’m afraid I was woolgathering. What a thoroughly depressing afternoon this has been. But there’s another woman? I had thought that profane Billingsgate drab was the last of them.”

      “Oh, no, sir, there’s still the one more, and I apologize again that Mrs. Gibbons still feels too poorly to have handled this chore herself and you’ve had to take the trouble. She’d be up and about if she could be, sir, but her nose is still running a treat and—”

      “The last applicant, Gibbons, if you will. Concentrate, please. Time is running short if I am to have someone for Alice before we leave.”

      “Oh, yes, sir. This last is younger than the rest, sir, and with a civil tongue in her head, if I may say so.”

      “Please, Gibbons, don’t raise my hopes. And please don’t apologize yet again for your wife’s illness. I’m sure she didn’t take to her bed with that putrid cold you keep telling me about simply to thwart me in my hour of need.”

      “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. That is—”

      Chance waved the butler to silence and stood up, heading for the drinks table, for interviewing potential nannies had turned out to be thirsty work. “We’ll make this quick, shall we? I promised Miss Alice I’d join her for her evening tea, although I have been informed I am not to be the guest of honor, as that distinction is reserved, as always, for her stuffed rabbit.”

      “Buttercup. Yes, sir.” Gibbons bowed. “We shouldn’t wish to keep Miss Alice waiting. Although this establishment will be a cold and dreary place without her, sir, if I may be so bold.”

      “Our only sunshine, gone. Yes, Gibbons, I am aware of the sacrifice. But it is Miss Alice we must consider. London is no place for a motherless child.”

      “Very good, sir,” the butler said, bowing yet again before leaving the room.

      Chance took up his position in front of the fireplace, placing his filled wineglass on the mantel as he stood, hands clasped behind him, awaiting what was sure to be another disappointment. Buttercup. Yes, of course. A good father would have known that.

      “Mr. Becket, sir,” Gibbons announced from the doorway. “Miss Carruthers.”

      “Mr. Becket,” the woman Chance now knew as Miss Carruthers said, sweeping into the room with all the grace of a duchess and the wardrobe of a miller’s daughter dressed up for Sunday services. A woefully unsuccessful miller. But then, if the woman had a full purse, she would not be hiring herself out as a nanny.

      “Miss Carruthers,” Chance said, indicating with a slight sweep of his arm that she should take up her seat on the sofa to the right of the fireplace, while he, bringing his wineglass with him, retook his own seat. “You have come in answer to my advertisement?”

      “Apparently so, Mr. Becket.” Her tone was neutral, her diction reassuringly untainted by Piccadilly, her words not quite as subservient as he might have liked. And her perfect posture would put a military man to shame.

      He watched, rather nonplussed, as Miss Carruthers stripped off her gloves, noting her long, tapering fingers, her neatly trimmed nails and the fine mending on the thumb of the left glove. She then removed her aged straw bonnet to place it beside her on the sofa, revealing a thick head of warm blond hair she’d mercilessly scraped back from her forehead and into a high, thick and rather lopsided bun.

      Her skin was quite nice, pale but with hints of color, and her nose was delightfully straight above a full, wide mouth and a determined chin. He felt a stir of interest, which surprised him.

      Miss Carruthers was down on her luck, most obviously, but she had pride and possibly breeding—definitely more than he could claim, but then, most anyone did. Best of all, she was clean and, if his luck was to have turned all