Table Of ContentA Gentleman by Any Other Name
By
Kasey Michaels
Copyright © 2006 by Kathryn Seidick
www.HQNBooks.com
Dear Reader,
In the twelfth century Thomas a Becket was assassinated at Canterbury on the
alleged orders of his friend King Henry II. Legend has it that Henry ordered
Thomas's body burned and the bones scattered. It is possible the remains, buried
in the cathedral at Canterbury, were found and destroyed during the
Reformation. Then again, the monks may have hidden the body, even interred
the bones in another man's grave.
Perhaps this is why Ainsley Becket, a student of history, among his other,
varied and not always laudable pursuits, found a small, secret satisfaction in
coming to Kent in 1798, bearing the name A. Becket. For he, too, had been
"murdered" by his best friend, and he had relocated himself to a place where he
would not easily be found.
With him, Ainsley had brought his children, those of his heart, and Cassandra,
the infant his beloved Isabella had borne him. His children. His redemption, his
promise, his reason for drawing breath, his hostages to fortune.
Over the ensuing years the second oldest, Courtland, became Ainsley's
strength, his rock. Morgan, the fiery one, had been orphaned when her sailor
father, name unknown, buttoned his pants and got up from the lice-ridden bed of
her prostitute mother, who had sold her to Ainsley the day she was born.
Then there was Eleanor, Ainsley's sea sprite, his delicate flower, his
conscience. Spencer, the wild one, was Ainsley's potential heartbreak, with
Fanny and Rian hotly contending for the same honors.
And lastly, there was the oldest, Chance, the boy Ainsley had rescued from a
Port-au-Prince pub. Old enough to remember his beginnings, Chance had spent
all of his thirty years trying to forget.
I invite you to come along with me as we meet Chance and all of the Beckets
of Romney Marsh.
Enjoy,
To Michael Robert Seidick. Welcome to the world!
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 the way for
the better, would be desperate enough for a decent wage to give up the delights
of London for the mist and damp of Romney Marsh.
In any event, at least Alice wouldn't take one look at the creature and run
screaming for her nursery.
Chance didn't realize he'd been staring until Miss
Carruthers raised her chin and looked at him with a most incredible pair of
long green eyes framed by brows too low and straight to be considered in vogue.
"Forgive me, Miss Carruthers. Have you been waiting long? Would you care for
a glass of lemonade?"
Julia Carruthers frowned, wondering if she should accept—and take a step
toward insinuating herself—or refuse, keeping the distance she was quite certain
master and servant maintained. But, dear, she was thirsty. "Thank you, sir, I
appreciate your offer. Have there been many other applicants?"
"None worth considering, no. I'm afraid you're the last," Chance said as he
moved to the drinks table. A pitcher of lemonade was always kept there for
Alice.
He bent over, opening the double doors beneath the tabletop, and Julia watched
as he retrieved a lovely glass goblet, taking note of Chance Becket's tall, well-
formed frame. That and the black mourning band pinned to his sleeve above his
left elbow.
She'd expected a woman, a mother, not this young, handsome society
gentleman. She'd been prepared for a woman. She'd dressed for a suspicious
woman with a husband or grown sons in the house.
Now she felt an absolute drab, all angles and third-best finery and with her hair
pulled back so tight a headache had been throbbing at her temples for the
entirety of the three hours she had been cooling her heels in Mr. Becket's
ground-floor sitting room. She'd spent that time as the very last of a steadily
decreasing number of other applicants, some of whom had given her pause as
she wondered if they all could have been the same species as herself. So her
hopes had climbed. But now she worried.
Julia took the offered glass, happy to discover that Becket's household was one
that could support the frivolous expense of ice. How wonderful it would be to
have her days of scraping for any bit of luxury behind her, even if that meant she
had to ride herd on a passel of thoroughly spoiled children.
"Thank you, sir," she said, dropping her gaze to her lap to pretend she hadn't
seen the assessing look in Chance Becket's green eyes.
Not at all like her own eyes, which her father had told her reminded him of the
color of spring grass. Chance Becket's eyes were the dark green of a stormy sea
at twilight, so green they were nearly black, and decidedly intelligent.
Julia's nervousness increased, which was never a good thing, for being nervous
made her angry with herself, and she often said things or did things she wouldn't
say or do if she felt more in charge of the situation. She knew this because her
father had pointed this failing out to her on several occasions, mildly informing
her that she could, now and then, become somewhat pertinacious.
What she knew now was that she was acutely aware of the man sitting across
from her and that he made her very nervous. Why was he just sitting there? Why
didn't he say something? Was she supposed to say something? Describe her
qualifications? Drink more lemonade, so that he could be assured she didn't
approach eating and drinking like a cow at the trough? What?
She dared to look into those eyes once more. "I can only hope I am the last
applicant it will be necessary for you to interview, Mr. Becket, and that you will
engage my services."
There. That had sounded fine, hadn't it? She'd said enough, and just enough. It
was his turn now. Julia went back to looking at him. He really did fascinate her.
Perhaps in the way of the snake and the mongoose? Hopefully not.
The man had strong features that didn't seem completely English. His
unfashionably long hair, combed back and tied in a thin black grosgrain ribbon
at his nape, seemed darker close to his head, as if the sun had teased gold into
each strand only as it grew. Not an English blonde. In fact, with his strong nose
and well-defined lips, with his high cheekbones, he could almost be of Italian
descent. A Roman in his ancestral past perhaps? A warrior Roman who'd
conquered some fair English maiden?
And she should stop being fanciful. She had no time to be fanciful. She raised
her hand, politely coughed into her fist, hoping he'd speak again before they both
froze here, mute, into eternity.
Chance struggled to come up with a reasonable question, one that had nothing
to do with asking her why such a strikingly handsome woman as herself would
wish to be nanny in someone else's household. A woman like this should be wed,
with children of her own.
"I've yet to see your letters of recommendation, Miss Carruthers," he said at
last, reminding himself that he was in charge here, after all.
"As to that," Julia began, then sighed. "I have none, sir, as I am new to London.
In truth, I have never worked as a nanny, although I believe I am qualified. I
most thoroughly enjoy children, and my education has not been lacking."
Never been employed as a nanny? That seemed fair, in some twisted way, as
he'd never before employed a nanny. It might be better if neither of them knew
how they should go on and just muddled along together. With Alice in charge, of
course—he'd learned that much, at least, in the past six months. "And that slight
accent? Do I hear a bit of Kent in your speech, Miss Carruthers?"
Julia smiled. "I didn't think it was obvious, Mr. Becket. But, yes, I was raised
in the village of Hawkhurst. My father, now deceased, was vicar of a small
church there, although he came originally from Wimbledon."
"Hawkhurst, you say. Very near the beginnings of the Marsh," Chance said, his
tone now flat. "Then I would suppose you have no great wish to go back?"
Julia frowned. "If you are asking if I would enter your employment here in
London just to leave it so that I might return to Kent? No, sir, I would not do
that. There is nothing for me there now that my father is gone."
"Ah, the classic story," Chance said, suddenly more comfortable. "The dear
child of an adored father, cut adrift and near penniless when the man died, was
taken to his final reward on the wings of angels. Surely, Miss Carruthers, you
could have come up with better than that? You're sounding very much like one
of the penny press novels my late wife devoured along with her sugared treats."
Julia stood up, her gloves falling to the floor. She bent to retrieve them,
knowing that were she a man, she would then employ one of them to slap this
man's face and challenge him to a duel. If she were a man.
As a woman, however, there was only retreat, but she would do her
pertinacious best that it would not be ignominious, and hang the consequences.
"I believe we're through, Mr. Becket. You enjoy your amusement at my expense,
and I will show myself out."
Chance came to his feet, holding out his arm as if to block her escape. Prickly
thing, wasn't she? And he was desperate. "A thousand apologies, Miss
Carruthers, my remarks were entirely uncalled-for, as well as rude. My only
excuse is that it has been a rather trying day." He spread his hands, palms up. "If
you had references…"
Julia took a breath, reminded herself of the slimness of her purse. And knew
that didn't matter. "I do not, sir. I have only my word and my name, which
clearly are not sufficient here in sophisticated and extremely impolite London.
Again, sir, good day to you."
Physically tackling her probably wouldn't work. Damn, Chance swore to
himself. The one prospect who seemed even marginally acceptable, and he'd
bungled things badly. Worse, he'd somehow allowed her the upper hand, it
would seem, because now he was all but groveling, as if she would be doing him
some marvelous favor if he hired her. Confounding woman! "I wish you would
reconsider. And I do apologize again."
Julia hesitated. She really did need the money she would earn. It would be nice
to know she had a roof over her head when the sun set tonight, one she did not
have to pay for out of her meager funds. She turned, took another look at Chance
Becket. His eyes really were the color of a storm-tossed sea…which should have
less than nothing to do with her decision. "I…um, that is—"
"Papa? Buttercup is very hungry."
Both Chance and Julia swiftly turned their heads toward the doorway.
"Alice," Chance said abruptly, "you were to remain upstairs."
The child's bottom lip came forward in a pout. "I've been upstairs forever,
Papa."
Julia was entranced. From her lovely dark blond curls to the tips of her white
satin slippers, the child could have modeled for one of Botticelli's angels. Clearly
she was her father's child but redone in a delightfully soft and feminine form.
"She's precious and the very image of you, Mr. Becket," Julia said quietly. "How
your heart must swell each time you look at her. How old is she?"
Chance answered before he could think too much about the surprising
comment or the question. "Alice is five. Her mother's been gone for six months,
and I'm afraid I've allowed her to run a little wild. She should be in the nursery."
"She should be where she's happy to be," Julia said, smiling at the child. "And
clearly she wishes to be with you."
