LITMIR.BIZ

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flamboyance than the good monsieur felt he could countenance. Mon Dieu, but that Frenchman could weep!

      I do feel I also must tell you that I have just yesterday received a rather impassioned note from the good monsieur, apologizing most profusely for allowing Morgan to tease him (the man said tease, and I shudder to consider the implications!) into teaching her the steps to the Viennese waltz, supposedly considered quite acceptable in Paris, yet, mourns Monsieur Aubert, totally offensive to London society.

      Yes, son, this all comes to you in the way of a warning. If, at a ball, you hear the strains of anything you believe even vaguely Bavarian or German in tone, you might wish to grab Morgan by the ear and drag her to the nearest refreshment table, so that she cannot disgrace you in public.

      Although I must tell you that Eleanor and I are pleased with the modiste that accompanied the monsieur, and Morgan’s wardrobe should be most fitting for a London debutante with aspirations to set the ton on its collective ear.

      It is Morgan herself, as you know, who is not quite so demure, as she is, physically, her mother’s daughter. Clad in fine silks or sackcloth and ashes, our Morgan remains impossible to overlook.

      But I need not tell you any of this. I know Morgan is in good hands, thanks to my dearest Julia, who could most probably whistle a herd of stampeding elephants to heel.

      You will see us all soon enough, God willing, and your siblings send their love, with Courtland adding a special message that he fully expects you to pop Morgan off on some unsuspecting Romeo before the man has a chance to see her with both eyes open.

      Keeping you both to your promise to accompany Morgan back to her family at the end of the Season, I look forward to regular reports of the girl’s progress. Do think to spare this old man’s blushes, however, and don’t tell me everything my dear daughter might do. My imagination is terrifying enough. I shall hold out only faint hope there exists a man in London who will be up to the challenge she presents.

      A grateful parent’s thanks, blessings, and prayers on you both.

      Your loving father,

      Ainsley G. B. Becket

      “YOU’LL BE DELIGHTED to know that my father remains the master of understatement,” Chance Becket said, then handed the two-page letter to his wife before heading to the drinks table in the drawing room of their Upper Brook Street town house, to pour himself a glass of wine. “Would you care for some lemonade?”

      “No, thank you, dearest,” Julia said, quickly scanning both pages, then putting them down beside her. “Ainsley never worries about the cost of postage, does he? I’ll read this later. Why don’t you tell me what he has to say—and what you believe he was really saying.”

      Chance sat down beside his bride of nearly a year and took her hand, raised it to his lips. There was no sense in lying to her. “I believe, sweetings, he was warning us that Morgan could present a problem.”

      Julia rested her head against her husband’s shoulder and sighed, for she knew Morgan, and believed Chance’s words also to be in the way of a gross understatement. “Oh, is that all. I’m already expecting problems, and I’m certain the last thing Morgan would want to do is to disappoint me. What else did he say?”

      “The Red Men Gang is still happily absent from Romney Marsh, Court’s still in charge as the Black Ghost, and everything continues to run smoothly on that head.”

      Julia straightened, thoughts of their time spent at Becket Hall rising to the surface, bringing back old memories, old fears. She’d first met Chance, met the Beckets, when she’d answered an advertisement and became nanny to Chance’s young daughter, Alice. And her life had never been the same. “He actually said that?”

      “No, not in so many words. But he did say it.” Chance put down his wineglass and became occupied in twirling a lock of his wife’s blond hair around his finger. “He also sees a defeat in Bonaparte’s future and an English war with America. Why a man who never leaves Romney Marsh is still so interested in the rest of the world amuses me. That he can know so much, analyze and deduce so much, amazes me. I wish he’d come to London, join me in the War Office.”

      Julia squeezed Chance’s hand, the secrets they shared about Ainsley Becket, all of the Beckets, already holding them fast. “But he won’t. He doesn’t dare be recognized, or else everything he’s so carefully built will come tumbling down.”

      “I’m not sure even he believes that anymore. He’s been safe for more than a dozen years. Well, we’ll soon have Morgan, at least. That’s a start. Then possibly Spence and Rian will come for a visit, and I can chase them out of every gambling hell and whorehouse in the city.”

      “They wouldn’t do that,” Julia said, then bit her bottom lip for a moment. “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? I think I’ll allow you to be in charge of your brothers when they visit, and I’ll watch over the girls. Do we have a bargain, sir?”

      Chance grinned, then kissed her cheek. “If I’d known how easily I could be shed of responsibility for Morgan, madam, I would have been a happier man these past months. So it’s a promise? You’re in charge of bearleading Morgan, and any of my sisters who want to cut a dash in society, and I’m in charge of my brothers?”

      Julia saw her husband’s smile and reached for Ainsley’s letter. “Before I agree to that, I think perhaps I ought to read your father’s warnings for myself.”

      Chance rolled his eyes dramatically and picked up his wineglass again. “So much for my hopes. Did I tell you, dearest, that I’ll be needed at the War Office almost continuously for the next three months?”

      Julia’s eyes had already widened as she read about Monsieur Aubert. “Oh, I doubt that, Chance. I doubt that very much. The waltz? She wouldn’t dare. I may be new to society myself, but I know the waltz is frowned on—why, even Lord Byron condemns it.”

      “As being unchaste. Yes, I know. While Byron himself, of course, is virgin as a new-fallen snow.” Chance took a sip of wine. “Ainsley seems to want Morgan married off quickly. I think that’s fairly clear. Do you think we should be drawing up a list of eligible bachelors?”

      “And then steer her toward them? Oh, I don’t think so, darling. It’s the one we’d steer her away from that she’d most likely find interesting. That said, yes, I believe I’ve reconsidered, and will join you in a glass. And not lemonade.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      JACOB WHITING WAS SO upset he could barely keep from wringing his hands like some fretful old lady as visions of disaster evilly danced in his head. He’d thought this would be such a grand adventure.

      Just once before in his twenty years had he been anywhere interesting, when he’d been taken to Dymchurch to have a tooth drawn. Traveling up to Londontown had come to him unexpectedly, like a special treat from Father Christmas, and traveling there with Morgan Becket was like all of Christmas and his birthday combined.

      And now, not even two days into his grand adventure, Morgie was ruining everything and he wished himself back at Becket Hall, or snug in his bed above The Last Voyage in the small village Ainsley had built for everyone, listening to the old sailors telling tall tales as they drank their rum in the tap room below him.

      “Morgie—that is, Miss Morgan, please. Your papa will have my head on a pike if anything happens to you.”

      Morgan Becket frowned at Jacob, who was proving unusually uncooperative, not to mention melodramatic. She was much more used to having him twisted neatly around her finger, as he had been from the first day he’d laid eyes on her, more than a dozen years ago.

      But this time, smiling hadn’t worked. Teasing hadn’t worked, either. Her papa must have truly put the fear of God in the poor fellow. “Very well then, timid-toes. I’ll saddle her myself. I can do that, you know.”

      “No!” Jacob protested, then quickly ran after Morgan, who was grinning as she marched, chin held high, across the dusty inn yard toward

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