A Man Most Worthy

He found her blue eyes fixed on him as if waiting for more information. “She was a governess before she married my father.” He looked away. “He was a miner.”

“Oh.” The single note was filled with wonder. “However did they meet?”

“She was working with a family up there and had left them.” Refusing the master’s advances, he added mentally. “She had begun a small school for the miner’s children.”

“And she met your father!” Her eyes gleamed in excitement. “Oh! Love at first sight, I bet it was.”

He looked straight ahead of him, amused and irritated at the same time by her romantic schoolgirl notions. “He died when a mine shaft collapsed, leaving my mother to raise four sons. He was a widower, when they met. His two boys were at the school. Then my brother and I came along.”

“How sad,” she said softly. “My mother died giving birth to me.”

He looked sharply at her. Her tone was almost casual. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, feeling the inadequacy of the words.

“Oh, it’s all right. It happened so long ago. Tell me what happened after your father died.”

He took up the thread of his own history, his mind still on her motherless condition. “My mother moved us into town, where she found work in a mill.”

Miss Shepard was silent for only a moment. No doubt she’d lost interest by now. “And when did you come to London?”

He smiled at her persistence. No one from her station had ever asked him about his origins. “When I was fifteen, my mother gave me five pounds she had saved and bought me a rail ticket to London. I found work at a bank. I was good with numbers, you see. Numbers and letters. She’d made sure we all received learning.”

“And now you’ve become my father’s private secretary?”

He nodded.

“That’s good. Poor old Simpson is becoming forgetful, I’ve heard. He’s been with Father forever!”

They reached the house and he held the door open for her then followed her into the breakfast room. He still hadn’t gotten accustomed to the fact that there were separate rooms for breakfasting and dining—and that most in the household took their breakfast in bed.

He stopped short at the threshold of the breakfast room at the sight of his employer. Mr. Shepard was seated squarely behind The Times and Nick debated a few seconds what to do. Retreat? Go forward as if accompanying the man’s daughter were the most natural thing in the world?

Before he could decide, Miss Shepard breezed in ahead of him. “Good morning, Father. You’ve beaten us down to breakfast.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“What are you doing about so early?” He glanced over his paper, then lowered it further when he caught sight of Nick. Nick greeted him, hesitating at the doorway. The man gave a mere nod in acknowledgment and turned his attention back to his young daughter.

“I was just practicing tennis. Look whom I found.” She turned to Nick. “He hasn’t breakfasted either, so I brought him along. What will you have, Mr. Tennent?” Before her father could say anything, she moved to the sideboard and began lifting lids. “There’s scrambled eggs, kedgeree, bacon…”

Mr. Shepard grunted and turned back to his paper.

Nick followed to the serving dishes and took up a plate. The girl had succeeded in distracting her father from any mention of tennis lessons. He pondered her adroit maneuver as he helped himself to the wide array of food. His own boarding house fare usually consisted of lumpy porridge and a weak cup of tea.

Concentrating on his food, Nick listened to Miss Shepard chattering away to her father. He answered in monosyllables, with an occasional “What’s that you say?” thrown in, but he never lowered his paper more than a fraction.

Nick marveled at how Shepard could have produced such a lovely creature—and not realize what a treasure he had. Poor motherless child. He knew she had a much older brother. Nick had seen him a few times at the firm—Mr. Geoffrey Shepard, a pompous man in his late twenties.

Miss Shepard leaned forward, setting down her knife and fork. “Did you hear me, Papa?”

“What’s that you say?”

“I said we are planning an excursion to Richmond Park. Can you not come?”

“I return to London this afternoon. Take Miss Bellows with you.”

Nick knew he referred to a companion of sorts he’d briefly met in the servants’ quarters. His gaze rested in sympathy on Miss Shepard’s crestfallen features. He turned with a start to find Mr. Shepard focused on him, his gray-blue eyes sharp and piercing. “I’ll need those figures on Henderson, Ltd. before I go.”

“Yes, sir.” Nick drained the last of his tea and stood. “I’ll get to it right away.”

Miss Shepard smiled at him. “So long, Mr. Tennent. Perhaps I shall see you tomorrow?” Her eyes told him she was referring to the tennis court.

“Perhaps. Good morning, Miss Shepard.” With a bow, he left the room.

Of course, he couldn’t join her again tomorrow. It was sheer folly…

Chapter Two

Awake since the sky had begun to lighten, Alice let out a massive sigh of relief when she saw Mr. Tennent walking across the lawn toward the court.

Not until that moment did she realize how disappointed she would have been if he hadn’t shown up. She’d prayed hard last night that he wouldn’t be discouraged after only one lesson.

She fingered the head of her racket as she watched his long stride. His serious air made Victor and the other boys of her acquaintance seem just that—boys! Biting her lip, she glanced down at her calf-length plaid skirt and sailor top. How she wished she were one year older and wore ankle-length dresses like a lady. Did Mr. Tennent see her as just a schoolgirl? She cringed, remembering the silly game of hide-and-seek she’d been playing the day she’d burst in on him.

She smiled as he approached her. “Good morning.”

He nodded, his dark eyes meeting hers, their formality lessening as he gave her a slight smile. “Good morning, Miss Shepard.”

She tilted her head. “Ready to have another go?”

“If you’ve the patience and fortitude.”

Her smile widened in relief. She handed him the extra racket. “You did very well for your first time. Come, I’ll serve first.”

“Very well.” He shed his coat this time and laid it carefully on a wrought iron chair by the side of the court.

She began gently, giving him a chance to review what she’d taught him the day before. They played for about twenty minutes before taking a break.

“I brought some water for us,” she said, leading him to the yew hedge where she had stashed two stone flasks. “It should still be cold.”

“Thank you.” He took the one she handed him then waited until she had uncapped hers and brought it to her lips before following suit. “How did I do today? Any improvement?” he asked, lowering the flask.

“Oh, a vast amount. You’re a natural athlete.”

He made a sound of disbelief.

“You don’t believe me? It’s the truth. I can tell. You’re nothing like most of the boys on the court who try and act as if they knew something.” She studied his face, hoping she was convincing him not to give up, but the steady way he regarded her was hard to read.

Mr. Tennent wiped his brow with his handkerchief, pushing back his dark curls.

Hoping to draw out more about his fascinating past, she said, “Tell me more about your mother.”