Second Chance Cinderella

“I’ll Wait for You Forever.”

Heartbroken when her childhood love never returned, Rose Smith soon learned she had even greater worries—she carried his child. Ten years later as a housemaid in London, she encounters Samuel Blackstone. The kind youth she adored has turned bitter with success. Feeling out of place in Sam’s high-society world, Rose fears what he may do when he learns of their son….

A wealthy stockbroker, Sam is used to getting what he wants. And when he learns that Rose bore him a son, he wants to claim his family. But he’ll have to convince Rose to trust him again if he’s to have any hope of meeting the boy…or recapturing her heart.

“I’m not excusing my behavior—”

“Good.”

Sam stiffened imperceptibly. Rose doubted he’d been treated with anything less than deference in ages. Where she got the brass to be cheeky she didn’t know, but remembering he had the power to alter her life for the worse, she thought better of acting outright insolent.

His lips tightened, but he soldiered on. “I had hoped you might consider forgiving me on account of our past...association. We were good friends once, or don’t you remember?”

Her fingers tightened into the arms of the padded leather armrest. As far as she was concerned, the word friend was an insult to what they’d shared. He’d been her reason to wake up each morning and her last thought each night. Even now, there were nights when he filled her dreams. Without him, she’d been wretched. The world had been fierce and frigid. If not for the Lord and His guiding hand, she didn’t know where she’d be.

“How could I forget?” she whispered.

CARLA CAPSHAW

Florida native Carla Capshaw is a preacher’s kid who grew up grateful for her Christian home and loving family. Always dreaming of being a writer and world traveler, she followed her wanderlust around the globe, including a year spent in the People’s Republic of China, before beginning work on her first novel.

A two-time RWA Golden Heart Award winner and double RITA® Award finalist, Carla loves passionate stories with compelling, nearly impossible conflicts. She’s found that inspirational historical romance is the perfect vehicle to combine lush settings, vivid characters and a Christian worldview. Currently at work on her next manuscript for Love Inspired Historical, she still lives in Florida, but is always planning her next trip…and plotting her next story.

Carla loves to hear from readers. To contact her, visit www.carlacapshaw.com or write to Carla@carlacapshaw.com.

Second Chance Cinderella

Carla Capshaw

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.

—Psalms 119:105

To Dottie, her favorite Andrew and our second chance at friendship.

Contents

Prologue

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

Dear Reader:

Extract

Prologue

Devonshire, England

November, 1833

“Please don’t cry, Rosie.” Sam Blackstone gazed into the glistening blue eyes of the only girl he’d ever loved.

A few feet away, Ezra Stark’s magnificent coach stood ready to convey him to London and a new life filled with possibilities—a far cry from sleepy Ashby Croft, with its cob-n-thatch cottages and meandering muddy lanes that led to nowhere.

Rose’s slender fingers curled around the frayed edges of his open coat front. “I’m afraid you won’t come back to me,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t be a daft little goose.” He tried to cajole a smile from her, but the effort was a lost cause.

Painfully aware she’d been abandoned by everyone else who should have cared for her, he pulled her close and breathed in the light scent of rosewater she’d favored ever since he’d bought a bottle for her birthday last spring.

Her sadness tore at his heart. She’d endured more disappointment and hardship in her sixteen years than a soul should have to bear in a lifetime. All he wanted was to make her happy.

He kissed the top of her head, savoring the feel of her in his arms. He dreaded leaving her, but he had to go. Mr. Stark had made it clear he wanted to be away before the village fully awakened.

“Listen to me, luv.” Sam dabbed Rosie’s tear-streaked face with the embroidered handkerchief she’d fashioned for him last Christmas. “This is our chance. Mr. Stark thinks I have a real gift for numbers. The clerk’s position he’s offered me is a stunner of a job. At sixty quid a year there’ll be no need for more gambling or thieving to earn our daily crust.”

He motioned to the ramshackle inn across the rutted street where she slaved as a maid for a pittance. The stagecoach waited out front and several travelers were already milling about in preparation to leave. “I want more for you than working your fingers to the bone day in and day out. Maybe someday we can even buy a cottage by the sea like we always dreamed of.”

“But...” She glanced nervously toward the gleaming lacquered coach and matched team of four gray horses nickering impatiently. “What if Mr. Stark isn’t who he claims ta be? What if—”

“He is, Rosie, no doubt. I told you before, if you’d seen how high-an-mighty Sir Percival was bowing and scraping around him you’d know you needn’t fret.” He tucked the handkerchief in his coat pocket and cupped her shoulders. The threadbare gloves she’d darned for him too many times to count did little to protect his callused hands from the late-autumn chill.

A gust of wind tugged at the brim of Rose’s worn brown cap, exposing her golden-blond hair. Having grown up as orphans, neither of them was used to the fineries of life, but if he had his way, it wouldn’t be long before she was turned out in the softest linen and richest silks. She deserved jewels and servants to see to her every whim. He was bound and determined to give them to her.

“I’ll be back from London within a month...afore the trees are bare. I’ll save every ha’penny and the minute I come back we’ll get married just as we always said we would.”

A ray of sunlight pierced the gloomy morning. A tremulous smile turned her soft, pink lips. “I like the sound of that. It’s about time I brought you up to scratch.”

“And here I was thinking I’d finally be making an honest woman of you.” He grinned. “Jus’ proves how much we need each other.”

Her faint smile faltered. “I can’t help feeling something bad is bound to happen.”

“Worrywart.” He tweaked her chin and laughed, despite the tightness banding his chest. How he dreaded leaving her when she was so afraid. They’d never been parted more than a day or two, but there was no help for it if they were ever to be more than a pair of bootlickers. “I’m going to town, not to war, sweetheart. Besides, even if I turned up my toes—”

“Don’t say that!” She leaned back in the circle of his arms, her stricken gaze pinned to his face. “I couldn’t bear it if you were taken from me forever.”

“You could never be rid of me for good. We’re a pair, you and me—the sand and surf, the moon and stars—”

“A goose and ’er gander?”

“Exactly.” He chuckled, relieved to see her smile. His thumb brushed tenderly across her wind-reddened cheek. He pulled her back against his chest, pleased by her wish for him to stay. His mother, whoever she was, had discarded him on the steps of the orphans’ asylum and no one else had ever cared a whit about him, except Rosie. “You have to know you’re all that matters to me. All I’ll ever care about.”

She sniffed against the rough wool of his shirtfront. “You say that now, but you might meet someone, a pretty London miss who—”

“Silly girl.” He squeezed her, snorting at such nonsense. She was as irreplaceable to him as his own heart. He’d been a lad of three the first time he saw her, a red-faced infant who’d been dumped on the orphanage doorstep. Even then he’d known she’d be important to him. In the sixteen years since, they’d become inseparable. She was everything to him, the reason he breathed and dreamed.

He nuzzled her ear. Squeezing his eyes shut, he missed her already. “I love you,” he said gruffly.

Her arms tightened around his waist. “You know I love you, too. More than anything.”

A few feet away, the coach’s door swung open. The forbidding presence of Ezra Stark remained out of sight inside the magnificent conveyance, but there was no mistaking his tone. “It’s time, Blackstone. Or have you reconsidered my offer?”

Sam stared at the tufted, burgundy velvet lining the door. The luxurious fabric probably cost more coin than he managed to scrape together in a year. How grand it would be to be like Ezra Stark who, according to the lads down at the pub, had more wealth than he could spend in ten lifetimes.

The shadowed figure moved within the coach. “The day is wasting, man. Make your choice.”

Now that the moment of reckoning had arrived, Sam wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life to leave all that he knew and everything he held dear. His hand still clasped in Rose’s tight grip, he took a step forward then stopped. His gaze darted back to Rose. Her chin quivered.

If she asks me to stay once more, I won’t go. I won’t rest till I find a position in service somewhere and—

“I sketched this for you.” She reached into her dress pocket, extracted a small roll of paper and handed it to him. “Don’t look at it until you’re gone. Promise you’ll come to fetch me as soon as you can, Sam. I know you want to find us a proper place to live, but I don’t need anything grand. I only need you.”

An ache swelling in his chest, he ignored Ezra Stark’s silent demand for him to hasten and accepted the gift. He leaned forward and kissed Rose’s cold lips, committing their softness and her warm response to memory. “You have my word as long as you promise you’ll wait for me.”

“Now who’s being a silly gander?” She pasted on a brave smile. The rain began to fall, helping to disguise her tears, but he wasn’t fooled. Pulling her crocheted shawl tighter around her shoulders, she hugged her small waist. Deep-blue eyes watched him with equal parts of uncertainty and trust. “Never doubt me, Sam. I’ll wait for you forever if need be,” she promised as he climbed into the coach.

Chapter One

London, England

September, 1842

It was the woman’s hair that drew Sam Blackstone’s full attention. The waterfall of gold tumbling down her narrow back from beneath a serviceable black bonnet reminded him of Rose Smith. As the blonde disappeared into the sea of pedestrians, his mood soured that same instant. The last thing he wanted or needed was a morning poisoned by memories of the past.

Relying on the years of strict mental discipline he’d employed to rise from being a village ne’er-do-well to one of London’s most prominent stockbrokers, he forced memories of Rose’s betrayal from his mind and descended the wide front steps of his elegant Mayfair townhouse.

In the past nine years, he’d played the game well and few challenges remained. He’d acquired more wealth than he’d ever dreamed as a young orphan in Ashby Croft. Far from going to bed with an empty stomach gnawing his ribs, sleeping in a drafty hovel and wearing itchy rags, he dined on delicacies, lived in a mansion and dressed in the finest Savile Row suits. Few rivaled his influence in financial circles. His advice on monetary matters was sought by everyone from potato farmers to Parliament members.

His driver opened the coach’s door. Sam climbed in and sat heavily on the black, embossed leather seat, impatient to get underway.

As he waited, his gaze slid back to the Georgian edifice he’d acquired three years earlier. The echoing monstrosity boasted every luxury and admirably performed its duty to impress, but the residence was devoid of human warmth or cheer. He much preferred to spend his waking hours at the city offices of Stark, Winters and Blackstone or overseeing the firm’s vigorous trade of commodities at the Exchange in Capel Court.

“Beggin’ yer pardon for the delay, sir,” his driver, Gibson, said over the din of the busy street. “Oxford’s in a tangle. The fine weather’s drawn everyone out. I ’spect there’s nary a church mouse to be found indoors at present.”

The coach finally pulled away from the curb. The pungent aroma of horseflesh and smoke carried on the air. Sam consulted his pocket watch before extracting several reports from the leather portfolio he’d brought with him. Not one to waste time when there was more wealth to be gleaned, he shuffled through the pages.

The list of figures blurred and the brisk activity all around him faded as his mind wandered to the taunting vision of the woman with blond hair. Something about the stranger beckoned him to find her, but he remained in his seat, determined to shut her out with a stubbornness that bordered on vice. She was nothing and no one to him. True, she’d been of similar height and build as Rose. And that golden hair—such a unique color. What if, by some twist of fate, Rose had come up to London and—

He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, dispelling the wild notion before his imagination grew to unrealistic proportions. Nine years had come and gone since he’d left tiny Ashby Croft. He was never going to see Rose again, and frankly, good riddance. Far from waiting for him as she’d promised, she’d married another bloke within months of his leaving. If a heart could break into a thousand jagged pieces, his had the day he’d returned to Devonshire to collect her and learned she’d thrown him over for someone else.

As much as he’d tried to forget her, the foul taste of her faithlessness had tainted every day for him since.

Despising the black mood overtaking him, he stuffed the reports back into the portfolio and closed the latch. The flow of vehicles congesting the street had slowed to a standstill. “How much longer, Gibson?” he demanded. “The ’Change opens in an hour.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Bother this.” Sam thrust the door open and climbed down from the vehicle. “I’m certain I’ll find the pace more brisk if I walk. Pick me up at half past six as usual...if you manage to be free by then.”

“Forgive me, sir, but shall I make that half past five? I overheard Cook say you was dinin’ with guests tonight.”

Sam frowned. He’d forgotten all about his dinner companions, including Lord Sanbourne and his beguiling daughter, Amelia, who was to serve as his hostess for the evening. “Right you are, Gibson. Half past five.”

The driver tipped his cap with a quick, “Aye, sir,” before pulling along the curb and setting the brake. The matched pair of gray geldings hitched to the conveyance whinnied and shook their heads as though disappointed by the loss of their morning exercise.

Portfolio in hand, Sam started off, shouldering his way through the occasional gaps that opened between his fellow pedestrians. He pressed his top hat tighter to his head to keep it from being dislodged by one of the frequent gusts of wind. At Oxford Street a seemingly endless row of traffic forced him to wait on the crowded corner.

“My, what a glorious day,” a lady in front of him cooed, nearly poking him in the eye with her ruffled parasol.

“Indeed, ’tis marvelous,” her elegant companion agreed.

Sam supposed it was true. The sun shone with undaunted enthusiasm, and rather than fog or London’s usual gray haze of coal smoke, the air seemed clear for once. Pots of flowers graced the steps and entryways of the grand terraces on both sides of the busy thoroughfare. Their late-summer blooms shone in shades of bright pink, fiery-red and, to Sam’s everlasting irritation, a golden-yellow that once again reminded him of Rose’s burnished hair.

Gritting his teeth, he headed toward Regent Street.

He wasn’t one for mysteries. He understood himself well enough to know that if he didn’t at least try to ascertain the truth of the blonde’s identity his imagination would pester him forever.

Aware of the unlikelihood of finding the stranger in the crush of people and that a solid quarter of an hour had passed since he’d first caught sight of her, he soldiered on as though some insistent, yet invisible force were pulling him forward.

Half a block later he began to wonder if he should retire to Bedlam. If there’d ever been a wild-goose chase, he was on it. Feeling foolish to his core, he scanned the hustle and bustle along the street and shook his head at his own stupidity. The woman, whoever she was, had disappeared like a vapor in the wind.

Annoyed by the bitter disappointment that assailed him, he wedged the portfolio under his arm, removed his top hat and combed a hand through his short, black hair. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he’d ever be truly free of Rose Smith.

His hat back in place, he was determined to forget the blonde and the lunacy that compelled him to chase after her. The pounding of workmen’s hammers making repairs on the row of buildings behind him mixed with the call of newspaper boys and the clamor of horses and carriages. In the distance, the bass notes of a church bell announced the ninth hour.

A momentary break in the rank of pedestrians allowed him a glimpse of his quarry on the corner at the next block. His heart kicked against his ribs. He sprinted after her, her lovely hair drawing him like a lodestar as he pushed through the gaggle of people meandering along the footpath.

A gust of wind swished the lady’s cape up and out behind her. She carried a battered valise he hadn’t noticed before, and the black garb she wore appeared to be the typical frock of a servant.

A passing barouche and row of horse carts impeded his progress at the corner of Holles Street. For a few, tension-filled moments he feared he’d lost her again, but the way cleared in time for him to see her stop in front of a Palladian townhouse on the east side of Cavendish Square. Although she stood in profile, the details of her face were obscured by the bill of her bonnet. Her head nodded as she looked from the front of the building to a piece of paper she held.

The paper gave him pause. Rose didn’t know how to read, or at least she hadn’t when he’d known her. Perhaps she’d learned in the past nine years, the same as he had acquired new skills and bettered himself.

He picked up his pace. “Rose!” he shouted, drawing startled looks from the other walkers, but he paid them no mind. “Rose!” he called again, dodging several horses as he crossed to the square. No response. Either she didn’t hear him over the activity in the street or he had the wrong woman altogether.

And yet she seemed so familiar. The fluid way she walked, the expressive tilt of her head... The cape she wore made it difficult to tell, but now that he’d had a better look, she seemed shapelier in the hips and bust than his Rose had been. But wasn’t that to be expected? She was no longer a girl of sixteen, but a mature woman of twenty-five.

The mystery lady disappeared down the townhouse steps leading to the servants’ entrance. Sam yanked off his hat and broke into a run. A door slammed just as he reached the front of the house. He moved to the narrow flight of steps he’d seen the woman take and stared at the scuffed black door that led to a basement and the source of the rich aromas filling the air.

Sam slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. He considered inquiring after the woman but discarded the notion. Servants were often a prickly lot with an abhorrence for being intruded upon by outsiders.

Besides, what would he do if he found out his quarry did happen to be Rose? Strangling her wasn’t an option and he doubted she’d come willingly to the door to hear his abysmal opinion of her.

He noted the address. The townhouse boasted mansion-size proportions, wide front steps, imposing columns and lead-glass windows. If he wasn’t mistaken, the edifice belonged to Baron Malbury, a shifty fellow who’d risen to his current status through the untimely death of his predecessor in a boating accident the previous month.

Sam had been reluctant to take on the self-important, nearly impoverished peer as a client, but if Malbury employed Rose, he’d have to reevaluate the situation and determine the best way to use the connection to his advantage.

Sam returned to the corner across the street and called to a newspaper boy leaning on the gas lamp.

“Aye, govna?” the boy rang out as he bounded over to him. A child of no more than seven or eight, he was unkempt with dirt smudges on his cheeks, his muddy-brown hair uncombed. His ragged clothes were too big for his scrawny frame and the hungry look about him reminded Sam of his own miserable childhood. “You wan’ ta buy a paypa?”

Sam shook his head. He’d already looked over The Times at breakfast. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Georgie, sir.”

“Well, Georgie, I have a proposition for you. How would you like to earn a quid for say...ten minutes of your time?”

Georgie’s brown eyes rounded with a hopeful eagerness he couldn’t quite hide. “If it ain’t on the up and up, me mum—”

“Oh, it’s honest, all right. You needn’t worry. I want you to go to the servants’ entrance of that residence—” he pointed to the Malbury mansion “—and ask if there’s a maid by the name of Rose employed there. If so, ask if her name was Rose Smith before she married. Do you think you could do that for me?”

“That’s all I ’ave to do for a ’ole quid?”

Sam nodded. His gaze slid back to the mansion. His eyes narrowed on the glossy front door. Curiosity burned in his veins. “Yes, and if you hurry I’ll give you two.”

Georgie took off at a flat run.

* * *

Praying she’d come to the right place, Rose knocked on the kitchen door. Ever since she’d become a Christian eight years ago, she’d relied on the Lord to direct her path. Relying on His guidance eased her mind when the shifting letters and numbers others seemed to read with ease made little sense to her.

The scuffed black door swung open. “Ye’re late,” said a young, frowning kitchen maid.

She blinked, surprised to see a woman instead of a footman answer the door. “I know. I apologize. The coach from Paddington station suffered a broken wheel.” Her heart racing from the mad pace she’d kept in her failed attempt to arrive on time, she switched her battered valise to her other hand and descended the final step into the basement. A blast of heat assaulted her along with the aroma of roasted fowl. “I had to walk the last few miles and I lost my way a bit. I came as quick as I could.”

The door slammed shut behind her as the dour-faced Scot ushered her farther into the entryway. A stone arch separated the small space from the ovens and activity of the kitchen beyond. The harried staff reminded her of the frantic crowds in the maze of streets outside.

“Then yoo’d best get settled an’ tae work straight awa’,” said the maid. Dressed in a column of black wool and a sullied white apron, the young woman inspected her with a quick, unimpressed glance. “I don’t ken how ye bumpkins in th’ coontry work, but our cook, Mrs. Pickles, isna a body for tardiness or excuses of any kind.”