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Rags To Riches: Her Duty To Please: Nanny by Chance / The Nanny Who Saved Christmas / Behind the Castello Doors
Betty Neels
Chantelle Shaw
Michelle Douglas
NANNY BY CHANCEJust as Araminta Pomfrey was to begin her nurse’s training, her parents volunteered her as a nanny to Dr. Marcus van der Breugh’s twin nephews. Outraged, Araminta decided to personally inform Marcus she would not do it. But after meeting him—and learning that she could help and be a student at his hospital—she changed her mind. Perhaps nursing wasn’t really what she wanted to do…THE NANNY WHO SAVED CHRISTMASThis Christmas, Nicola McGillroy will:1. Be a great nanny to Cade Hindmarsh’s two adorable little girls, and give them the best Christmas they've had since their mother left.2. Enter into the Christmas spirit and forget the fact she should have been planning her own wedding right now.3. Keep a straight head in her attraction to her gorgeous off-limits boss… Surely this is just a rebound thing and not true love—for both of them?BEHIND THE CASTELLO DOORSCesario Piras, brooding master of the Castello del Falco wasn’t prepared for the visitor that turned up on his doorstep during a raging storm – or with a little bundle bearing the Piras name she has in tow. Cesario’s head screamed run, but his damaged heart began to betray him.Beth Granger knew that the moment she knocked on the castle door that there was no going back. She had a job to do, but the moment Cesario looked deep into her pleading eyes her faultless plan crumbled around her…
Rags to Riches: Her Duty to Please
Nanny by Chance
Betty Neels
The Nanny Who Saved Christmas
Michelle Douglas
Behind the Castello Doors
Chantelle Shaw
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#uc5b492b0-574a-5b1a-b96a-93051284ce71)
Title Page (#uc60bfc5b-446e-54eb-bcb0-ef66c3c8152b)
Nanny by Chance (#u10ea0ef0-28ef-5695-ad6d-e9a3bad7b126)
About the Author (#u8f7bdf0b-addb-5b7d-b68a-7172ce163282)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e77df400-3cbd-5fd4-8958-70efa7ae8c4f)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4e915af6-6497-5241-8b20-a24ed5dc8440)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bc5ac731-a7cd-55fe-a571-eaabeae23ea0)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_2ba276a8-4a44-5258-8e66-ff39590d42c1)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_5dedb860-2f0a-5c72-b55e-c578e2ee0498)
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_d56dcf3d-6e88-56f5-b4af-93529bc30158)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_6f20ef8d-b2fb-56f5-a8cd-79bcc6299535)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
The Nanny Who Saved Christmas (#litres_trial_promo)
Back Cover Text (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Behind the Castello Doors (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Nanny by Chance (#u2147d37a-02d5-5e60-8e30-52c0ddd5f88f)
Betty Neels
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomised the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_334f5ceb-f272-58e5-bb81-7d252776377b)
ARAMINTA POMFREY, a basket of groceries over one arm, walked unhurriedly along the brick path to the back door, humming as she went. She was, after all, on holiday, and the morning was fine, the autumn haze slowly lifting to promise a pleasant September day—the first of the days ahead of doing nothing much until she took up her new job.
She paused at the door to scratch the head of the elderly, rather battered cat sitting there. An old warrior if ever there was one, with the inappropriate name of Cherub. He went in with her, following her down the short passage and into the kitchen, where she put her basket on the table, offered him milk and then, still humming, went across the narrow hall to the sitting room.
Her mother and father would be there, waiting for her to return from the village shop so that they might have coffee together. The only child of elderly parents, she had known from an early age that although they loved her dearly, her unexpected late arrival had upset their established way of life. They were clever, both authorities on ancient Celtic history, and had published books on the subject—triumphs of knowledge even if they didn’t do much to boost their finances.
Not that either of them cared about that. Her father had a small private income, which allowed them to live precariously in the small house his father had left him, and they had sent Araminta to a good school, confident that she would follow in their footsteps and become a literary genius of some sort. She had done her best, but the handful of qualifications she had managed to get had been a disappointment to them, so that when she had told them that she would like to take up some form of nursing, they had agreed with relief.
There had been no question of her leaving home and training at some big hospital; her parents, their heads in Celtic clouds, had no time for household chores or cooking. The elderly woman who had coped while Araminta was at school had been given her notice and Araminta took over the housekeeping while going each day to a children’s convalescent home at the other end of the village. It hadn’t been quite what she had hoped for, but it had been a start.
And now, five years later, fate had smiled kindly upon her. An elderly cousin, recently widowed, was coming to run the house for her mother and father and Araminta was free to start a proper training. And about time too, she had reflected, though probably she would be considered too old to start training at twenty-three. But her luck had held; in two weeks’ time she was to start as a student nurse at a London teaching hospital.
Someone was with her parents. She opened the door and took a look. Dr Jenkell, a family friend as well as their doctor for many years.
She bade him good morning and added, ‘I’ll fetch the coffee.’ She smiled at her mother and went back to the kitchen, to return presently with a tray laden with cups and saucers, the coffeepot and a plate of biscuits.
‘Dr Jenkell has some splendid news for you, Araminta,’ said her mother. ‘Not too much milk, dear.’ She took the cup Araminta offered her and sat back, looking pleased about something.
Araminta handed out coffee and biscuits. She said, ‘Oh?’ in a polite voice, drank some coffee and then, since the doctor was looking at her, added, ‘Is it something very exciting?’
Dr Jenkell wiped some coffee from his drooping moustache. ‘I have a job for you, my dear. A splendid opportunity. Two small boys who are to go and live for a short time with their uncle in Holland while their parents are abroad. You have had a good deal of experience dealing with the young and I hear glowing accounts of you at the children’s home. I was able to recommend you with complete sincerity.’
Araminta drew a steadying breath. ‘I’ve been taken as a student nurse at St Jules’. I start in two weeks’ time.’ She added, ‘I told you and you gave me a reference.’
Dr Jenkell waved a dismissive hand. ‘That’s easily arranged. All you need to do is to write and say that you are unable to start training for the time being. A month or so makes no difference.’
‘It does to me,’ said Araminta. ‘I’m twenty-three, and if I don’t start my training now I’ll be too old.’ She refilled his coffee cup with a steady hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, and I do appreciate it, but it means a lot to me—training for something I really want to do.’
She glanced at her mother and father and the euphoria of the morning ebbed way; they so obviously sided with Dr Jenkell.
‘Of course you must take this post Dr Jenkell has so kindly arranged for you,’ said her mother. ‘Indeed, you cannot refuse, for I understand that he has already promised that you will do so. As for your training, a few months here or there will make no difference at all. You have all your life before you.’
‘You accepted this job for me without telling me?’ asked Araminta of the doctor.
Her father spoke then. ‘You were not here when the offer was made. Your mother and I agreed that it was a splendid opportunity for you to see something of the world and agreed on your behalf. We acted in your best interests, my dear.’
I’m a grown woman, thought Araminta wildly, and I’m being treated like a child, a mid-Victorian child at that, meekly accepting what her elders and betters have decided was best for her. Well, I won’t, she reflected, looking at the three elderly faces in turn.
‘I think that, if you don’t mind, Dr Jenkell, I’ll go and see this uncle.’
Dr Jenkell beamed at her. ‘That’s right, my dear—get some idea of what is expected of you. You’ll find him very sympathetic to any adjustments you may have in mind.’
Araminta thought this unlikely, but she wasn’t going to say so. She loved her parents and they loved her, although she suspected that they had never quite got over the surprise of her arrival in their early middle age. She wasn’t going to upset them now; she would see this man, explain why she couldn’t accept the job and then think of some way of telling her parents which wouldn’t worry them. Dr Jenkell might be annoyed; she would think about that later.
Presently the doctor left and she collected the coffee cups and went along to the kitchen to unpack her shopping and prepare the lunch, leaving her mother and father deep in a discussion of the book of Celtic history they were writing together. They hadn’t exactly forgotten her. The small matter of her future having been comfortably settled, they felt free to return to their abiding interest…
As she prepared the lunch, Araminta laid her plans. Dr Jenkell had given her the uncle’s address, and unless he’d seen fit to tell the man that she intended visiting him she would take him by surprise, explain that she wasn’t free to take the job and that would be that. There was nothing like striking while the iron was hot. It would be an easy enough journey; Hambledon was barely three miles from Henley-on-Thames and she could be in London in no time at all. She would go the very next day…
Her mother, apprised of her intention, made no objection. Indeed, she was approving. ‘As long as you leave something ready for our lunch, Araminta. You know how impatient your father is if he has to wait for a meal, and if I’m occupied…’
Araminta promised cold meat and a salad and went to her room to brood over her wardrobe. It was early autumn. Too late in the year for a summer outfit and too warm still for her good jacket and skirt. It would have to be the jersey two-piece with the corn silk tee shirt.
Her mother, an old-fashioned woman in many respects, considered it ladylike, which it was. It also did nothing for Araminta, who was a girl with no looks worth glancing at twice. She had mousy hair, long and fine, worn in an untidy pile on top of her head, an unremarkable face—except for large, thickly fringed hazel eyes—and a nicely rounded person, largely unnoticed since her clothes had always been chosen with an eye to their suitability.
They were always in sensible colours, in fabrics not easily spoilt by small sticky fingers which would go to the cleaners or the washing machine time and time again. She studied her reflection in the looking glass and sighed over her small sharp nose and wide mouth. She had a lovely smile, but since she had no reason to smile at her own face she was unaware of that.
Not that that mattered; this uncle would probably be a prosey old bachelor, and, since he was a friend of Dr Jenkell, of a similar age.
She was up early the following morning to take tea to her parents, give Cherub his breakfast and tidy the house, put lunch ready and then catch the bus to Henley.
A little over two hours later she was walking along a narrow street close to Cavendish Square. It was very quiet, with tall Regency houses on either side of it, their paintwork pristine, brass doorknockers gleaming. Whoever uncle was, reflected Araminta, he had done well for himself.
The house she was looking for was at the end of the terrace, with an alley beside it leading to mews behind the houses. Delightful, reflected Araminta, and she banged the knocker.
The man who answered the door was short and thin with sandy hair, small dark eyes and a very sharp nose. Just like a rat, thought Araminta, and added, a nice rat, for he had a friendly smile and the little eyes twinkled.
It was only then that she perceived that she should have made an appointment; uncle was probably out on his rounds—did doctors who lived in grand houses have rounds? She didn’t allow herself to be discouraged by the thought.
‘I would like to see Dr van der Breugh. I should have made an appointment but it’s really rather urgent. It concerns his two nephews…’
‘Ah, yes, miss. If you would wait while I see if the doctor is free.’
He led the way down a narrow hall and opened a door. His smile was friendly. ‘I won’t be two ticks,’ he assured her. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
The moment he had closed the door behind him, she got up from her chair and began a tour of the room. It was at the back of the house and the windows, tall and narrow, overlooked a small walled garden with the mews beyond. It was furnished with a pleasant mixture of antique cabinets, tables and two magnificent sofas on either side of an Adam fireplace. There were easy chairs, too, and a vast mirror over the fireplace. A comfortable room, even if rather grand, and obviously used, for there was a dog basket by one of the windows and a newspaper thrown down on one of the tables.
She studied her person in the mirror, something which brought her no satisfaction. The jersey two-piece, in a sensible brown, did nothing for her, and her hair had become a little ruffled. She poked at it impatiently and then looked round guiltily as the door opened.
‘If you will come this way, miss,’ said the rat-faced man. ‘The boss has got ten minutes to spare.’
Was he the butler? she wondered, following him out of the room. If so, he wasn’t very respectful. Perhaps modern butlers had freedom of speech…
They went back down the hall and he opened a door on the other side of it.
