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haughty fellows had seen her. They must think her low, indeed.
    “You could have knocked on the door,” he chided with a smile. “The servants would have let you in if you had simply said the abbess sent you over for the party.”
    Abbess?
Becky furrowed her brow and stared at him, and then her eyes widened as understanding dawned.
Oh, Lord . . . !
So, that’s why his friends had been so outrageously forward! It made sense now. Becky was appalled to realize that, along with his cronies and everyone else in this horrible town, Lord Alec Knight believed she was a whore.
    And that, she thought angrily, was the only reason he was still standing here.
    He didn’t care about her in the slightest. He was only after a bit of fun. “Come back to the house,” he coaxed her in a silky tone. “You just stay close to me. I won’t let the lads bother you.”
    Torn between outrage and disbelieving humor at what a very bad day she was having, Becky shook her head slowly, stubbornly, emphatically. But her heart pounded.
    Oh, this was rich. Finally, someone showed her a glimmer of concern in this hateful city, and now she understood why.
    She was about to correct his error when she suddenly stopped herself, recalling how everyone she had asked for help today had simply brushed her off. Surely, if she told this bona fide London rakehell that she was an honest girl—if he surmised he was not going to get what he wanted—then he, too, would leave her standing here alone again, starving, hunted, lost. The thought of being left out here in the streets again, by herself, in the middle of the night, was somehow worse than Lord Alec’s shocking assumptions.
    Worse by far.
    So, at that moment, instead of speaking up, she did what any canny country Yorkshireman would do and kept her mouth shut.
    No, let him believe of her what he willed. It didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. With her survival at stake, she was well past caring about her reputation. Somehow his golden presence made the night seem a little less black.
    “Come, Becky,” he coaxed her gently. “You’ll catch your death out here in the wet. I can see you shivering.” He glanced at her weapon. “Why don’t you put that thing down?”
    “Keep your distance!” she warned, but she could feel her defenses growing thin.
    He smiled almost tenderly, studying her in the darkness. “Why do I get the feeling you haven’t been doing this for very long?”
    “I—I—” She had no idea what to say. Did he mean
whoring
?
    “It’s all right,” he murmured indulgently, his glance flicking over her body. “You needn’t be embarrassed of your inexperience. In fact, I’m glad to hear it. You’re much too pretty to be out on the streets, my dear.”
    The compliment flustered her. Well, it must have been dark indeed if he thought that in her abysmal condition.
    He put his hands in his pockets, regarding her with a thoughtful gaze. “How long have you been in Town?”
    She swallowed hard. This much she could answer truthfully. “Oh, about . . . eight hours.”
    He raised his eyebrows in amusement. “So long?”
    She nodded. “I just arrived this afternoon.”
    “From?”
    “Yorkshire.” Her candlesnuffer dipped in her grasp as a lump of homesickness rose in her throat. Her chin trembled as she thought of her village and her beloved home, the ancient rambling Tudor hall at the edge of the heath. How she missed Talbot Old Hall, with its countless gables, climbing ivy, and four oak-carved angels standing guard atop the dramatic hammer-beam roof with swords and shields.
    His eyes glowed. “A Yorkshire lass. How delightful. I’m from the north, myself. Born and bred in the Cumberland hills. Country lad,” he teased.
    She could not help smiling ruefully at his claim and the unlikely image of this glossy London sophisticate scything hay or shearing sheep.
    “Well, that’s a first,” he remarked in a low tone, studying her. “You have a beautiful smile,