A Stranger's Kiss (Lords of Chance Book 2)

by Tarah Scott

  Tears wet her lashes. She’d returned from the churchyard, having just seen her father buried, to find the creditors hovering like vultures at the townhouse’s front door.

  “What is this?” Captain Edwards had stepped to the forefront of the funeral party to confront the men. “What business have you here?”

  They’d answered that their business concerned promissory notes long past due and letters from banks with demands for immediate compensation to the sum of several thousand pounds. At that, every head in the funeral party had turned. Tongues tutted. Captain Edwards’ mouth had dropped open in shock.

  “Gaming debts,” someone said.

  “A swindler,” said another.

  “Scandal,” they all agreed.

  The creditors took everything. Even her mother’s leather-bound cookery book.

  Charlotte couldn’t recall much after that, except for the beauty of the snowflakes swirling down from the sky to gently kiss her tear-stained cheeks.

  The ring of St. Clement’s bells in the distance jolted her back to the present.

  “You weep more for the cookery book than your fiancé, Charlotte.” She laughed bitterly and drew in a long, shaky breath.

  Just an hour ago, Captain Edwards stood in the kitchen and commented on the lack of coal. He then handed her the last letter, saying, “As you know, Miss Atchenson, a man of my position must choose his wife with care, a woman from an upstanding family. I have done all I can for you.”

  Charlotte had stared in surprise. Yes, he’d stood by her side as they’d lowered her father into his grave, but so had many others. He’d done precious little else—ah, besides deliver the letter.

  “I shall not marry you. I cannot besmirch my good name,” he’d continued, pompous to the end. “Your father…well, the evidence of his scandalous behavior is undeniable.” She stood frozen as he pulled a small leather bag from his waistcoat and tossed it at her feet. “This is my final act of kindness. Ten shillings.”

  Ten? Ten shillings? Fury swept through her anew at the memory of how she’d grabbed the bag from the floor, slapped it hard against his chest, and shouted, “What use have I for ten shillings when I have more than a thousand demands for the paltry sum?” She hadn’t stopped there. She’d said the words she’d longed to say for years, “You are an arrogant ass, a fool and a bully. How thankful I am to not wed such a cruel, heartless and hypocritical man. Not even a month ago, did you not speak to me of respect, duty, and honor? Discipline? Of standing by your side through all the trials of life’s fortunes and misfortunes? Or is it only the woman who must remain faithful?”

  A dark color had stained his cheeks and he’d raised his hand. She took a faltering step back, then caught herself.

  They stared at one another for several long moments before his hand slowly dropped. “Do not seek me out, Charlotte. I shall no longer acknowledge you.” Then he left, his pittance clutched in his hand.

  Charlotte smiled at the ashes inside the stove. Despite her destitute circumstances, she couldn’t deny the sense of freedom, the weight that had been lifted from her shoulders. “You should’ve taken the coins, Charlotte,” she criticized with a rueful shake of her head. “Ten shillings are better than none when you’ve eaten the last of the salted haddock and every doorstep you’ve stood on has turned you away.”

  She’d been unable to find work, even as a scullery maid.

  With a sigh, she rose and stalked to the empty parlor with its undressed windows, for the creditors had taken even the worn damask curtains. She leaned her forehead against the frozen windowpane and looked out at the winter stillness blanketing the city. Only the streetlamps shone like beacons in the night.

  “Tomorrow.” She clenched her hands in determination. “Tomorrow this nightmare will end.”

  Tomorrow she would find employment. She had to. If she didn’t, she’d be forced out onto London’s frozen streets or into debtor’s prison in less than a week, since her father still owed more than what his life had been worth.

  Chapter Two

  Alistair James, Baron Aisla, 11th Earl of Cassilis, and Laird of Castle Culzean, made quite the formidable picture standing before the fireplace in his aunt’s Mayfair townhouse parlor. Dressed in a stylish, dark blue waistcoat with a silk cravat tied in the latest fashion, the handsome Scottish lord loomed tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular in an elegantly lean way. His bright green eyes and dimpled chin, combined with the sensual curl of his lip, made him the talk of the town—particularly since he rarely graced it with his presence. His aunt had spent the last ten minutes harping on this very subject instead of discussing the real matter at hand.

  “And shall we now discuss the governesses you have chosen?” he at last interjected. “On my honor, I will no’ have a one of them.” Alistair pressed his mouth into a firm line of disapproval. He raised an elegant hand to cut his aunt’s diatribe short. “Hags. The lot of them.”

  Lady Prescott’s eyes popped in surprise. “Hags?” she gasped. “The last two governesses brought impeccable letters of recommendation, Alistair. Lady Boswell’s recommendations, no less.”

  Alistair let the mocking arch of his brow express his opinion of Lady Boswell, by far the cruelest gossipmonger in the ton—after his aunt, of course. He eyed the woman as she sat on her gilded, brocade chair like a queen on her throne, her aged face a mask of dissatisfaction and her mouth set in a permanent, judgmental frown. He held nothing in common with her—or any of his father’s kin, for that matter.

  “Frankly, why do you bother?” His aunt waved her Spanish, black-lace fan. “The children are…” Her voice trailed away and her nostrils flared again, this time in distaste.

  Alistair pinned her with a stare. “The children are?” he prompted.

  Lady Prescott knew better than to answer. “I would think you would understand,” she huffed instead and, unable to bear his stern gaze, glanced away.

  “Oh, I understand,” he replied in a lethally soft voice. “I truly do.”

  The old woman stiffened. “Your situation was entirely different from theirs. Your mother was…was…well, your father wed her, did he not? In the end? Even though she was nothing but a scullery maid.”

  Nothing but a scullery maid. How many times had he felt the stinging slap of those words? Yes, in the end, his father had set things right, but the final act of legitimizing his estranged, eldest son hadn’t stemmed from honor or remorse. His father simply had no choice—not if he wished his legacy to survive. Obsessed with rebuilding Castle Culzean at the expense of all else, the old earl had bankrupted his entire estate. It was either recognize Alistair—and the vast fortune he’d accumulated in his own right, a fortune that could pay the bills—or see the castle and his legacy sold off to the highest bidder.

  The sudden discovery of his parents’ wedding certificate after so many years smacked of deceit, but no one contested the matter in court. Why should they? They needed Alistair to set the estate to rights if they wanted their yearly sums. Oh, his stepmother had been furious, but her son, Charles, had seemed only relieved. He’d promptly moved to London to carouse and hop from one scandal to another, which meant Alistair himself had to travel down from the north to mop up the mess.

  Lady Prescott rapped her fan on the arm of her chair to capture his attention. He lifted a brow in question.

  “As I was saying, Alistair,” she repeated, her lips puckered in the displeasure of finding herself ignored. “The children could belong to anyone. How can we be certain Charles even fathered the brats?”

  Alistair expelled an exasperated breath. “Take a wee look at their eyes,” he grated. “Even you cannot deny the Cassilis green.” Both children shared the bright, distinct Cassilis green with flecks of blue around the pupils surrounded by a darker rich, deep emerald ring.

  Lady Prescott’s double chin jiggled in distaste. “Well, the woman was a…” She paused to grimace behind her fan.

  “A mere laundress?” Alistair finished for her.

&nbs
p; “Yes, I will say it, Alistair. The woman was a low-born laundress.” The words burst from her mouth as if she could not hold them back. “Let her relations take the mongrel, beggar children in. It’s unfitting we should be involved. Our reputation! Charles is a high-born—”

  “Drunken sot,” Alistair inserted coolly. “A sot refusing to provide for his offspring, and a sot happy to abandon them upon your doorstep so he may carouse on the continent. Good God, woman, can you truly suggest we abandon two wee, motherless children on the streets? Simply because their mother was—heaven forbid—a mere laundress?”

  His aunt bristled like a hedgehog, her lips pressed so tightly together they turned white. “Alistair, your reputation—”

  “Reputation?” he interrupted with a dry chuckle. “I should think my reputation would suffer should I not accept responsibility for the poor, motherless children.” He held his hands up again, cutting her off. “My decision is made. The lad and lassie travel with me to Culzean, and that’s the end of the matter.”

  Lady Prescott fluttered her fan again, affecting an injured air. “Very well, take them, if you insist, but they hardly need a governess. Let them learn a trade. They’re well-born beggars at best and, as such, beneath the notice of polite society.”

  Alistair lifted his brow a contemptuous notch higher, astonished at the woman’s audacity. “I am curious,” he murmured. “Those many years ago, after my mother died and I found myself on my father’s doorstep...whose idea was it then, to send me to the stables?” He’d arrived at his father’s castle, a lad of eight—and had been promptly put to work mucking the stables.

  Lady Prescott gave her fan a vicious snap. “We had to protect your father’s reputation,” she answered through tight lips. “You’ve no cause to be ungrateful. You’re the earl now, aren’t you? And this many years later, I am still providing assistance. I found eight highly respected governesses to care for the two children, Alistair. Eight. Yet, you have refused them all. What am I to do?”

  So, if she hadn’t sent him to the stables, she’d definitely participated in the notion. He shook his head. Just how hard and withered was her old heart?

  “Eight, I repeat.” She fanned her cheeks. “Eight.”

  Alistair folded his arms. Aye, she’d found eight governesses. Eight highly prejudiced old biddies who’d fluttered horrified eyelashes upon discovering they’d be educating two children of dubious parentage in a remote Scottish castle near the sea. He’d suffered enough in his youth with such women. He wasn’t about to inflict the same kind of pain on two motherless bairns.

  A knock on the parlor door prohibited further conversation, and a mob-capped maid entered to whisper hurriedly in his aunt’s ear.

  “Absolutely horrifying,” Lady Prescott tutted behind her ever-present fan. “And she is on my front doorstep? Whatever is the world coming to? Are you certain I know a Major Atchenson? Why would his daughter come here?”

  Alistair tilted his head, curious.

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Major Atchenson saved your son, young master George, in the war.”

  Lady Prescott’s eyes widened. “Heavens! The very same Major Atchenson? How can that be? Such an ignoble end…” Her fan fluttered furiously. “No, no, I cannot…the gossip alone…no, I can’t have her in my household. Show her in, but interrupt me in two minutes, two minutes, mind you. Claim an urgent matter begs my attention and send her away. I’ll make certain she doesn’t return.”

  Alistair stared, speechless. Had the woman no shame?

  The maid left, then returned with a young woman dressed in a modest, brown, quilted Spencer jacket over a simple high-waist, blue gown, and a straw bonnet in hand.

  Alistair’s breath caught. She stood just inside the door, a perfect example of feminine beauty, a delicate and pale tragic angel. Her dark-lashed hazel eyes held deep-seated pain and her full downturned lips, betrayed a healthy sense of unease. She’d twisted her gold-tinted, brown locks into a simple bun, but several rebellious strands had escaped and curled around her neck. He dropped his gaze over the soft curve of her jaw.

  “Miss Atchenson,” his aunt raised her voice in greeting. “Allow me to offer you my sympathies, child. Such a shock, such a shock.” She smiled, a most disingenuous smile.

  Miss Atchenson dipped into a respectful curtsey to his aunt, then darted an uncertain glance at him. Alistair nodded a polite reply.

  Lady Prescott tilted her head his way. “My nephew, Lord Alistair James, Baron Aisla and 11th Earl of Cassilis.”

  Alistair leveled Lady Cassilis a thin-lipped look. Could her boastful tone possibly be in poorer taste?

  “I am told you’re seeking employment, Miss Atchenson,” his aunt addressed the young woman again. The lass brightened and opened her mouth to respond, but the old woman barreled on, “Considering your unfortunate circumstances, I would think it wise for you to look in the country. Perhaps Ireland?”

  Miss Atchenson caught her breath. “I…see, my lady.”

  The maid rushed into the room. “Lady Prescott, a most urgent matter requires your immediate attention.”

  Alistair folded his arms across his chest. “One urgent matter,” he said with a sardonic twist of his lips. “As ordered.”

  The women in the room froze.

  He stepped forward and bowed. “Miss Atchenson, allow me to assist you whilst my dearest aunt of aunts deals with her urgent matter. Our family stands indebted to yours. Without your father’s courageous action, my cousin George would no longer grace his mother’s dinner table. Is that not true, Lady Prescott?”

  His aunt recovered first. With an angry snap of her fan, she scowled at the maid. “The matter will have to wait. I must handle Miss Atchenson’s predicament first.” She turned to Alistair and added, “My dear boy, pray do not involve yourself. These things are far beneath your attention.”

  From the expression on her face, it was clear she thought him anything but ‘dear.’ He smiled, a cool, warning smile, and faced the young woman. Miss Atchenson regarded him uneasily. Another victim of the ton, to be sure. Well, now that he held a position of some authority, he knew by far the easiest way to provide true assistance to the lass was to face the gossip and rumors head-on.

  “Forgive my frankness, Miss Atchenson,” he addressed her as kindly as he could, “but might I inquire as to the nature of these ‘unfortunate circumstances’ my aunt has mentioned?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  Lady Prescott gasped, horrified. “Heavens, Alistair, how unseemly.”

  “I mean no disrespect.” He summoned a smile. “How can I help otherwise, pray tell?”

  Miss Atchenson bravely smiled back. “My father recently met an unexpected and disgraceful end, my lord.” Her voice, strong and low, held a musical quality.

  For all of her talk of his approach being unseemly, his aunt had no problems jumping in. “Quite shocking.” Her eyes lit with the thrill of gossip. “It was in every paper, Alistair, the week before you arrived. Every paper. Gambling debts and mismanagement of funds. Thousands of pounds. A decorated major! Such a disgrace. And now? The drinking. There’s even talk of frequent visits to houses of ill repute. Why, Lady Witherby says his death was rather too convenient to be an accident and that he, well, you know…” She let her voice trail suggestively away.

  Miss Atchenson’s eyes flashed, but her lips remained firmly sealed. Aye, the lass obviously wished to defend her father. He found her response and restraint admirable.

  Alistair lifted a brow at his aunt’s haughty conceit, and couldn’t resist saying, “What was that, Lady Prescott? Mismanagement of funds, you say? Rather reminds one of Castle Culzean’s former laird, does it not?”

  Lady Prescott’s jaw dropped open. “Your father had nothing in common with—”

  “He spent thousands of pounds he did not have,” he cut her short. As she sucked in a shocked breath and furiously fanned her reddened cheeks, he eyed the young woman once again. “And what position�
�” he began, then, a sudden idea crossed his mind. “I assume you read and write, Miss Atchenson?”

  His aunt’s fan abruptly stilled.

  Miss Atchenson’s gaze darted quickly between them. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You hold some basic knowledge of deportment and polite society? A smattering of French? Can you play at least one song on the pianoforte?”

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  “Absolutely not, Alistair.” Lady Prescott pushed to her feet. “You preside over an ancient and noble Scottish house. Think of your reputation, young sir.”

  Reputation. She couldn’t have picked a better word to egg him on. “I need a governess to oversee two wee children at Castle Culzean, clan Cassilis’s ancestral home on the Ayrshire coast,” he continued smoothly. “A lad and a lassie, raised in London by their mother, a recently deceased laundress and, until now, without proper knowledge of their father’s station in life. Were you to secure this position, you would teach them their letters and the ways of polite Society.” At this point, the other governesses had flinched. He paused and studied the young woman’s reaction.

  Miss Atchenson hesitated, then dropped another nervous curtsey. “I am most honored for your consideration, my lord, but I am more suited to the scullery.”

  Scullery? The word tugged at his heart, reminding him of his mother. “Why not a governess?” he pressed.

  She took a deep breath and answered with candor, “I know nothing of raising genteel children, my lord.”

  Genteel children. His lip curled in a smile. “Aye, you will do quite nicely, Miss Atchenson. The position is yours. I grow weary of London. We leave for Castle Culzean at once. I will send a man with you to gather your things.”

  Miss Atchenson’s eyes widened.

  “Have you gone mad?” Lady Prescott struggled to catch her breath.

  He eyed the young woman before him. Had he? He didn’t really know, but for some odd reason, he didn’t truly care.

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