The Blue Drawing Room (Regency Rendezvous Book 2)

by Carmen Caine

  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, requiring Alistair himself 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 questioning brow.

  “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 Kennedy green.” Both children shared the bright, distinct Kennedy 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.

  “Yes, I’ll 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, pressing her lips 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’m 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’m 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, wondering just how hard and withered her old heart truly was.

  “Eight, I repeat.” She continued, fanning 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 gasped, tutting behind her ever-present fan. “And she’s standing on my front doorstep? Whatever is the world coming to? Are you certain I know a Major Plowman? Why would his daughter come here?”

  Alistair tilted his head, curious.

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

  Lady Prescott’s eyes widened. “Heavens! The very same Major Plowman? How can that be? Such an ignoble end…” Her fan fluttered furiously. “No, no, I can’t…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, returning with a young woman wearing a modest, brown, quilted Spencer jacket over a simple high-waist, blue gown, and holding a straw bonnet in her hands.

  Alistair’s breath caught. She stood just inside the door, a stunning example of feminine beauty, looking like a delicate and pale tragic angel. Her dark-lashed hazel eyes held deep-seated pain and her full lips turned down at the corners, betraying 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, taking in her slender, lithe form.

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

  Miss Plowman 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,” she announced in a proud and lofty tone. “Lord Alistair Kennedy, Baron Aisla and 11th Earl of Cassilis.”

  Alistair leveled Lady Kennedy a thin-lipped look, finding her boastful tone in poor taste considering the young woman’s obvious distress.

  “I’m told you’re seeking employment, Miss Plowman,” 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’d think it wise for you to look in the country. Perhaps Ireland?”

  Miss Plowman 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 Plowman, 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 Plowman’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 brushing her remarks aside, fa
ced the young woman instead. Miss Plowman 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 Plowman,” 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 Plowman 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 an unseemly one, his aunt had no problems jumping in. “Quite shocking,” she inserted, her eyes lighting 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 Plowman’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.

  Lifting a brow at his aunt’s haughty conceit, he 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 Plowman?”

  His aunt’s fanning abruptly stopped.

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

  Warming to his idea, he pressed on. “And you hold some basic knowledge of deportment and polite society, I’m sure? 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 am seeking a governess to oversee two wee children at Castle Culzean, clan Kennedy’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, studying the young woman’s reaction.

  Miss Plowman hesitated and, dropping another nervous curtsey, replied, “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. “And why not a governess?” he pressed.

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

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

  Miss Plowman’s eyes widened.

  “Have you gone mad?” Lady Prescott wheezed, struggling to catch her breath.

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

  Chapter Three

  Where to Begin?

  “What the devil?” Eliza swore under her breath, giving her worn canvas bag another hard yank to dislodge it from the black iron railing that lined the front steps of her old home. The bag came free all at once. She stumbled backward and nearly slid down the icy steps.

  “Allow me, Miss Plowman.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Kennedy’s mutton-chop whiskered footman stepping out of the hackney coach he’d hired to retrieve her meager belongings from the townhouse. The man had been waiting patiently. Not that she’d been long. The creditors had taken everything of value. She had only a worn peach-colored day dress, a thin nightgown, and a hairbrush to pack.

  “Thank you, but I’m fine,” she replied, embarrassed to relinquish a nearly empty bag.

  The man nodded and leaned against the coach to wait. Eliza pulled on her nearly threadbare winter gloves, then turned to inspect the small townhouse for the last time. For the past six years, it had been home—well, where she’d lived, anyway. She’d never felt comfortable in the place. Home, to her, would always be the country cottage of her childhood. She cocked a wry brow at the townhouse, eager to leave it, London, and her problems behind. She’d already exchanged farewells with the butcher’s wife. As for the rest of her acquaintances and relatives? They didn’t care where she ended up so long as it wasn’t on their doorstep. Why bother telling them anything?

  And Captain Edwards?

  She tossed her head and snorted. Let him wonder where she’d vanished off to—not that he would. No, she wouldn’t be thinking of him again. Why should she? She was free. Free, at last. A thread of excitement wound its way through her at the thought and she smiled for the first time in weeks.

  Finding her heart growing lighter by the second, she spun on her heel and headed for the hackney coach with her bag clutched tightly under her arm. She’d no sooner sat down on the scuffed leather carriage seat then the coachman whistled and they were off.

  She was leaving. Finally. With a deep breath to steady herself, Eliza leaned her head against the grimy coach window and let London pass unseeing before her eyes. She turned her thoughts to the challenge ahead. Again and again, she heard Lord Kennedy’s deep baritone play in her mind. You will do quite nicely, Miss Plowman. The position is yours.

  Quite nicely? She bit her lip. She hadn’t the slightest notion how to begin. And a smattering of French? Did swearing count? She winced. Why had she nodded? Because she’d been too petrified and desperate to do anything else. At least she could play a few songs on the pianoforte—Irish drinking songs. She prayed he wouldn’t ask for a concert. She’d only wanted a position as the lowest of scullery maids. She’d never dreamt of becoming a governess to the children of an ancient and noble Scottish house. But given the beggar’s power of choice, what could she do?

  And the man himself? He clearly knew no fear. He’d taken on Lady Prescott without a moment’s hesitation, a woman none in London dared cross. She shifted uneasily in her seat, unable to shake his image from her mind as he’d stood before the fire, an imposing, powerful Scottish lord over six feet tall with thick dark hair and piercing green eyes.

  “What have you landed yourself in, Eliza?” she whispered, and blew her truant curls away from her eyes.

  She grimaced. She’d have to make do.

  All too soon, the hackney rolled to a stop near Lady Prescott’s Mayfair address and Eliza stepped down, clutching her canvas bag close to her side. An impressive barouche waited at the townhouse door, a remarkable conveyance painted an elegant black and emblazoned with the Kennedy coat of arms. Four splendid bays stamped in their gleaming harnesses as several footmen bustled about, strapping large, iron-banded trunks to the vehicle’s rear.

  “His lordship awaits inside, Miss Plowman,” the mutton-chop whiskered footman informed her kindly. As she started toward th
e front door, he caught her arm and quickly added, “The servants’ entrance is ‘round the back, Miss.”

  Eliza checked her step. Ah, yes. As a governess, she followed a different set of rules now. Nodding her thanks to the man, she altered course and headed to the proscribed door. A dour-faced maid answered on the second knock and promptly escorted her up the back stairs to a small dormer makeshift nursery with yellow-painted walls, a mattress on the floor, and little else.

  Two children stood by the single window overlooking the street below, a young dark-haired boy of approximately nine years of age and a little red-haired, freckle-faced girl of perhaps three. Both shared Lord Kennedy’s unusual green eyes and both wore stiff new clothes they obviously found uncomfortable.

  Under their watchful gazes, Eliza took a deep breath and nervously cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, children, I am Miss Eliza Plowman, your new governess.” She forced her lips into a smile. “And your names are?” She waited, nodding encouragingly.

  The children simply stared.

  Adding a bit more warmth to her smile, she tried again. “What is your name, young master?”

  The boy’s dark lashes lowered and his mouth clamped shut—a challenge if she’d ever seen one.

  Somewhat startled, Eliza addressed his sister instead, “And your name, young mistress?”

  The child gulped, her big eyes widening even more as she darted behind her brother and grabbed fistfuls of his new wool coat in her tiny hands. The boy stiffened and jutted out his jaw, holding out a protective arm as if to block Eliza from coming any closer.

  “Well, this won’t do,” Eliza breathed. They clearly didn’t trust her. She’d obviously have to make friends with them first.

  At a movement near the door, she glanced over to see Lord Kennedy ducking under the lintel to enter the room, the heels of his fine, well-polished black riding-boots a loud click on the attic floor. Rising to his full height, he stood tall in a dark blue waistcoat topped off with a gray silk neck cloth tied with an elegantly careless twist. He looked quite striking. The folds of his white sleeves and cut of his waistcoat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Eliza realized she was staring and dropped her gaze, only to find her attention diverted to the tight fit of his tailored trousers, where they stretched over his long, lean thighs. Heavens, but she didn’t recall him being quite so dashingly handsome.