Page 4 of A Stranger’s Promise

“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 yourreputation, 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.