A Stranger's Promise (Lords of Chance Book 1) Read online

  A Stranger’s Promise

  Lords of Chance

  Book One

  Tarah Scott

  A Stranger’s Promise Copyright © 2019 by Tarah Scott

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by R. Jackson Designs

  Photo: Period Images

  www.scarsdalepublishing.com

  SP

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Stranger’s Kiss

  Chapter One

  London, February 1814

  “Scandalous.” Captain Edwards sniffed in disdain. Charlotte tried not to wince when he turned his icy gaze from the store window to her. “No wife of mine would even look at such a gown.” His bearded jaw clenched, he added in an even stronger censorious tone, “Frankly, Charlotte, I am disappointed.”

  We aren’t married—yet, Charlotte retorted in her mind, and caught herself mid-roll of her eyes.

  She pushed her prim straw bonnet back from her face and turned back to the shop window for another look. The gown floated there like a dream come true. Cut in the latest fashion and trimmed with embroidered rosebuds, lace, and tiny seed pearls, its sweeping, crimson silk skirt fell in a tumble of soft, sensuous folds. The dressmaker had even angled several mirrors around the masterpiece to highlight the different views.

  Charlotte grinned. If she squinted her eyes and tilted her head just a little to the left, she could almost imagine herself wearing the confection. In her mind’s eye, an obliging shaft of winter sunlight caught the playful spark in her eyes along with the brilliant gold of her unruly brown curls, a contrast against the cream taffeta as she whirled in the dress.

  Her future husband’s heavy hand fell upon her shoulder. She jarred back into the moment and caught his reflection in the window. A toned and muscular tower of a man, resplendent in a Queen’s fine scarlet coat with its gold braid and polished brass buttons. A gallantly handsome figure, to be sure—at first glance, anyway. A deeper inspection revealed chilling blue eyes and the vein on his forehead pulsed in disapproval, a vein that betrayed an ever-present simmering rage.

  “I insist we leave, Charlotte.” He grasped her arm. “A virtuous woman would never soil her father’s good name—nor mine—by wearing such an abomination.”

  Charlotte suppressed a snort. “I merely thought it pretty, Captain Edwards.”

  “As my future wife, I insist you think no such thing.” He looped his arm through hers and pulled her away from the shop window.

  This time, she did roll her eyes. Heavens, did the man seek to control her thoughts? She snorted.

  Captain Edwards paused midstride and peered down at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you mocking me?”

  Charlotte thinned her lips in a grim line. She’d witnessed the Captain’s temper often enough to regret her acceptance of his marriage proposal—a proposal her father had pressured her to accept at the tender age of sixteen. Her father, a major in the Queen’s army, found Captain Edwards quite the catch. Not only was he a decorated captain, but a distant cousin to a baronet. Later, she learned her father owed the man a great deal of money. The discovery gave her courage. She’d begged her father to allow her to end the engagement, but he thought it far too late, and reminded her that he valued loyalty and faithfulness above all else—after the balance of his bank account, of course.

  Still, she tried to change his mind, but whenever she broached the matter, he invariably replied, “It is you who must change, Charlotte. You are proud and willful. Be grateful the man still wants you. Heed his guidance. Marriage isn’t pleasure. Marriage is work. When you’re older, you’ll understand. Now, enough of this foolishness.”

  Well, now she was older and she understood very well. Her father sought only to protect his own interests—not hers.

  “I am speaking to you, Charlotte.” Captain Edwards gave her arm a rough shake. “I repeat, are you mocking me?”

  Charlotte blinked. She cleared her throat, then answered in the most placating of tones, “No, sir.”

  He searched her face, clearly—and rightly—suspicious of her sincerity before nodding in satisfaction. Anchoring her arm tightly under his, he resumed their walk down the icy, snow-covered street.

  “I know you think me harsh, Charlotte,” he said. “But I’ve only your best interests at heart. Be grateful I am here to guide you. Because of me, you have blossomed into a virtuous woman, a woman worthy of becoming my wife. You’ve changed so much from when I met you as an undisciplined young girl of fifteen.”

  Charlotte looked away, in an effort to keep her anger in check. If only she hadn’t met him that summer six years ago, that dreadful day when he’d first stepped foot in her father’s home. She’d been far too young and impressionable to see what he truly was: an insufferable, judgmental boor of a prig—and a prig with a raging temper at that.

  “Now, you are of an age where one expects you to have overcome your flaws,” he droned on, puffing his chest pompously with each judging word. “The unhappy catastrophe of your mother’s death as a child resulted in your lack of a proper upbringing, but…”

  Charlotte let his voice fade into the background and took a deep lungful of the crisp, clean winter air. She’d heard this speech countless times. Her mother had died in childbirth, leaving her newborn daughter with only a name and a leather-bound cookery book. And with her father stationed in far-off India, Charlotte and cookbook passed between various family members for a time. She’d finally found a happy home with an elderly, distant relative, a retired Navy man who taught her Greek philosophy and the fine art of swearing. She’d been delightfully happy. Then he passed away and shortly after, her father returned from abroad.

  “A humble, subservient wife, Charlotte,” the pompous man at her side continued. “One who wears only modest attire. You must be the very model of propriety…”

  A dark cloud passed over the sun. Stifling a yawn, Charlotte stared at the sudden snowflakes swirling down from above and tracked their descent from the sky as they flurried around the streetlamps along the lane. If only she could be as free to simply float away.

  “Respect, duty, and honor,” Captain Edwards kept on. “Discipline and fortitude. A woman to remain by my side through life’s fortunes and misfortunes. Do you not agree that these are the obligations of a proper wife, Charlotte?”

  “Yes, sir,” she mumbled dutifully.

  A break in the buildings ahead offered a sudden tantalizing glimpse of the Frost Fair spread out on the frozen Thames below. She’d read about it in the papers, but in person, it was fabulous, a living painting of women in brightly beribboned, feathered bonnets, men in velvet top hats, and children skating on the ice, toffee
apples in hand. Painters lined the river banks, squinted in the darkening afternoon with brushes in hand as they captured the gaiety of the wondrous occasion on their canvases. Men on stilts threaded through the crowds gathered to watch the puppet shows and gape at the elephant by Black Friar’s Bridge, used periodically to test the strength of the ice.

  Suddenly, Captain Edwards cupped her chin and forced her eyes up to his. “What do you say to that?” he asked in a deep voice.

  Charlotte blinked, startled by the unexpectedness of his move. He usually railed on for a good half hour or so. She twisted her lips and tried in vain to recall his words. “Da—uh…dare I agree, sir?” She caught herself at the last second and swiftly changed damnation into dare.

  His blue eyes remained aloof, cool, and critical. She bit her lip, in hopes her reply a sufficient one to whatever he’d asked.

  His lips spread into a slow smile. “I am pleased, Charlotte.”

  She let out a breath of relief.

  “Then we agree,” he said. “We will wed this summer. At last.”

  Charlotte choked. This summer?

  “Charlotte!” a woman’s frantic voice called from behind. “Charlotte!”

  Charlotte whirled. The butcher’s wife waved her apron as she ran toward them, sliding in the icy snow.

  “Go home, girl, home. At once,” the woman wheezed as she arrived. “It’s Major Atchenson, your father. There’s been an accident.”

  * * *

  An accident. Two simple words that changed Charlotte’s life forever.

  Alone in the empty London townhouse, Charlotte huddled next to the kitchen stove in a solemn mood, as howling winds brought more snow. The coal hadn’t lasted more than a week after her father’s death. Unable to afford more, she’d resorted to what wood she could find, but with harsh winter weather, everyone in London searched as well, and she found precious little. She’d been reduced to buying twisted sticks of soiled straw from the hotel stables at the end of the lane, but it flamed so fast it provided little heat.

  Now, she stared at the stove, wondering what she had left to burn. The creditors had taken everything.

  Well…she had her relatives’ letters.

  With a bitter, mirthless smile, she tossed them into the stove, lit the match, then watched the heartless missives catch fire, all of them variations of the same we cannot provide any assistance… Cannot or will not? It didn’t matter. She’d find her own way.

  Shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, Charlotte remained seated before the stove long after the last letter curled into ash. She now understood the meaning of ‘nightmare.’ She’d been living in one the past few weeks.

  “An accident,” the constable had called her father’s death. He’d fallen through the ice and drowned in the Thames. She hadn’t believed them. She still didn’t. Not after seeing the elephant standing on the river ice that very same day. How could her father break ice that could withstand the weight of an elephant? The idea stretched the imagination beyond credibility, but what could she do? No one cared—even before the creditors descended upon her like wild dogs.

  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. “Ha
gs. 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.