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

Charlotte grimaced in distaste. “My fian…fian…” she struggled to enunciate.

  He tensed. “Fiancé?”

  She pointed a finger at him with a lopsided grin. “That’s the word.”

  It wasn’t a word he liked.

  She cocked her head. “He said I shouldn’t look at that crimson dress. I was just looking. Just looking. He said a decent woman wouldn’t even do that. Look. But it was beautiful. A dream.”

  The man sounded like an ass. Alistair took another sip from his glass. “Where is this captain now?”

  Charlotte lifted her chin. “Let’s not speak of him.”

  “Very well, then,” he granted with a nod. It didn’t matter. He’d have Foster find out. And if her fiancé dared show his face at Culzean, Alistair would have a choice word or two to say on Charlotte’s behalf.

  A silence fell between them and he thought she’d fallen asleep, but she suddenly sat up and clucked her tongue against her teeth. “They even took my mother’s cookery book,” she said with heat.

  “They?” Alistair queried softly.

  “The creditors.” Her tongue tripped over the word. “It was the only thing I had left of her.” She scowled and passed her hand over her head, as if it hurt.

  “This captain of yours let them take it?” Alistair asked.

  “He gave me ten shillings,” she replied in a bitter tone. “Ten.”

  “A beggar’s pittance. I find myself unimpressed with the man.”

  She closed her eyes.

  Again, he thought she’d fallen asleep, but she roused herself yet again. “Now, you,” she slurred her words. “You may look quite intimitia…intimidd…in…”

  “Intimidating?” he supplied.

  “Yes, that.” She nodded emphatically. “But under it all…you’re the honorable…sort, aren’t you now…?”

  “Honorable? I daresay, there are others who might disagree.” His stepmother came to mind.

  She hiccupped then relaxed against the chair. This time, her lush, dark lashes fell over her eyes and her full lips relaxed. He watched her slump sideways in the chair. How could her fiancé let her fall into such dire circumstances and offer a mere ten shillings of relief? What did she see in such a wretch? Yet…she was engaged. If he were the honorable sort—as she thought him—he would do the honorable thing and walk away.

  He pushed from his chair, crossed to the window and stared out into the night. He considered the issue from different angles, but after a good hour, he still reached the same conclusion. He didn’t want to walk away. He didn’t think he could. The lass hadn’t married the ass, yet. Perhaps he could make her see she deserved a worthier man. And if the captain returned from wherever he’d gone and found his fiancée in love with someone else…then so be it.

  “May the better man win,” he murmured.

  At the sound of retching, he whirled in time to see Charlotte kneeling over the fire. He hurried to her side. She moaned as he arrived, and she gagged again.

  “Forgive me, lass,” he murmured, this time regretting the second glass of whisky. “Let’s get you to your room.” He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet.

  She swayed unsteadily. Alistair slid an arm around her waist and she clung to him and laid her head on his chest.

  “Charlotte.” Her name sounded intimate on his lips. “Come, I’ll help you upstairs.”

  She answered with a soft snore.

  He could’ve called someone to escort her. But didn’t. Instead, he looped his arm under her knees and lifted her against his chest. She was light and delicate in his arms. As he strode toward the door, she moaned a little before nestling her head against his shoulder. Alistair paused at the door and stared down at her, more than a little attracted and somewhat amused she’d likely remember nothing of the encounter.

  He pushed the door open with his foot. Low-burning candles in the hallway, shone tiny islands of light to guide his walk down the hallway. He reached the stairs leading up to the nursery and had a foot on the first stair when a woman stepped from behind a Corinthian column to his right. He started and swore under his breath. So, his stepmother had finally arrived. Being waylaid by her like this was what he got for leaving instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed during his meeting with Charlotte.

  “Lady Cassilis,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She stood, a dark, shadowy form on the edge of the grand oval stair. The flickering candlelight cast her in an almost ghoulish glow. Her narrow face and upturned nose looked like a caricature and her gray-streaked brown hair made her look ten years older than her fifty-five years. She glared, her furrowed brows set in a disgruntled, judgmental frown, and her mouth tugged down in permanent disapproval. That was no surprise. He’d never seen her smile.

  Her stare shifted to Charlotte. “Who is that?”

  He quashed the impulse to ignore her and answered with a cool, “This is Charlotte Atchenson. The governess.”

  “The governess?” she repeated waspishly. “The woman Lady Prescott mentioned in her letter? Heavens, Alistair, you brought her here?” Her lips pressed into a thin line of hatred.

  So, the two old biddies had been talking. He simply wasn’t in the mood. “What brings you to Castle Culzean?” Would she gloat? Admit the truth? Or would she lie? He could never fathom how her vile mind worked.

  “I’ve come to stay, until it pleases me to do otherwise.” Her thin nostrils flared and he half wondered if she might charge him. “It is my right.”

  Technically, she no longer possessed such rights but, despite his better judgement, he couldn’t cast his own stepmother out on the streets—no matter how odious and vile she was.

  “I can’t imagine you relish the thought of living here with me.” He adjusted Charlotte as she snored in his arms.

  “Perhaps it is you who will leave, Alistair.” A gleam of hope lit her eyes.

  Ah, her irrefutable proof. “Foster knows nothing of what you seek,” he said bluntly. “You’re clutching at straws, madam. The deed is done. Truth is, the courts have declared the matter over and we’re likely never to find this proof that would settle the question of when, where and even if the earl wed my mother.”

  She stepped back, clearly shocked at his directness. With the many hateful words she’d spewed and deeds she’d done to harm him over the years, he failed to see why she would bother with such charades.

  “The courts declared the matter done,” he repeated. “We must move forward, Lady Cassilis, and find a way to tolerate each other. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned and started up the stairs.

  “I will find my proof, Alistair,” his stepmother hissed at his back. “Irrefutable proof. Your day is coming.”

  He paused and looked at her over his shoulder. “Until then, Lady Cassilis. Good evening.”

  He left her, standing in silent outrage, and quickly climbed to the nursery, a pleasant suite of rooms overlooking the sea. A light flickered under the door, and he entered to find Meg rocking the wee lassie by the fire, the lad asleep on a plaid nearby.

  “Sit, please.” He stayed her with a smile as she started to rise.

  “Losh, my lord,” the freckle-faced Meg exclaimed, her kindly eyes dropping on Charlotte. “What happened?”

  Alistair glanced down at Charlotte, still nestled against his shoulder. “My fault,” he admitted wryly. “I gave her more highland whisky than she had the stomach for.”

  Meg snorted a laugh.

  “Her room?” Alistair lifted a brow at the three doors on the opposite wall.

  She pointed to the middle one. Alistair nodded thanks, then crossed to the room. He opened the door with his shoulder and continued to the small bed where he laid her down. As she curled on her side, he picked up the folded blanket at the foot of the bed and covered her. A sense of contentment washed over him as he returned to the sitting room once again.

  “Bless you, sir, for your big heart,” Meg said.

  He paused and waited.

  “The wee lad and lassie.” The maid darted a look at the boy as she ran her fingers over the little girl’s red curls. “You’ve a rare kindness in you, sir.”

  “Let’s keep that a secret, shall we?” he teased with a sardonic twist of his lip.

  “Aye,” she laughed.

  He bid her goodnight and left the nursery. Minutes later, he entered the library once again to find Nicholas in his chair with his booted feet propped on the table.

  “She’s here,” his friend said. “Lady Cassilis.”

  Alistair seated himself in the chair opposite him. “I just spoke with her. I have heard nothing new, but I’ll have her watched, all the same. No doubt, when your guests arrive, she’ll use the distractions to carry out whatever nefarious plan she’s concocted.”

  “To be sure,” Nicholas agreed with a bored yawn.

  Alistair regarded him. “Is not your own true love to arrive on the morrow? You seem afflicted with a melancholy languor or a decided lack of interest. Surely, your ardor has no’ cooled already?”

  The raven-haired baronet shot him a ruffled look, then picked up Alistair’s unfinished glass of whisky from the table and drained its contents. He set the glass back down. “I confess, her face has already faded from memory. Can a man truly recall a woman after a separation of a day or two?”

  Alistair snorted. Not once in the past two weeks had he forgotten the spark of Charlotte’s eyes, but he wasn’t inclined to offer the observation. “I fear I cannot say,” he replied.

  “Cannot…or will not?” Nicholas murmured. With a sigh, he rose. “I bid you goodnight.”

  Alistair watched his friend leave, then sat in his chair and turned his gaze to the dying fire.

  * * *

  Alistair entered the breakfast parlor in a startling good
mood. Yes, Lady Cassilis and all her intrigue had arrived with the full intent to cause him harm, but he scarcely spared her a thought. Why should he? After all, there was so much to enjoy in the day. He glanced out the window at the driving sheets of rain that battered the glass. He shrugged. A good mood did not require the sun.

  A maid hurried in and set his plate of eggs and Westmoreland ham on the table, alongside a stack of the week’s papers delivered by the post. Alistair seated himself and picked up The Morning Chronicle. Setting aside the gossip section, he proceeded to scan the paper.

  “My dear fellow.” Nicholas’ deep laugh sounded from the door. “Leaving the gossip column untouched? You are missing the best part.”

  Alistair peered at him over the paper. “Dare I read a newspaper for news?”

  Nicholas entered, the corners of his ice-blue eyes crinkling with humor, a humor that vanished the moment he sat down.

  Alistair sighed. “What ails you, now?”

  “I’ll say it and have done. When will you do me the honor of an introduction to Miss Atchenson?”

  Alistair slammed the paper down on the table. “Never.” The word erupted from his lips. “Is not Catherine Brexley enough for you?”

  “I fail—” Nicholas began when shattering glass sounded in the hallway.

  Both men jumped to their feet and dashed through the door in time to witness Charlotte flying down the grand oval staircase toward them, her dark curls bouncing over her shoulders and her pink mouth set in a determined line.

  Alistair started toward her. His nephew shot from the stairs and tried to veer around him. Alistair seized the boy’s collar. “What mischief have you fostered this fine morning, young rascal?” he asked the boy wriggling in his grasp.

  The child winced.

  Alistair took in his crumpled white shirtsleeves, wrinkled trousers, and uncombed hair, and said in mock sternness, “You look quite the ragamuffin.”

  “Pardon me, my lord,” Charlotte arrived breathless.

  Alistair’s heart leapt. Would her cheeks flush like that while she lay beneath him? He couldn’t halt a flick of his gaze to the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell. Her simple blue dress molded to her slender figure almost indecently. Zounds, she was beautiful. And her lips? He was becoming obsessed with them. He’d never seen a softer, sweeter, or more tempting pair in his life.

  “A wild hellion,” a poisonous voice ripped through his distracted muse.

  His lust vanished. Alistair shifted his gaze to Lady Cassilis. She descended the stairs, dressed in a fine peach taffeta gown, a look of withering reproach on her face.

  “A miserable boy,” she said as she reached the final steps. She sidestepped something and Alistair caught sight of shards of a china basin on the hallway floor—the source of the crash.

  Lady Cassilis reached them and turned toward Charlotte. “A governess is to instill the social graces above all else, etiquette, manners—do you understand the meaning of those words?”

  The boy wriggled in Alistair’s grasp in a clearly attempt to flee this new adversary. Alistair couldn’t blame him. With a firm grip on the lad’s collar, he addressed his stepmother, “I suggest you practice what you preach, Lady Cassilis.” She drew a sharp breath, but he cut off any retort, “If you cannot be civil, then say nothing at all, lest you wear out your welcome.”

  Her head snapped in his direction, then her eyes dropped to the boy and her expression softened. Alistair remained still. Had her maternal instincts stirred, at long last? The boy was, after all, her grandchild. Then, the cold anger Alistair had grown accustomed to clouded her face once again.

  “Your brat, to be sure.” Her thin jowls jiggled with repressed anger.

  Alistair stared in shock. Charles had acknowledged the children when he abandoned them on Lady Prescott’s door. Lady Cassilis knew right well they were her very own grandchildren, sired by her son.

  Anger flashed through him. “The hardness of your heart has always astounded me, Lady Cassilis. Until now, I thought you had at least some sense. However, it appears old age has fossilized your heart. Have a care. Where it comes to these children, I shall not tolerate your venom.”

  With a huff, she gathered her skirts and swept from the hallway.

  Alistair turned his attention to the boy. “What have you to say for yourself, lad?”

  The boy widened his nostrils, defiant, but remained silent.

  “Oliver?” Charlotte prompted.

  Oliver. So, she’d ferreted out the lad’s name? Of course, she had. Alistair looked down at the young boy. “The basin on the floor, Oliver. Your doing, I assume?”

  The boy’s green eyes flashed.

  Alistair blinked, suddenly struck by the lad’s likeness to his father. Well, the resemblance would end there. He wouldn’t allow the boy to follow Charles’ ne’er-do-well footsteps.

  “It is time you learn the value of a shilling,” Alistair said.

  Oliver’s eyes widened. “You brought me here to work?”

  Alistair cursed silently. He was bungling this whole affair. The last thing he intended was for the boy to feel the pain of being sent off to work. “Every man should know the worth of a good day’s labor,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in that.”

  “He meant no harm, my lord,” Charlotte said. “He is just a boy.”

  Alistair nodded. “Aye. Come along, Oliver.”

  He released the lad’s collar, but grasped his forearm and led him down the hall with Charlotte trotting alongside. She cast him a worried glance as they continued south and entered the Blue Drawing Room, the wonder of Castle Culzean.

  Light blue silk covered walls trimmed with delicate plasterwork of flower vases and gryphons. A plush red carpet spanned the floor, and in the center of the blue-painted ceiling, the architect had embedded a round oil painting. A dozen portraits adorned the walls, but it was to a portrait hung over the hearth that Alistair headed.

  “Now, here’s a man who didn’t understand the value of a shilling.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Your grandfather. The very devil himself, and a more arrogant, harsher man never lived. He left this estate in financial ruin.”

  Oliver glanced up at him, small brows furrowed in surprise. Alistair guided him to the next painting. “This is his father, a man who let the fine heritage of his clan crumble away while he wasted his life in cardrooms and other unsavory places.”

  Oliver’s brows knotted tighter.

  “There are others.” Alistair waved his hand to encompass other portraits. “Some more honorable than their foolish descendants who bled the land dry. This is your heritage. They are the ones who made your clan what it is and established a fortress here.” He paused to look at the first two paintings once again, then released the lad and extended his hands toward him. “These are the hands of a working man, Oliver. A man who started life just like you, the son of a maid servant and one of the men above the fireplace. There is nothing wrong with being a working man. A working man saved this crumbling estate, never forget that.”

  The lad looked up to him and, for once, he didn’t appear angry.

  “Follow me.” Alistair turned on his heel and headed toward the library.

  He didn’t glance back to see if the lad followed. The swish of Charlotte’s dress assured him that she accompanied him. When he arrived at the library, he was pleased to find Oliver behind him.

  Alistair strode to the shelf near the window and ran his fingers over the spines of the fine leather volumes until he found the one he sought, a beginner’s Latin grammar. Selecting the book, he turned and looked down at the boy.

  “You’ve your whole life before you, Oliver. I will see you make something of yourself. You’re a Cassilis and I’ll see you uphold the dignity of the clan.”

  The boy frowned.

  Alistair pushed the book against the boy’s chest. “As recompense for the china basin, you are to copy the first chapter. Neatly. I expect it before supper. Now, you may go.”

  Oliver stared, his mouth working, but he turned and stiffly walked toward the door.

  Alistair smiled.

  As Charlotte started to follow the lad, he called, “A word, Miss Atchenson.”

  She froze a moment, then faced him and dropped a curtsey.

  “Nae.” He raised a hand, palm out. “Please, I grow weary of the formality.”

  She straightened in surprise. “Aye, my lord.”

  “My lord? Did you not say you wished to call me Alistair?” he teased.