Page 1 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

Chapter 1

Weymouth, Dorset March 1811

Cassandra Vincent had run out of time. She hoped the terse note clutched in her hand held the answer to her prayers. Otherwise, she would be forced to rely on the charity of others to keep a roof over her head—and that thought did not sit well with her.

With a thick cloak around her shoulders, she walked down St Mary Street, past the church where her late father had been rector, and along by the harbour until she reached Devonshire Buildings.

She stopped at the first house in the row—an attractive double-fronted dwelling facing the sea, which lapped at the quayside just a stone’s throw away from the large bow windows which jutted out over the pavement.

Cassandra glanced at the letter in her hand to check she had the correct house, tucked it into her reticule, and rang the bell.

A footman opened the door, and he smiled at her when she handed him her card. That was a good start.

“Please come in. Mr Hunt is expecting you.”

She was shown into a study which was as austere as the man who sat behind the desk. The only exception was a writing bureau on one side of the room, decorated with intricate marquetry. It seemed out of place with the stark masculinity of the rest of the furnishings.

Mr Hunt stood as she entered and bowed, and she dipped a curtsey in response.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Vincent. Please, sit down.”

His voice was not unpleasant, but devoid of feeling.

As soon as they were seated, he continued in the same tone. “I need a companion.”

How direct of him. No small talk. No pleasantries. Not even an expression of sympathy for her loss. Just straight down to business. It lacked warmth, but it was a quality she could admire, and she answered him in the same vein.

“I supposed as much, seeing as you replied to my advertisement.”

He was the only person who had. She had almost given up hope of being offered a position when Mr Hunt’s unexpected note had arrived.

“May I ask you a few questions?”

Cassandra nodded. It was to be expected. She hardly knew the man. Although he had lived in her father’s parish for years, she knew little more of the wealthy merchant than his reputation as an honest and upright gentleman.

She couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with him. Nor did she recall seeing him at the social events she had attended before her father’s last illness.

In fact, she knew so little of him she had not realised he even had a female relative who might require her companionship.

Mr Hunt paused before he spoke again, leaving her to wonder what he would say next. What was it he wanted to know? His face gave nothing away. What a dreadful man to play cards with—you wouldn’t be able to tell whether he held aces or twos.

“As the late rector’s daughter, I know you are a woman of good standing in the community. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have not hitherto had to earn your living. Why now?”

Cassandra took a sharp intake of breath. It was humiliating enough to apply for a position as a companion, without having to explain the reasons, but she supposed her prospective employer had the right to know.

“I have no independent means. My livelihood died with my father. The new rector is letting out the rectory, and when his tenant arrives on Monday, I will have nowhere to live.”

“Did your father make no provision for you?”

There was a distinct note of disapproval in Mr Hunt’s voice. Cassandra wished she had some defence for her father, but she had none. Papa had never been good with money and had been forced to make drastic economies to pay for her late stepmother’s extravagance.

“Alas, no. What little he had put aside was devoured by doctors’ fees. My stepsister and I must make our own way in the world. Julia has taken a position at Miss Seymour’s School, but I am yet to secure a suitable role.”

“Have you no relatives to turn to?”

“My brother is at sea. There is no one else.”

If Xander was even still alive. She had written to inform him of their father’s death three months earlier, but he had failed to reply to her desperate plea for help. Perhaps the letter had never reached him.