Page 3 of A Stranger’s Promise

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. “Hags. 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.

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, which meant Alistair himself had 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 brow in question.

“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 Cassilis green.” Both children shared the bright, distinct Cassilis 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 will 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, her lips pressed 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 am 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 am 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. Just how hard and withered was her old heart?

“Eight, I repeat.” She fanned 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 tutted behind her ever-present fan. “And she is on my front doorstep? Whatever is the world coming to? Are you certain I know a Major Atchenson? Why would his daughter come here?”

Alistair tilted his head, curious.