Page 5 of A Stranger’s Promise

Chapter Three

“What the devil?” Charlotte gave her worn canvas bag another hard yank to dislodge it from the black iron railing that lined the front steps of her old home. The bag came free all at once. She stumbled backward and nearly slid down the icy steps.

“Allow me, Miss Atchenson.”

She glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Cassilis’s mutton-chop whiskered footman stepping out of the hackney coach he’d hired. The man had been waiting patiently. Not that she’d been long. She had only a worn peach-colored day dress, a thin nightgown, and a hairbrush to pack.

“Thank you, but I am fine,” she replied, embarrassed to relinquish a nearly empty bag.

The man nodded and leaned against the coach to wait. Charlotte pulled on her nearly threadbare winter gloves, then turned to inspect the small townhouse for the last time. For the past six years, it had been home—well, where she’d lived, anyway. She’d never felt comfortable in the place. Home, to her, would always be the country cottage of her childhood. She cocked a wry brow at the townhouse, eager to leave it, London, and her problems behind. She’d already exchanged farewells with the butcher’s wife. As for the rest of her acquaintances and relatives? They didn’t care where she ended up so long as it wasn’t on their doorstep. Why tell them anything?

As for Captain Edwards…

She tossed her head and snorted. Let him wonder where she’d vanished off to—not that he would. Nae, she wouldn’t think of him again. Why should she? She was free. Free, at last. A thread of excitement wound its way through her at the thought and she smiled for the first time in weeks.

She spun on her heel and headed for the hackney coach with her bag clutched tightly under her arm. She’d no sooner sat down on the scuffed leather carriage seat then the coachman whistled and they were off.

With a deep breath to steady herself, Charlotte leaned her head against the grimy coach window and let London pass unseeing before her eyes. She turned her thoughts to the challenge ahead. Again and again, she heard Lord Cassilis’s deep baritone play in her mind. You will do quite nicely, Miss Atchenson. The position is yours.

Quite nicely? She bit her lip. She hadn’t the slightest notion how to begin. And a smattering of French? Did swearing count? She winced. Why had she nodded? Because she’d been too petrified and desperate to do anything else. At least she could play a few songs on the pianoforte—Irish drinking songs. She prayed he wouldn’t ask for a concert. She’d only wanted a position as the lowest of scullery maids. She’d never dreamt of becoming a governess to the children of an ancient and noble Scottish house. But given the beggar’s power of choice, what could she do?

As for the man himself, he clearly knew no fear. He’d taken on Lady Prescott without a moment’s hesitation, a woman none in London dared cross. She shifted uneasily in her seat, unable to shake his image from her mind as he’d stood before the fire, a powerful Scottish lord over six feet tall with thick dark hair and deep green eyes.

“What have you landed yourself in, Charlotte?” she whispered, and blew her truant curls away from her eyes.

She grimaced. She’d have to make do.

All too soon, the hackney rolled to a stop near Lady Prescott’s Mayfair address and Charlotte stepped down, her canvas bag close to her side. An impressive barouche waited at the townhouse door, a remarkable conveyance painted an elegant black and emblazoned with the Cassilis coat of arms. Four splendid bays stamped in their gleaming harnesses as several footmen strapped large, iron-banded trunks to the vehicle’s rear.

“His lordship awaits inside, Miss Atchenson,” the mutton-chop whiskered footman informed her kindly. As she started toward the front door, he caught her arm and quickly added, “The servants’ entrance is ‘round the back, Miss.”

Charlotte checked her step. Ah, yes. As a governess, she followed a different set of rules now. She nodded thanks, then altered course and headed to the proscribed door. A dour-faced maid answered on the second knock and promptly escorted her up the back stairs to a small dormer makeshift nursery with yellow-painted walls, a mattress on the floor, and little else.

Two children stood by the single window overlooking the street below, a young dark-haired boy of approximately nine years of age and a little red-haired, freckle-faced girl of perhaps three. Both shared Lord Cassilis’s unusual green eyes and both wore stiff new clothes they obviously found uncomfortable.

Under their watchful gazes, Charlotte took a deep breath and nervously cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, children, I am Miss Charlotte Atchenson, your new governess.” She forced her lips into a smile. “And your names are?” She waited.

The children simply stared.

Adding a bit more warmth to her smile, she tried again. “What is your name, young master?”

The boy’s dark lashes lowered and his mouth clamped shut—a challenge if ever she’d seen one.

Somewhat startled, Charlotte addressed his sister, “Your name, young mistress?”

The child’s big eyes widened even more as she darted behind her brother and grabbed fistfuls of his new wool coat in her tiny hands. The boy stiffened and he held out a protective arm as if to block Charlotte from coming any closer.

“Well, this won’t do,” Charlotte breathed. They clearly didn’t trust her. She’d obviously have to make friends with them first.

At a movement near the door, she glanced over to see Lord Cassilis duck under the lintel to enter the room, the heels of his fine, well-polished black riding-boots a loud click on the attic floor. Rising to his full height, he stood tall in a dark blue waistcoat topped off with a gray silk neck cloth tied with an elegantly careless twist. The folds of his white sleeves and cut of his waistcoat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Charlotte realized she was staring and dropped her gaze, only to find her attention diverted to the tight fit of his tailored trousers, where they stretched over his long, lean thighs. Heavens, but she didn’t recall him being quite so handsome.

“Good afternoon, Miss Atchenson.” His deep, Scottish-accented baritone cut into her thoughts.

She snapped her head up. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Had he noticed her gawking? The humor in the dark-lash rimmed, green eyes answered a resounding ‘yes’. The chiseled lips crooked into a sensual curl above the dimpled chin.

Horrified, she fumbled a belated curtsey. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“I see you have met your charges.” He strode forward to join her.