A Tragic Angel
Lord Alistair Kennedy, 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 and sporting a silk cravat tied in the latest fashion, the strikingly 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’ll 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, her wide nostrils flaring. “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 disparaging 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 in a deprecating gesture. “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, requiring Alistair himself 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 questioning brow.
“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 Kennedy green.” Both children shared the bright, distinct Kennedy 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’ll 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, pressing her lips 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’m 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’m 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, wondering just how hard and withered her old heart truly was.
“Eight, I repeat.” She continued, fanning 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 gasped, tutting behind her ever-present fan. “And she’s standing on my front doorstep? Whatever is the world coming to? Are you certain I know a Major Plowman? Why would his daughter come here?”
Alistair tilted his head, curious.
“Yes, my lady.” The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Major Plowman saved your son, young master George, in the war.”
Lady Prescott’s eyes widened. “Heavens! The very same Major Plowman? How can that be? Such an ignoble end…” Her fan fluttered furiously. “No, no, I can’t…the gossip alone…no, I can’t have her in my household. Show her in, but interrupt me in two minutes, two minutes, mind you. Claim an urgent matter begs my attention and send her away. I’ll make certain she doesn’t return.”
Alistair stared, speechless. Had the woman no shame?
The maid left, returning with a young woman wearing a modest, brown, quilted Spencer jacket over a simple high-waist, blue gown, and holding a straw bonnet in her hands.
Alistair’s breath caught. She stood just inside the door, a stunning example of feminine beauty, looking like a delicate and pale tragic angel. Her dark-lashed hazel eyes held deep-seated pain and her full lips turned down at the corners, betraying a healthy sense of unease. She’d twisted her gold-tinted, brown locks into a simple bun, but several rebellious strands had escaped and curled around her neck. He dropped his gaze over the soft curve of her jaw, taking in her slender, lithe form.
“Miss Plowman,” his aunt raised her voice in greeting. “Allow me to offer you my sympathies, child. Such a shock, such a shock.” She smiled, but it was a most disingenuous smile.
Miss Plowman dipped into a respectful curtsey to his aunt, then darted an uncertain glance at him. Alistair nodded a polite reply.
Lady Prescott tilted her head his way. “My nephew,” she announced in a proud and lofty tone. “Lord Alistair Kennedy, Baron Aisla and 11th Earl of Cassilis.”
Alistair leveled Lady Kennedy a thin-lipped look, finding her boastful tone in poor taste considering the young woman’s obvious distress.
“I’m told you’re seeking employment, Miss Plowman,” his aunt addressed the young woman again. The lass brightened and opened her mouth to respond, but the old woman barreled on, “Considering your unfortunate circumstances, I’d think it wise for you to look in the country. Perhaps Ireland?”
Miss Plowman caught her breath. “I…see, my lady.”
The maid rushed into the room. “Lady Prescott, a most urgent matter requires your immediate attention.”
Alistair folded his arms across his chest. “One urgent matter,” he said with a sardonic twist of his lips. “As ordered.”
The women in the room froze.
He stepped forward and bowed. “Miss Plowman, allow me to assist you whilst my dearest aunt of aunts deals with her urgent matter. Our family stands indebted to yours. Without your father’s courageous action, my cousin George would no longer grace his mother’s dinner table. Is that not true, Lady Prescott?”
His aunt recovered first. With an angry snap of her fan, she scowled at the maid. “The matter will have to wait. I must handle Miss Plowman’s predicament first.” She turned to Alistair and added, “My dear boy, pray do not involve yourself. These things are far beneath your attention.”
From the expression on her face, it was clear she thought him anything but ‘dear.’ He smiled, a cool, warning smile, and brushing her remarks aside, faced the young woman instead. Miss Plowman regarded him uneasily. Another victim of the ton, to be sure. Well, now that he held a position of some authority, he knew by far the easiest way to provide true assistance to the lass was to face the gossip and rumors head-on.
“Forgive my frankness, Miss Plowman,” he addressed her as kindly as he could, “but might I inquire as to the nature of these ‘unfortunate circumstances’ my aunt has mentioned?”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
Lady Prescott gasped, horrified. “Heavens, Alistair, how unseemly.”
“I mean no disrespect.” He summoned a smile. “How can I help otherwise, pray tell?”
Miss Plowman bravely smiled back. “My father recently met an unexpected and disgraceful end, my lord.” Her voice, strong and low, held a musical quality.
For all of her talk of his approach being an unseemly one, his aunt had no problems jumping in. “Quite shocking,” she inserted, her eyes lighting with the thrill of gossip. “It was in every paper, Alistair, the week before you arrived. Every paper. Gambling debts and mismanagement of funds. Thousands of pounds. A decorated major! Such a disgrace. And now? The drinking. There’s even talk of frequent visits to houses of ill repute. Why, Lady Witherby says his death was rather too convenient to be an accident and that he, well, you know…” She let her voice trail suggestively away.
Miss Plowman’s eyes flashed, but her lips remained firmly sealed.
Aye, the lass obviously wished to defend her father. He found her response and restraint admirable.
Lifting a brow at his aunt’s haughty conceit, he couldn’t resist saying, “What was that, Lady Prescott? Mismanagement of funds, you say? Rather reminds one of Castle Culzean’s former laird, does it not?”
Lady Prescott’s jaw dropped open. “Your father had nothing in common with—”
“He spent thousands of pounds he did not have,” he cut her short. As she sucked in a shocked breath and furiously fanned her reddened cheeks, he eyed the young woman once again. “And what position…” he began, then, a sudden idea crossed his mind. “I assume you read and write, Miss Plowman?”
His aunt’s fanning abruptly stopped.
Miss Plowman’s gaze darted quickly between them. “Yes, my lord.”
Warming to his idea, he pressed on. “And you hold some basic knowledge of deportment and polite society, I’m sure? A smattering of French? Can you play at least one song on the pianoforte?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Absolutely not, Alistair.” Lady Prescott pushed to her feet. “You preside over an ancient and noble Scottish house. Think of your reputation, young sir.”
Reputation. She couldn’t have picked a better word to egg him on. “I am seeking a governess to oversee two wee children at Castle Culzean, clan Kennedy’s ancestral home on the Ayrshire coast,” he continued smoothly. “A lad and a lassie, raised in London by their mother, a recently deceased laundress and, until now, without proper knowledge of their father’s station in life. Were you to secure this position, you would teach them their letters and the ways of polite society.” At this point, the other governesses had flinched. He paused, studying the young woman’s reaction.
Miss Plowman hesitated and, dropping another nervous curtsey, replied, “I am most honored for your consideration, my lord, but I am more suited to the scullery.”
Scullery? The word tugged at his heart, reminding him of his mother. “And why not a governess?” he pressed.
She took a deep breath and answered with candor, “I know nothing of raising and providing guidance to genteel children, my lord.”
Genteel children. His lip curled in a smile. “Aye, you’ll do quite nicely, Miss Plowman. The position is yours. I’m quite weary of London. We leave for Castle Culzean at once. I’ll send a man with you to gather your things.”
Miss Plowman’s eyes widened.
“Have you gone mad?” Lady Prescott wheezed, struggling to catch her breath.
He eyed the young woman standing before him. Had he? He didn’t really know, but for some odd reason, he didn’t truly care.
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