Page 11 of A Stranger’s Promise

Charlotte drew in a sharp breath. “It was locked, my lord. I swear it.”

He leaned into the room. The children lay in bed, asleep—or feigning it well enough. He snorted. Aye, his nephew was a crafty lad. He’d have to find other ways to put that cunning mind to use.

“I…excuse the intrusion, my lord,” Charlotte mumbled.

Alistair looked down at her and smiled. “Not at all, Miss Atchenson. I shall expect you and the children in the parlor for breakfast. We will leave directly after. Good evening.”

He left her there, curtsying in the doorway, and strode back to his room. After that interesting interlude, sleep would not come easy.

* * *

“Blast it! Where could it be?” Alistair swore.

He’d just fastened the last silver cuff-link to his shirt, then inspected his reflection in the mirror, taking in the simple white knotted neck cloth, the superbly tailored waistcoat of light blue brocade, and the freshly polished boots. Satisfied, he’d glanced over at the bed, where his great overcoat lay freshly brushed. All was as it should be—except he had no hat.

A thorough search of his room by him and his footman proved fruitless. At home on his ancestral lands, he rarely bothered with such fripperies as hats. The raging sea winds that battered the Ayrshire coast made wearing them impossible. However, in England, a man of his station must wear a hat—reluctantly or not. Alistair barked at the footman to find the pesky thing, then he headed for the breakfast parlor.

Brow furrowed, he pulled the gold filigree pocket watch from his front pocket and squinted at the face. Eight o’clock. The night had been dreadful—as expected. He hadn’t slept a wink. He’d tried, but his thoughts always circled back to Charlotte, starting with her arrival in Lady Prescott’s home, through the carriage ride, and ending with her lovely leg thrown across his window sill.

With the smell of ham, eggs and blessed coffee calling him like a siren, he hurried around the hallway corner and nearly ran straight into the subject of his thoughts. Charlotte walked with the children toward the breakfast parlor door.

He ducked back behind the corner as she said, “I have thought of a happy solution to our problem, young master.” Alistair peeked around the corner as she adjusted the back of the boy’s collar. “Since you will not share your name, I shall bless you with a name of my own.”

Alistair grinned. So, the lad still tortured his governess, did he? He had to admire the boy’s pluck.

“I’ve considered the matter quite carefully.” She straightened the wee lassie’s hair ribbon. “And I have chosen a lovely name, so very lovely, indeed.”

Alistair noted the provocative sway of Charlotte’s slender hips. Already, several wavy strands of her hair had escaped the confines of its prim bun to curl around the tempting curve of her neck.

Charlotte lifted a finger in the air like a sword and touched the boy’s shoulders as if she were knighting him. Alistair couldn’t help but admire the way the soft folds of her dress outlined her breasts as she gestured and announced in a solemn voice, “I dub thee, Abigail.”

Alistair tore his eyes from her breasts.

The boy’s mouth dropped open. “That’s a girl’s name!”

Charlotte placed her hand over her heart and feigned surprise. “Ah, so you can speak? How pleasant it is to hear your voice this fine morn, sweet Abigail.”

“’Tis not my name,” the boy insisted.

Ignoring his sullen response, Charlotte herded them through the breakfast parlor door, saying, “Come, dear Abigail. Let us not be late.”

Alistair straightened his waistcoat and stepped forward to join them, when a familiar voice hailed him from behind, “What the devil? Do my eyes deceive me?”

He glanced back to see his friend, Sir Nicholas Hunter Blair, 4th Baronet of Dunskey, striding down the hall toward him. Standing over six feet tall, the baronet radiated a graceful masculinity and aristocratic breeding not only with his striking patrician cheekbones and strong noble jaw, but his cunning wit and keen eye as well, an eye that missed little—save where women were involved. Alistair often wondered if the women played him for a fool, or if he simply enjoyed letting them play the game.

Nicholas reached him and Alistair grasped the man’s shoulder. “That I’ve lived to see the day you grace a humble village inn instead of a fashionable London hotel. What brings you here, lad?”

Nicholas’ ice-blue eyes lit with a smile. “Why, you do, my dear fellow.” He nodded his raven head toward the breakfast parlor door. “That and a good, old-fashioned breakfast.”

Alistair snorted in disbelief. “Since when have you ever risen before noon? I’d wager you’ve yet to fall asleep.”

“And I must confess you are right,” the baronet admitted with an unrepentant grin. “Truth is, I stand in need of your help, but I’m rather curious, as well, as to why you abandoned Culzean for London this time of year, which forced me to chase you hither and yon, all over the country?”

“What is the only reason that ever brings me here?” Alistair asked.

Nicholas clucked his tongue. “What has Charles done this time?”

Alistair heaved a long sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s a long tale, my friend. Let’s find a private place to speak, aye?” He couldn’t chance the children overhearing.