Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  Fenwick muttered something as he scowled at his white glove.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not stupid, Hazelton. I’ll thank you to recall that. Next you’ll be reminding me to keep my coal chute locked. You’re sure that was a journalist following me?”

  “Almost certain. I can promise you, whoever it was doesn’t answer to me. My people would never be that obvious. Have dinner with me at my club the day after tomorrow. Maggie and her sisters get together for cards—or so they claim—and I’m orphaned for the evening.”

  “You’re not orphaned, you’re bachelored. Dinner at the club will do for an opening move. My regards to your countess.”

  Benjamin saw his guest to the door and discarded the notion of following Fenwick to his lodgings. Fenwick would likely notice in the first place, and kill him in the second.

  A small boy in a grimy cap walked Fen’s horse up and down before the house. After Fenwick had donned riding gloves and climbed into the saddle, he stuck out his boot and hauled the child up behind him.

  Not the done thing. Doubtless, the talk had already started in the clubs as a result of Fenwick’s dawn charge through the park, and now he’d trot the length of Mayfair with an urchin riding pillion.

  The Season was off to an interesting start, and Benjamin couldn’t wait to compare notes with his countess.

  * * *

  Fifteen years ago, Ashton would have raced the length of the realm and arrived in London ready to drink, dance, and chase skirts for a week straight.

  Five years ago, he would have managed at least a night or two of high spirits.

  Three years into being an earl, and a day in London left him craving yet another nap. The fatigue was not entirely of the body. Melancholia threatened to get its foul hooks into him, hence the dawn gallop in the park. No matter how fast he rode, once he took a countess from among the glittering crop on offer in Mayfair, his title would have him by the throat.

  A soft warmth insinuated itself against Ashton’s side as he drowsed in the afternoon sunshine, followed by gentle pressure tiptoeing across his chest.

  Maybe London wasn’t all bad.

  On the heels of that hazy thought, rough dampness scraped across Fenwick’s chin.

  “What the devil?”

  He opened his eyes to behold a pink nose, whiskers, and two green eyes, belonging to an enormous black and white cat.

  “You must be Solomon. Your fame has preceded you.” Helen had much to say about the cat and his mighty exploits in the pantry as well as in the alley.

  Solomon began to knead Ashton’s chest and rumble with contentment.

  “I can’t sleep if you’re making that much noise, and I’m sure Mrs. Bryce would rather you minded your post in the kitchen.”

  The damned animal had claws, and rotten breath, and yet, Ashton lay for a moment, savoring the pleasure of sharing his bed with even a cat, something no earl was permitted to do.

  “Come along,” Ashton said, sitting up, much to the cat’s disgruntlement. “You’re absent without leave from the kitchen, and I have matters to attend to.”

  He’d come straight back from his morning call on Hazelton, not wanting to deal with Cherbourne’s longsuffering sighs, or the correspondence doubtless waiting at the Albany. Sleep in the less genteel parts of London was elusive, for even in the dark of night, coaches passed, the night-soil men trod the alleys, and milkmaids plied their trade.

  Without bothering to put on his coat—why get cat hair on that too?—Ashton made his way down the stairs, past the closed door to Mrs. Bryce’s private chambers, and on to the kitchen. The maid, Pippa, was nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Bryce stood at the counter, chopping apples.

  Her movements had a beauty to them, regular, rhythmic, economical. Ashton stood for a moment in the doorway, holding the cat and watching a woman at home in her own kitchen. Slices went into a bowl, and another apple went under the knife.

  A sense of homesickness swamped him, for a kitchen of his own and a wife who made him apple pies. As earl, he could have had apple pies four times a day, but they’d be the creation of a chef, the recipe calling for nutmeg and God knew what else besides good old cinnamon and love.

  The best apples he’d ever eaten had been the ones he’d plucked off a tree to share with his horse on a crisp autumn day.

  The cat commenced purring again, a pathetic comfort to a man who owned thousands of acres.

  Ashton walked up behind Mrs. Bryce. “My bed was visited by a fugitive.”

  She whirled, knife in hand, eyes glittering. “Get away from me.”

  Ashton released the cat, relieved the lady of the knife, and set it a safe distance away on the counter.

  “Mrs. Bryce?” Ashton had a hand around her wrist, her pulse galloping beneath his grip. Her gaze was indignant, and her posture—tense despite the ridiculousness of the moment—radiated both defiance and fear.

  “What in seven heavens do you think you’re doing in my kitchen, Mr. Fenwick? Were you trying to get yourself stabbed?”

  “I was trying to return your cat to his place of work. He got into my apartment and insinuated himself into my bed.” The same cat was now stropping himself across Ashton’s boots. “I thought you’d want him where he belongs.”

  She looked down as if noticing her own feline for the first time. “Solomon was in your rooms?”

  “He might have followed Helen in, or Pippa. I also leave my windows open, and an enterprising tom has ways of going where he pleases. Are you all right?”

  “You gave me a fright. I’m not in the habit of being accosted by strange men in my kitchen.”

  He’d given her a terror, which inspired him to step back and leave the lady some room. “You were focused on your cooking. Do I smell a pie already baking?”

  Ashton took up the knife—which might have done him considerable damage had Mrs. Bryce known how to use it—and began chopping the apple she’d abandoned.

  “Tarts. I start with the tarts, which call for smaller pieces of apple, then graduate to the pies. If you’ve no objection, I’ll make a pot of tea.”

  “This is your kitchen,” Ashton said, popping a bite of apple into his mouth. “I have no authority to object. If King George himself were to appear and command you to chop your apples rather than slice them, in your own kitchen, as a self-respecting English housewife, you’d ignore him with impunity. What or who are you so afraid of, Matilda?”

  She swung the tea kettle over the coals in the fireplace and subsided onto the raised hearth. “I haven’t given you leave to use my name.”

  Ashton set some apple slices on a plate and passed them to her. “I’m Ashton, and you were ready to carve your initials on my chest for bringing you that cat. I’d say that puts us on a first-name basis.”

  She looked up at him, the wariness in her expression all wrong. This was her kitchen, the one place a woman ought to reign supreme, and she was cautious about accepting a bite of apple from him.

  She took the plate and set it beside her on the hearth. “Thank you… Ashton.”

  Chapter Four

  Ashton went back to chopping apples, though with another woman, he might have turned the moment to teasing.

  Not with Matilda Bryce.

  “A widow is a target for the unscrupulous,” she said, taking a bite of apple. “All women are, but especially widows. I should have realized that.”

  “Anybody can get his pocket picked,” Ashton pointed out. “I’m trying to teach Helen her letters, by the way. At each meal, we’ll tackle two or three, and when she has the alphabet in hand, we’ll start finding simple words.”

  “You can get her to attend you when she’s eating? I would have thought that impossible.”

  The kettle began to steam as Ashton filled the ceramic bowl with chopped apples. “I try to use relevant objects. S will be for Solomon, t for tart. She’s frighteningly quick.”

  “She’s frightening, period.” Matilda finished a second slice of apple. “
You startled me earlier. I was thinking of my father-in-law. I did not get along well with my husband’s family, and to this day, I don’t trust them.”

  That was probably the queen of all understatements. “Would they try to accost you in your own kitchen?”

  The cat hopped up on the hearth and sat, licking a front paw. Matilda watched him, her gaze desolate.

  “They might. I don’t know. It’s been years since my husband died—six years—but they have nothing better to do than plague the unwary and torment the undeserving. You’re very good at chopping apples.”

  “I have been a bachelor my whole adult life. One develops skills or starves. The water’s hot.”

  “It has to boil for a minute, else the tea won’t be right.” The last of the apples disappeared, and she brought the plate to the sink, adding it to a pail half full of water. “I should not have reacted as I did. I apologize if I gave you a bad moment.”

  She might have given him a serious wound, but her aloneness cut at Ashton too. He didn’t know Matilda Bryce well, but she was a woman alone, and she’d trusted him enough to give him a temporary place in her household.

  He owed her more than she knew.

  “I’m not your in-laws,” he said. “I’m a wealthy man, half-Scot, half-English, and all unhappy to be biding in London. I’m very appreciative to have a fortnight of peace and quiet before I tend to less enjoyable pursuits, but if you’ve enemies, Matilda, you’d better tell me.”

  The kettle began to squeal in earnest. She wrapped her apron under the handle to take the kettle off the hearth and set it on the hob. While Ashton finished with the apples, Matilda measured tea from the caddy into a strainer and filled a plain brown teapot from the steaming kettle.

  “I don’t know if I have enemies,” she said, setting the kettle back on the hob. “But when in doubt, it’s best to assume one does. Will you stay for tea?”

  Ashton wanted to resume his nap on the big, soft bed upstairs, but he also wanted a bite of warm apple tart, consumed fresh from the oven and cooled with a dash of cream.

  The way to a man’s heart was surely through his belly. Why was there no handy aphorism for the way to a woman’s heart?

  “One cup,” he said. “Though you must make me a promise.”

  She put the lid on the teapot and regarded him sidelong. “I don’t make promises lightly.”

  She wasn’t a countess burdened by a title, and yet, he hadn’t seen her do anything lightly.

  Which was a damned shame. “In my case, please assume I’m your friend. You needn’t brandish a knife at me to defend your tarts. Agreed?”

  She used a folded towel to remove a steaming dish from the oven, heat and cinnamon wafting across the kitchen as the unbaked pie took the place of the tarts.

  “Don’t sneak up on me, don’t lie to me, and we have an agreement.” She set the pan on the wooden counter. “We have an agreement, Ashton.”

  They shared an apple tart, complete with cream and washed down with hot, strong tea. It was the best damned apple tart the eighth Earl of Kilkenney had ever eaten.

  * * *

  For so long, Matilda had sustained herself with anger. Anger didn’t leave room for self-pity, regret, or defeat. Anger was a forward-moving emotion. Without anger, Matilda doubted armies could bear to engage in the atrocities of the battlefield, much less find pride in victory.

  Without anger, Matilda could never have endured her marriage.

  And yet, like most sturdy armor, anger was heavy and made the combatant clumsy.

  She’d been mentally counting the days when Mr. Fenwick had brought Solomon back to the kitchen. Counting the days, slice by slice, until the seven-year anniversary of her husband’s death, and finally, finally, that number was below 365.

  Then she’d heard a man’s voice, caught the word “fugitive,” and sensed size and strength at her back. The rest had been instinct and awkwardness.

  The least she owed a lodger she’d nearly stabbed was half an apple tart. Solomon was enjoying a teaspoon of cream as a peace offering as well.

  “Did you make these tarts for Helen?” Mr. Fenwick asked.

  “Yes, though I like them too. Helen is trying to be good. It won’t last, but one should reward effort.”

  “What do you know of her sister?”

  His manners were impeccable, and yet, Mr. Fenwick enjoyed his food. No other lodger had presumed to eat with Matilda in her kitchen, and she enjoyed the sight of a fellow who relished his sustenance.

  In bed, Ashton Fenwick would be lusty. He’d revel in pleasures of the flesh, not undertake them with a combination of dread and resentment. He’d be affectionate and amorous, a combination Matilda had never encountered firsthand.

  “I know next to nothing of Sissy,” she said, “except that she’ll introduce Helen to the wrong sort of man all too soon. Helen seems resigned, and I hate that.”

  Mr. Fenwick’s spoon clattered to the bowl. “The girl can’t be but eight years old.”

  “She’s probably close to ten. Children raised in chronic poverty are scrawny. Helen has some time before maturation costs her the last of her safety, but not enough time. Would you like another cup of tea?”

  Mr. Fenwick sat across from Matilda at the worktable, making the kitchen feel smaller, but also—Matilda was honest with herself—safer. He’d plucked the knife from her hand faster than she could blink, and he kept a knife in his boot too.

  He held up his cup for Matilda to pour him more tea. “What I’d like is for wee Helen to grow up in safety. Do you think she’d return to Scotland with me?”

  “If there’s cobbler involved, she might.” But would Matilda permit the girl to leave with Mr. Fenwick when the time came? Part of her said no, that Mr. Fenwick was quite the unknown quantity, but another part of her wanted to thrust Helen into his arms and tell him to depart at dawn.

  She poured her own tea and, because her nerves had been given a start, allowed herself a dash of cream and sugar.

  “But you would not want Helen to go off in the company of a strange man,” Mr. Fenwick said. “I don’t blame you. I have friends here in London, though. Good friends, well placed, and even titled. One of them might make a place for Helen as a scullery maid.”

  Matilda knew people in London too, well placed and even titled. That was a risk she took, but also part of her defense. Nobody would think to look for her among the working classes, wearing plain cloaks and tired straw hats.

  “Helen wouldn’t last a day as a scullery maid,” Matilda said. “I’ve kept the girl’s attention for an afternoon here and there, shown her a few things, but she’s feral, only half tame, and that’s kept her safe. You’d have your hands full convincing her to accept another lifestyle.”

  Mr. Fenwick scraped his spoon through the combination of cream, apple juice, and cinnamon at the bottom of his bowl.

  “She doesn’t want the title,” he said, which made no sense. “She’s better off in the wild, by her lights. Perhaps she and I can compromise. She might enjoy working in a dairy, for example, or as a goose girl or shepherd. Plenty of fresh air, nobody much to bother her, and the good company of the beasts.”

  That recitation convinced Matilda that Mr. Fenwick had land and lots of it. He wasn’t merely rich, he was landed wealth, the kind British society most respected.

  So far, Matilda respected him too, which was something of a revelation, and also a relief.

  “You will please not make promises to Helen that you cannot keep,” Matilda said. “Rebuilding a child’s broken trust in her elders is a delicate undertaking, and Helen’s trust is in tiny pieces scattered all over the slums of London.”

  Mr. Fenwick took Matilda’s bowl and scraped the dregs from it as well. “Is that what happened with your in-laws? You joined their family expecting a decent match and found yourself surrounded by enemies, your trust in pieces?”

  More or less. “I joined my husband’s family hoping for a decent match and was sorely disappointed, as my father kn
ew I would be.”

  “So your father broke faith with you,” Mr. Fenwick said, setting the second bowl down. “That had to hurt. My parents weren’t entirely honest with me either, though they had their reasons.”

  He took the dishes to the wash bucket, then returned for the tea cups. The experience of a man other than a footman cleaning up after her was novel and gratifying, despite the impulse to shoo him back to his seat. Matilda had certainly cleaned up after an endless procession of men.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For your company and for your concern for Helen. I haven’t known what to do for the girl, other than put some manners on her when I could tempt her to sit still for a bowl of porridge.”

  “She’s an apt pupil, which encourages me, and she’s decided to trust you, which should encourage you.”

  “I’m encouraged,” Helen said, swinging in through the window above the sideboard. “I smelled the apples cooking from halfway up the alley.”

  “Helen, what have I told you about coming in the windows?” Matilda retorted. “Use the doors, or stay out of my house.”

  Helen picked up the cat and took a seat at the end of the table. “Mr. Fenwick said you were followed last night. I was being careful.”

  “She climbs in the laundry room window too,” Matilda said. “Pippa leaves it open for fresh air and then forgets to close it.”

  “Getting to be a snug fit.” Helen scratched Solomon’s chin and touched noses with him. “Too much good food. Right, old Sol?”

  The cat shamelessly craned his neck in pursuit of more affection.

  “We needn’t be concerned about last night,” Mr. Fenwick said. “I’ve been assured the pursuer was a journalist, probably trailing me rather than Mrs. Bryce.”

  “’Cause you’re a bloody, wealthy—?”

  Mr. Fenwick put a gentle hand over Helen’s mouth. “Because I’m a wealthy provincial who has declined to take on the expensive lodgings I’d arranged for on the date agreed. The newsmen apparently hang about the Albany like flies hover over a dung heap, and one of them must have seen me on the premises there.”