Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  They’d worked on this on the way to the solicitor’s office.

  “Wedding, want, wife.”

  Why those three? “Three that begin with l.”

  “Lord, lying, lodger.”

  “Be gone,” Ashton said, swinging into the saddle. “And the next letter we’re working on is r. Rotten, rascal, reprimand.”

  “What’s a reprimand?”

  “A scolding.” Ashton sent Dusty off at a trot rather than respond to further taunts from Helen. Lord, lying, lodger. Matilda Bryce wouldn’t care if Ashton were a duke or a dustman. Either way, she’d send him packing and be about her business.

  That thought blended with the lingering frustration of the meeting with Harpster and sent Ashton at a brisk canter down the first unoccupied bridle path he found in Hyde Park. Though the greenery covered hundreds of acres, it was crisscrossed with lanes, carriageways, paths, and walkways, and a truly mad gallop was unlikely so late in the morning.

  Ashton let Dusty have his head, and the horse accelerated from canter to gallop. Maybe Dusty was unhappy in London too, or maybe he was reacting to Ashton’s mood.

  All too soon, a sedate group of riders clogged the path, and Ashton had to rein in his horse. He pulled Dusty around and gave him a loose rein rather than overtake the group. Introductions would have followed, and Ashton was in no mood for that ordeal.

  He allowed his gelding to idle along until the horse’s sides were no longer heaving and a sense of calm descended. The day was lovely, and the Season hadn’t started yet. Life yet held a few apple tarts, and—

  Dusty broke from a hedgerow into a quiet corner of the park. If Ashton had had to guess, he’d have said they were closer to the Knightsbridge side, south and west of Mayfair proper.

  And there sat Matilda Bryce on a secluded bench, alone and clearly upset.

  * * *

  The governess and child were leaving already, after playing catch for less than thirty minutes, most of which Kitty had spent poking about the hedges nominally looking for her ball. The governess, whom the child had called Miss Reynolds, had been patient with that exercise.

  Any young woman employed by the Derrick family would need great quantities of patience.

  Kitty looked to be in good health, and when Miss Reynolds said it was time to go, the child acquiesced without making a fuss. The girl’s robust energy was encouraging, but her docility gave Matilda a pang.

  Docile little girls turned into docile young women.

  The governess and her charge toddled down the path hand in hand. The sight broke Matilda’s heart, as it did every month she was lucky enough to see it.

  Kitty should be holding my hand. In 346 days, Matilda would start planning how to bring that about. Nothing could happen quickly or in a manner Drexel might notice, but the past six years had given Matilda vast stores of determination and not a little cunning.

  Someday, some fine day much like this one—

  “You look like you’re watching the funeral of your dearest friend.” Ashton Fenwick came down on the bench beside her.

  Matilda nearly shot into the air, she was so surprised. “Where did you come from?”

  “The angels delivered me to my mother’s doorstep, to hear my old nurse tell it. My father’s version differed in the details. Mama maintained diplomatic silence on the matter. Who is the girl, Matilda?”

  The girl was the reason Matilda had fled six years ago, the reason she’d managed to stay alive since.

  “None of your business, Mr. Fenwick.”

  He stretched an arm along the back of the bench, a handsome man enjoying a pretty day. Part of Matilda wanted to turn her face into his shoulder and weep. The rest of her wished he’d take himself back to Scotland by post.

  “I have nieces,” he said. “Three wee, chubby darlings for whom I’d lay down my life and my freedom. The youngest one is named Jeannie, and she’s afraid of me—or pretends to be—but I’ll charm her around. She’s making me work for her favor, and that’s as it should be.”

  Oh, to be charmed by Ashton Fenwick. “Spare me your clumsy metaphors. You’re my lodger, for now, and my life is none of your business.”

  “The girl looks like you,” Mr. Fenwick said. “About the chin and when she smiles, as best I recall the rare occurrence of your smile.”

  Kitty had Matilda’s tendency to cock her head when she was thinking too. “Shut your mouth. You know nothing about it.”

  He crossed his booted ankles, not a care in the world to all appearances. “Matilda, you’ve aptly described me as your lodger, but would it be so awful to consider me a friend? I have means, for one thing. Never hurts to have a wealthy friend or two. I wasn’t always so well-to-do and know of what I speak.”

  He knew how to kiss a woman so her insides turned to warm, honey-drizzled apple tarts too. “Means can’t fix every problem.” Though they counted for a lot. Kisses had to count for nothing, though.

  Had to.

  “Nothing can fix every problem, but sharing a burden can lighten the load. I’m alone here in London, without many allies, and dreading what lies ahead. I might be more sympathetic to your situation than you think, but you’re so busy judging yourself, you can’t imagine others won’t be just as critical. I know how that feels too.”

  He passed her another embroidered handkerchief, and for a moment, Matilda considered confiding in him. Had he not had dinner with a lord, one he considered a friend, she might have yielded to the temptation.

  The Earl of Drexel was a lord, and he’d been full of avuncular concern, a font of understanding and commiseration—until he’d called for the magistrate.

  “I appreciate your solicitude,” Matilda said, “and apologize for being cross, but my problems are my own.”

  “Stubborn,” Mr. Fenwick said. “I like that. I’m stubborn too, which is all that has allowed me to hold up my head sometimes. I’ll bid you good day. My horse has been as patient as I can trust him to be.”

  He bowed, tipped his hat, and sauntered off, while Matilda clutched his handkerchief so tightly even her heaviest iron would have to be nearly scorching hot to smooth out the wrinkles.

  * * *

  Tattersalls was crowded on sale days. The auction house catered to blood stock, selling the equine variety to its human counterparts. The establishment was situated at a corner of Hyde Park, and as Ashton rode past, he spotted Benjamin, Earl of Hazelton, chatting with a tall, blond, well-dressed fellow. Hazelton introduced the man as Sir Archer Portmaine, a cousin.

  Sir Archer had the sense to take himself off shortly thereafter, saving Ashton the trouble of snatching Hazelton by the arm and dragging him behind a hedge.

  “I need a list,” Ashton said. The sight and scent of so much horseflesh should have comforted him, but the dandies and lordlings idling about ruined the pleasure of a stable environment.

  “You’ve come to your senses,” Hazelton replied. “Do we sort the prospective countesses by height, hair color, temperament, or fortune?”

  “Don’t be obnoxious. Women are not broodmares, and bachelors are not stud colts. I need a list of scandals.”

  Hazelton pretended to study a lanky bay gelding, probably rising four. The youngster’s muscling suggested he’d been started under saddle, though he was by no means a finished prospect.

  “If you take all the trouble to come to London,” Hazelton said, “why would you then wreck your chances of finding a bride by causing a scandal?”

  “As if I’d need a list for that. I need a list of the scandals that were the talk of London six or seven years ago. If you’re considering the bay for jumping, his shoulder angles are somewhat wanting.”

  Hazelton sauntered along, one of many gentlemen talking, inspecting sale prospects, and enjoying the spring day.

  “Scandals are a daily occurrence here, Fenwick. Town thrives on scandal. You need to be more specific.”

  “Scandal involving a woman, probably a married woman.”

  The earl came to a halt before
a golden filly with a cream mane and tail. The coloring was unusual, suggesting Iberian bloodlines.

  “Most scandals involve women,” Hazelton said. “If you can give me the name of a specific woman, I can read over my journals from the years in question and consult with a few sources.”

  The filly stuck her nose in the air and curled back her teeth.

  “No consulting with sources.”

  Hazelton ran a hand down the mare’s neck, over her shoulder, and along a foreleg. She flinched, but didn’t shy.

  “The list could be quite long. You won’t give me any other specifics?”

  “I don’t have any more specifics, but I suspect this wasn’t a minor tempest. The lady would be at least twenty-five now, possibly closer to thirty. Well-born, English, and gently raised.”

  Hazelton walked around the filly and repeated his inspection on the second side. She flinched again and whisked her tail.

  “Was money involved?” Hazelton asked. “Violence? A lover? A duel? Can you give me anything to go on, Fenwick?”

  Ashton cast back over his dealings with Matilda Bryce—if that was her name. “The woman involved is still very much afraid the past will haunt her and those she cares about. You shouldn’t buy this mare, by the way. She’s back sore, suggesting poor care and overwork. That wears on a lady’s spirits.”

  That little girl in the park was wearing on Matilda’s spirits. Ashton put the child’s age at about six or seven. The woman with her had been a governess, not a mother or auntie, and the child’s schedule was regular enough that at an appointed time on an appointed day, Matilda could see the girl.

  From a distance.

  “Does this scandal involve a by-blow? All manner of well-born women stray once the heir and spare are in the nursery. I wouldn’t say it’s expected, but it’s certainly tolerated.”

  The next stall appeared empty until Ashton got close enough to peer over the boards.

  Hazelton came up on his shoulder. “What’s that doing here?”

  That was a small, gray donkey, burrs in its mane and tail, a gash across its quarters. The animal remained motionless, head down, as if trying to avoid detection.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” a groom said, shoving the stall door back. “I’ll just be finding somewhere else for this eyesore to bide until the knacker comes around.”

  He fastened a headstall on the donkey, who docilely followed the groom from the stall.

  “A moment,” Ashton said.

  The groom glanced around, as if even being seen holding the wretched little animal’s lead rope was an imposition.

  “Fenwick, don’t do it.” Hazelton spoke softly.

  “The beast is sound,” Ashton said, running a hand down each sturdy, hairy leg. “Is it fit to ride and drive?”

  “Aye,” the groom said. “Poor mite is willing enough, but too small to be of any use. Gent sent it along with a group of hunters. The manager didn’t want to offend a customer, so we took the ass along with the hunters, and I’m to hand it off to the knacker quiet-like.”

  “Fenwick, you asked me earlier about scandal. Men of consequence don’t buy donkeys, much less sorry specimens such as this. If you’re seen leading that beast through Mayfair, I won’t answer for the consequences.”

  “I’m not asking ye to.” Ashton found the donkey’s sweet spot, which happened to be under the animal’s chin. When Ashton scratched there, the donkey relaxed, despite the activity all around and the presence of much larger equines.

  He looked at the creature’s teeth and in its ears, picked up each foot, tugged on its tail this way and that. Pressed on its spine, listened to its belly.

  “You are drawing notice,” Hazelton said. “This is a donkey, not a candidate for pulling the coronation coach.”

  “Such as this,” Ashton said, petting the donkey, “bore the Holy Child’s mother into Bethlehem, Hazelton. Don’t be insulting your betters.”

  The groom smirked, Hazelton walked off a good six yards, and Ashton bought the donkey.

  “Don’t expect me to leave the premises with you and that, that malodorous embarrassment to the equine race,” Hazelton said when the transaction had been completed.

  “All I need from you is the list I’ve requested. I’m not interested in scandals less than five years old, nor more than seven years old.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Sir Archer about it. He’s in charge of the investigations now, and he’ll take my confidences with him to the grave.”

  The donkey was going to sleep against Ashton’s thigh, as if it knew how close to a bad end it had come.

  “Portmaine is an investigator?” Ashton asked, scratching at the base of long, gray ears.

  “And a cousin. He was my partner in the investigation business before holy matrimony gave me more pleasant duties to fill my days.”

  “And your nights. Speak to your cousin then, and time is of the essence.”

  “Oh, of course, always. Whatever your lordship needs,” Hazelton muttered. “You’re invited to join my club, by the way. Some have waited years for such an invitation.”

  “I will decline that signal honor,” Ashton said, leading the donkey along. “Any place that can’t cook a decent steak doesn’t deserve my custom, meaning no insult to present company. I’m sure your steak was done to a turn. Odd how that works.”

  Hazelton fell in step on the other side of the donkey, though he ignored the creature sniffing at his glove. “I’ll tell them you’re thinking about it.”

  “Tell them ‘no, thank you,’” Ashton said. “When the chef ruined a fine cut of meat, he insulted me, you, and the poor cow. Insults to you and me I might tolerate, but the cow did nothing wrong.”

  “Fenwick, do you want a reputation for eccentricity?”

  “You make it sound as if eccentricity is one of the seven deadly sins. I’m not the one who wrecked a dinner out of pique. What should I name this fine beast?”

  Hazelton stopped and glanced down at the donkey. “It’s appealing, in a hideous, pathetic, noxious sort of way.”

  “Another deadly sin?”

  The earl’s lips twitched. “Name him anything you please. I’ll have your list in a week or so.”

  “I’ll name him Marmaduke,” Ashton said. “Duke, for short. The stable lads will appreciate the humor and treat the beast well as a result. My felicitations to your countess. Send word around to the Albany if you need me.”

  Ashton collected his horse and led the donkey to the Albany by way of Piccadilly. He was tempted to detour down through St. James’s—let all the dandies in their clubs have a look at the Earl of Kilkenney’s first purchase at Tatts—but the donkey was probably hungry and weary.

  Ashton was too.

  * * *

  “I would like to tell you a story,” Mr. Fenwick said.

  He stood on the threshold of Matilda’s parlor, looking magnificent in his riding attire. His boots were dusty, and he’d been gone most of the day. Matilda had listened for his footsteps on the stairs, both hoping and dreading to hear him returning to his apartments.

  He’d seen Kitty, and he’d sensed a connection between her and Matilda. That wasn’t a disaster.

  The worse problem was that he’d offered to help, and Matilda had been tempted. She couldn’t accept his help, lest he be named an accessory after the crime, but she had wanted to unburden herself, to talk through the whole problem with somebody who hadn’t been terrified for six straight years and angry for longer than that.

  “Have you had your supper?” Matilda asked.

  “I’m not telling you my story over supper, Matilda Bryce, unless we’re taking a plate out to the wee garden where none will disturb us.”

  Matilda occasionally took her mending outside, because sunlight made close work easier on the eyes. She’d been mending half the day, making tight, even stitches in the plain fabric that characterized her wardrobe now. Never again would she take for granted the beautiful creations fashioned at the expense of a poor woman’s e
yesight.

  “We can enjoy the evening air,” she said. “For a short time.”

  “Oh, aye, a short time. My story isn’t complicated, and it has a happy ending.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  He bowed her through the back door, a ridiculous courtesy. “I’m not, but my troubles are minor and easily resolved. The matter wants determination, is all.”

  Matilda took the only seat, a worn bench along the wall of the house. Her herbs sat in pots and raised beds, and a small plane maple straggled up toward the evening sky. Mr. Fenwick came down beside her, the bench being too small to allow for any distance between them.

  For a moment, they sat in silence, though Matilda liked too well the solidness of him beside her.

  She liked him too well, and that was a problem.

  “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a young man, a fine, braw, bonnie lad, sent off to university.”

  “That is not a very original story.”

  He took her hand. “Haud yer wheesht. It gets more interesting. This lad was handsome, from a good family, but from the wrong side of the blanket. Have you noticed that many of the handsomest lads are illegitimate?”

  “I have not.” His levity was telling, though. A by-blow would have all the airs and graces of a legitimate son, but less of the arrogance, for polite society would never let a by-blow forget his antecedents.

  “Well, they are. Fine lot of specimens, but this particular lad had two problems. The first was a miserable temper. He was a good-sized fellow, and when he was vexed, he’d let fly with his fists.”

  Matilda withdrew her hand. “I have no patience with foul-tempered men.”

  “He was little more than a boy, and years of minding the horses kicked that temper right out of him. He’s the soul of patience now.”

  Ashton Fenwick was very patient. Matilda couldn’t deny that. “What was the other problem?”

  Apparently, illegitimacy was not a problem, suggesting the lad’s family had been very well-to-do indeed.

  “This young man was lonely. He had only the one brother, several years younger, and they were not raised to be as close as most brothers. Though the family was loving, and nobody dared ostracize the young man overtly, there was talk.”