Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  Good news—and bad news. “I’ve been the earl for three years,” Ashton said. “Why wouldn’t Harpster bring up the need to ratify some of my brother’s decisions?”

  Basingstoke rose and fetched a lit taper from the mantel behind his desk. He used the flame to light a stick of red sealing wax and dripped a portion onto the folded vellum.

  “I can think of two explanations,” Basingstoke said as one red drop followed another onto the paper. “Harpster might not have realized that decisions made by your brother could be repudiated by the rightful earl. Your situation is unusual to the point of…” He blew out the wax candle, smoke rising from the extinguished wick. “Your legal posture is fascinating, my lord. A hundred years from now, law professors and judges will cite your case in their lectures, as they do the Duke of Atholl’s, whose title at one point went to a second son when the first was declared a traitor while biding in France.”

  Basingstoke had dripped a perfect circle of wet, red wax onto his missive. He used not a ring to press the seal into the wax, but a seal produced from a desk drawer. Perhaps a bastard son eschewed wearing the family signet, or hadn’t been given one.

  “The second explanation for Harpster’s silence?” Ashton asked.

  “Harpster doesn’t want anybody examining the transactions completed on your brother’s behalf too closely.”

  Sweet Jesus in a boat. Ashton thought back over land purchases, investments, contracts for goods and livestock, dowries negotiated for cousins, and pensions established for retired servants. An earldom was a vast enterprise, and abruptly, his stood on uncertain ground.

  “You examine those transactions closely, Basingstoke. Examine them with a quizzing glass, and when you get that itchy feeling in your lawyer’s mind, examine the transactions more closely still.”

  The wax Basingstoke had used was apparently scented, for a frisson of lavender wafted about the office—lavender symbolized distrust, probably Basingstoke’s notion of a joke.

  “You are retaining me, then?” Him, not his firm, and yet the question was the embodiment of diffidence.

  “I’m retaining you to research the period from Ewan’s assumption of the title to the present. I’d also like to talk to my English tenants about selling them their parcels. I’ll happily hold the mortgages, but I’m tired of holding the hands of men whose families have been farming since the great flood.”

  “Any other assignments?”

  On the street below, shod hooves clattered against the cobbles, and somebody shouted to make way. Ashton rose and went to the window, because nobody with any sense should have been driving a coach down such a narrow lane.

  “That crest looks familiar,” Ashton said. Not merely a coach, but a coach with bright red wheels, four spanking grays in the traces, and red livery on the coachman and grooms.

  “The Earl of Drexel has arrived to meet with my father,” Basingstoke said, joining Ashton at the window. “His lordship lives half a mile distant, if that.”

  Matilda’s pencil went clattering to the floor.

  “He’s not here to meet with you?” Ashton asked as Matilda scurried to retrieve her pencil.

  “My lot is usually to deal with impecunious nephews and younger sons,” Basingstoke said. “That you requested my services specifically caused a gratifying amount of consternation among my older brothers.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Ashton said, resuming his seat. Also happy to know Basingstoke was prey to a normal complement of sibling rivalry. “Is there any reason an earldom’s concerns would exceed your expertise?”

  “None, my lord. Drexel manages a great deal of family money, as you do yourself. My father is intimately familiar with the earl’s situation, and my tendency to interpret the law narrowly would not be a good match with Drexel’s style.”

  So Basingstoke was a legal stickler, while Drexel was high-handed at best.

  Matilda was bent over her paper, scribbling furiously. Ashton glanced over her shoulder.

  Drexel steals from Kitty’s trusts?

  “Under what circumstances can a marriage be rendered void?” Ashton asked.

  Basingstoke let the curtain fall and resumed his seat. “Are you asking for yourself, my lord?”

  “I’m asking a hypothetical question, and I’m paying you to answer it.”

  Basingstoke put away the gold seal, in no hurry at all. “Before I accept tuppence from you, my lord, please understand that my integrity is not for sale. If you married some village girl before you came into the title, I’ll not subvert the law to allow you a better match now. If your brother’s wife wants to dissolve her union with him in order to marry you, then another solicitor will have to—”

  “Basingstoke, cut line. I’ve never found a woman willing to have me for the rest of her life, and I couldn’t pry Alyssa and Ewan apart with a gold-plated crowbar. I hope to marry soon, and the question is general.”

  Unless your name happened to be Maitland rather than Matilda.

  “Three grounds, generally, give rise to suits for annulment.” Basingstoke folded his hands on the blotter, like a scholar called upon to recite.

  “Annulments are heard by the bishop of the see where the couple dwelled,” he went on. “Incompetence is the first ground, such as one party being underage and lacking parental consent. Insanity is another form of incompetence. Fraud, of identity or assets, constitutes the second ground, and the third is inability of the husband to perform the marital act. For the third ground to be actionable, the wife must be demonstrably untouched.”

  “What is fraud of identity?”

  “Using the wrong name on the marriage lines, leaving off a title, neglecting to add all the middle names for a man of your station,” Basingstoke said. “The bishops can deny the request if it’s a matter of a lifelong nickname for some squire’s son, but they can also grant annulments on the merest pretext when a man whose union has failed to produce an heir is moved to donate to some cathedral’s maintenance fund. Any other questions?”

  Matilda’s pencil was poised over her paper, her posture that of a raptor over a fresh kill.

  “If, in my tenure as earl, I’ve mismanaged the assets of a minor of whom I hold guardianship, what are the consequences?”

  “I trust this is another hypothetical?”

  Hardly. “One you will keep in confidence.”

  “The guardian owes to the minor ward a duty of utmost care and concern,” Basingstoke said, “a fiduciary duty, which requires best efforts to safeguard the ward’s well-being. All manner of legal repercussions will result if you’ve mishandled some child’s funds, my lord. As much as I loathe relinquishing responsibility for any aspect of your affairs, my father would be in a better position to advise you further on a matter such as this.”

  Because he’d doubtless advised Drexel on the same topic. “Could I be tried in the Lords for mishandling funds?”

  Matilda had left off pretending to take notes and positively glowered at Basingstoke.

  “Of course, if the charges are for felony wrongdoing, though the evidentiary standard for criminal convictions is high. You can forget finding a wife if you’re courting that degree of scandal, my lord, and I must warn you, the Lords occasionally like to make an example of one of their own.”

  Drexel, who’d exploited not one but two daughters of an earl, would make a fine example. “You will be relieved to know that I have no wards, Basingstoke.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, I am indeed relieved.”

  Basingstoke knew the law the way Ashton knew horses and whisky, not by dint of rote memorization or dogged effort, but by heart.

  “When can you have a report for me on my English tenancies?”

  Basingstoke consulted a silver pocket watch. “One week, my lord. You will be billed at the end of the month, and my time will cost you dearly.”

  “As it should,” Ashton said, rising and extending a hand.

  He’d surprised the canny and blunt Mr. Basingstoke and got a firm handshake an
d a startlingly warm smile in response.

  “Good day, my lord, Mr. MacFarland.”

  Matilda bowed—a prudent choice, when her hands were bare—and followed Ashton from the office. She kept her silence all the way to the street, which was a quiet side lane near the Inns of Court. The coach and four remained outside the solicitor’s establishment, blocking wheeled traffic in both directions.

  “Why did you ask about annulling my marriage?”

  “I wanted to see if Basingstoke knew the answer.” Not every solicitor would have.

  “My marriage to Althorpe might never have been valid?”

  “In the absence of an annulment while Althorpe lived, your marriage will be presumed valid, which means your inheritance from Althorpe remains truly yours.”

  “Mine in name, you mean. Drexel has possession of my fortune and Kitty’s.”

  They approached an intersection and had to wait for a curricle and a phaeton to pass a coal wagon. A flyer offering a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of “Lady Matilda Derrick, Murderess at Large!!!”, had been affixed to the nearest lamppost.

  Ashton tore down the flyer and stuffed it in a pocket.

  “The marriage might have been subject to annulment,” Matilda said, “but the murder warrant is all too real. If Drexel is stealing from Kitty—and I’m sure he is—then he has all the more reason to see me hanged.”

  She marched off across the street, looking for all the world like an angry young man.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The flyers were everywhere, and hour by hour, Matilda’s hard-won peace slipped away. Mortar fire could bring down walls that had stood for centuries if the pummeling and noise went on long enough.

  From the apartment below, she heard the rumble of men enjoying an evening of cards. Ashton’s guests included a Scottish duke, a ducal spare, an earl, a knight, the duke’s heir who kept the apartment across the corridor, another earl from the north, and Mr. Shearing, probably the wealthiest of the lot.

  “You look sad,” Helen said, smacking her pillow.

  Matilda put aside the adventures of Robinson Crusoe—a slow top, in Helen’s opinion, who hadn’t the sense to avoid obvious scrapes—and settled on the end of Helen’s cot. The room was little more than a dressing closet, but to Helen, it was a pleasure dome. The child delighted in owning a nightgown, in having her hair brushed and rebraided, in wearing slippers at the end of the day.

  Such simple, profound pleasures.

  “I’d forgotten that men can be good,” Matilda said.

  “I miss my pa,” Helen replied, tucking her nightgown over her updrawn knees. “I don’t miss his fists. He’s the one who sent Sissy on the stroll, though I don’t think he wanted to. If you don’t work, you don’t eat, for such as us.”

  “Not all men think of themselves first, Helen.” The evening was mild, and through the open window, Matilda caught a hint of cigar smoke tinged with vanilla. The scent was expensive and reminded her of her own father.

  Helen scooted under the covers with a gusty sigh. “All men think of themselves first, except his nibs. He thinks of everybody and himself. I’m studying on it.”

  Interesting observation. “Do you say prayers, Helen?”

  “I used to, not anymore. As soon as I start telling God I’m grateful for something, that something goes away. I mind my own business and hope God does too. That works better.”

  Matilda had adopted the same philosophy more than six years ago, and it had kept her alive… while she died inside.

  “They’re leaving,” Helen said as farewells sounded from the landing below. “Must be married gents who have a missus to go to.”

  Matilda rose, because the day had been long, and Helen needed her rest. “Mr. Tresham lives across the corridor.”

  “Then he’s off to see his fancy piece. Do you say prayers, Mrs. B?”

  “I’m Mr. MacFarland. Matthew, and yes, I say prayers.” Now Matilda did. For Ashton’s safety, Helen’s future, and a little bit—a quiet little bit at the end of the list—for her own well-being.

  “You’re getting better at the mister-ing,” Helen said. “I’m thinking of not cutting my hair.”

  What to say? Golden braids would put Helen at greater risk of harm. “You’d have to give up your trousers.”

  “I’d have to give up a lot.” Helen turned on her side to face the door. “Ladies wear breeches under their riding habits. Did you know that?”

  Long ago, Matilda had owned three gorgeous riding habits and a darling bay mare named Adelaide.

  “I have heard the like. Go to sleep, Helen. Tomorrow his lordship has the court levee, and we must be up and about early.”

  “You’re thinking of piking off,” Helen said. “Don’t ask me to go with you. I told Sissy I’m not coming back to her room, not for anything. His nibs said I would make a top-of-the-trees goose girl, if I wanted to.”

  “His lordship would never lie to you.” Hearty male laughter drifted up the stairs, somebody making a parting joke, probably about Ashton’s obligations at court tomorrow. “Helen, the handbills are everywhere. Pippa has seen Samuels on Pastry Lane.”

  Helen yawned and cracked her jaw, managing to look both female and masculine at the same time.

  “Good. If Samuels is on Pastry Lane, he ain’t here, or swilling ale at the Goose, and his nibs won’t have to put out his lights. It’s the hen that leaves the heather who gets shot out of the sky.”

  How small Helen looked, tucked up in her cot. “Harboring an accused murderess puts his lordship in danger.”

  “You ain’t no murderess. If you decided to kill somebody, you’d make a proper job of it and go about your business, nobody the wiser. If I did pray, I’d ask God to look after you and Marmaduke.”

  Being categorized with a rescued jackass was a nice comment on Matilda’s reality. “What about his lordship?”

  “He’s doing fine on his own. You should marry him.”

  Matilda blew out the candle rather than argue that point. “Good night, Helen. Sweet dreams.”

  The girl snorted.

  The last of the guests had called his farewells, and the stairway was silent. Matilda kissed Helen’s forehead before the child could protest, pulled the covers up over skinny shoulders, and left Helen to her dreams.

  * * *

  All evening, Ashton laughed, talked, and kept the two footmen running up and down from the kitchen and the cellar, while he’d lost a bit at cards and won a bit at friendship.

  And he missed Matilda. He couldn’t shake the sense that he’d turn around and she’d be gone, never to be seen again.

  Ashton’s guests tarried forever on the landing, wishing him and one another good night. The Duke of Murdoch’s younger brother, Lord Colin, had contributed several bottles of exquisite whisky. Jonathan Tresham, the ducal heir across the corridor, had brought French chocolates.

  Hazelton’s countess had contributed flowers, about which Ashton would tease his lordship mercilessly on the way to tomorrow’s blasted levee. Hazelton had taken half the evening before he’d relaxed and simply played cards, rather than supervise Ashton’s every comment and congeniality. His lordship had lost the most of anybody, though he could easily afford it.

  A quiet step sounded on the stairs above.

  “If you’re not coming down to join me, Mr. MacFarland, then expect me to accompany you wherever you’re going.”

  Matilda’s tread paused, then resumed. “You’d come with me to the jakes?”

  “This time of night, there’s safety in numbers, even at my august address. Care to join me for a nightcap?”

  She stopped one step above him, so they were almost eye to eye. Ashton would content himself with a shared nightcap, if that’s all Matilda offered him. He’d sit up all night holding her hand, if need be, just to make sure she didn’t hare away with nothing but Cherbourne’s altered finery on her back.

  “Your evening sounded convivial,” she said.

  “C
ome,” he replied, gesturing to the open door. “I’ll tell you all about it. The Duke of Murdoch is shy, but his brother Lord Colin is a rascal. Our neighbor Mr. Tresham is lonely, and Hazelton’s cousin—Sir Archer Portmaine—has an abacus for a brain when it comes to the cards. The damned man could be a professional card sharp if he ever chose to give up investigating.”

  Matilda came down the last step. “He investigates scandals?”

  “He prevents them,” Ashton said, tucking his hands behind his back, lest he be caught brushing his thumb over his secretary’s lips. In men’s attire, without skirts swishing or a bonnet to hide her expression, the fatigue dragging on Matilda from within was more apparent. “Will you sleep with me tonight?”

  “Sleep with you?”

  “That too.”

  She walked past him into the apartment’s antechamber. “What of the footmen? Won’t they be cleaning up?”

  “I sent them to bed. The mess will be here in the morning.” The mess was modest. A few dirty glasses, two empty decanters, a deck of cards stacked in the center of the reading table.

  Matilda worked her way around the room, blowing out candles so the smoke of beeswax joined the fading odor of good tobacco.

  “I will share your bed tonight, but Helen is likely to be up at first light. She’s more excited about your attendance at the levee than you are.”

  “Will you come away with me to Scotland?” Ashton asked as the room became shrouded in shadows.

  Matilda held a single taper, the flame turning her features spectral. “You hop from a night in your bed to a flight over the Border?”

  “If I asked you to marry me, you’d laugh,” Ashton said, leading her by the wrist into the bedroom, “or worse, favor me with your pitying expression. I figured I’d get you to Scotland first, and then enchant you with my manly charms.”