Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  The lawyer squirmed in his comfortable chair.

  “Very well, let’s deal in theories,” Ashton said. “Lady Matilda is unhappy in her marriage, and because she’s an utter idiot, as any who know her will testify, she chooses to dash out her husband’s brains while a house full of servants is bustling about, the man’s son is in the next room, and his titled brother right across the corridor. Makes perfect sense.”

  “She chose her moment with the lack of wisdom common to her gender,” Drexel said, shooting to his feet. “She advanced on him from behind, and he was all unsuspecting. Althorpe had enjoyed a few glasses of wine, as a man will, and Lady Matilda waited to catch him alone when his powers of discernment were not at their best.”

  Hazelton put a hand on Drexel’s shoulder. “Until Kilkenney gives you leave to rise, you will sit.”

  Drexel sat.

  “That balderdash simply won’t serve, your lordship,” Ashton said. “Was Althorpe all unsuspecting of the woman supposedly shouting threats of murder at him? He typically turned his back on irate women who promised to do him violence?”

  “He was in his cups, I tell you, and she crept up behind him with malice aforethought and murder in her heart.”

  “Yes, yes,” Ashton said, twirling his wrist, “and bludgeoned your paragon of a brother to his final reward with repeated, violent blows to the head that resulted in no blood being spilled at all. What did the medical examiner have to say about the cause of death?”

  “He agreed with me—I mean, he found that Althorpe had been bludgeoned to death, and a charge of murder was laid.”

  Hazelton sighed gustily.

  “He found Althorpe’s skull had suffered one blow, right about here,” Ashton said, pointing to his own temple. “Meaning that if that one blow had been rendered with a poker, then Althorpe would have seen it coming. Lady Matilda, what were you wearing the night your husband died?”

  Matilda remained with her back to the room, gaze on the street below. She might have been waiting for her coach to be brought around for a trip to the milliner’s, so calm was she.

  “I wore a new dinner gown of embroidered blue silk with six gathered flounces that exposed the ruffled yellow underskirt. Also two trimmed petticoats of lighter blue, both ruffled at the hem, a chemise, and the usual underlinen. I was also wearing a paisley shawl, because the room was drafty and the fire less than robust. The money I got for that ensemble fed me for a considerable time, and I still have the pawnbroker’s ticket for it.”

  Ashton propped his chin on his hand. “Now that is a puzzle. How does a woman wearing two ruffled petticoats, a ruffled underskirt, a flounced overskirt, and a shawl move silently? Maybe her shouting hid the susurration of her clothing, but no… that won’t wash either, will it?”

  Drexel hunched forward. “What do you want, Kilkenney?”

  “Oh, to kill you, I suppose. Lady Matilda?”

  Matilda breathed a soft, ladylike sigh, then shook her head.

  “Ah, well, then, no Border justice for your lordship, but your nephew may not be so lucky. The medical examiner’s report said your brother died of a broken neck, didn’t it?”

  Basingstoke cleared his throat.

  “Unburden yourself,” Hazelton suggested. “You used to be a decent solicitor.”

  “There was no medical examination,” Basingstoke murmured. “An oversight, I’m sure.”

  “Astonishing,” Ashton said, “the oversights that follow when bribery is an option. No matter. We can exhume the remains, have a wee look, and get this poker-bashing nonsense straightened out. Do you contend that Lady Matilda snapped the neck of a man who outweighed her by five stone?”

  Matilda opened the window, as if all this belated honesty had turned the air foul.

  “I do not.”

  “I have a contention,” Ashton said, shoving away from the mantel. “I contend that your brother was a miserable sod who couldn’t behave decently toward his own wife, and his son was even worse. I contend that you have suborned perjury to get your filthy hands on not one but two sizeable inheritances, and—this contending business has grown on me—I further contend that Stephen Derrick has the strength, determination, and stupidity to have killed his own father. He did so in a manner that allowed him to blame his patricide on an innocent young woman and grow rich on his own lies.”

  “That’s very good,” Hazelton said, rising. “Has the advantage of fitting the physical evidence, and lord knows Stephen had motive. We can find all manner of witnesses to testify that Stephen resented his father, wished the old man into an early grave. Shouldn’t be much trouble at all.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Drexel retorted.

  “He would,” Matilda said, “except I won’t allow him to. Stephen did not kill his father, unless endless disappointment is a cause of death.”

  “All I want,” Ashton replied, “is for a warrant to issue for Stephen’s arrest. Let him take flight and manage as you have, without a friend in the world, no rest, no safety, nowhere to turn. Might give him some manners—or kill him.”

  “He’s my heir, damn it,” Drexel said. “My only legitimate heir. I am a peer of the realm, and I forbid you to have him arrested.”

  Ashton leaned a hip on Basingstoke’s desk. “I’m a peer of the realm too. I’ve learned not to let it bother me. Mr. Damon Basingstoke, along with a solicitor of Hazelton’s choosing, will review Lady Kitty’s and Lady Maitland’s finances. If so much as a penny has gone astray, you will provide reparation, with interest.”

  “Reasonable interest,” Hazelton said. “Say, ten percent per annum.”

  Every last groat Drexel had wasn’t nearly enough for all the misery he’d caused Matilda.

  “Where is Stephen?” Ashton asked.

  “I have no idea,” Drexel said. “He keeps bachelor quarters and comes around when he wants money. He has a fancy piece by the name of Marceline in Knightsbridge somewhere. You can make all the allegations you want against my handling of complicated financial affairs, Kilkenney, but unless you can convince Stephen to recant his sworn testimony, you are harboring an accused murderess. She’ll be taken into custody, there to await trial.”

  Ashton aimed his next words at the solicitor. “If Stephen recants, he’ll be admitting perjury, and what I know of his character suggests honesty is beyond him. I expect him to pike off with as much money and wherewithal as possible, and I will have charges brought against him.”

  Basingstoke rose. He was nowhere near as tall as Damon, but then, the younger solicitor was likely not his son.

  “His lordship makes a significant point, Kilkenney. The murder warrant has not been quashed, and any thief-taker would be within his rights to haul her ladyship before the nearest magistrate. I proffer that Mr. Stephen Derrick might be willing to modify his testimony without entirely recanting it, if your presuming notions of financial accountability can be set aside.”

  Hazelton extended his walking stick across Basingstoke’s left shoulder and exerted pressure until the solicitor resumed his seat.

  “You almost had me convinced,” Ashton said, “that Drexel had bullied or blackmailed you too, but now your failure to properly oversee Lady Kitty’s funds must come to light. Ah, well. Your titled clients will surely forgive a few thousand missing pounds, won’t they?”

  Basingstoke glared at Ashton like a chastised dog who dared not rise. “Her ladyship can still be arrested, and I will advise my clients that due deliberation will be required before any revision of testimony can possibly—”

  “You can’t have her arrested,” Ashton said, pointing to the open window Matilda had slipped through moments before. “She did a bunk, and you will have to kill me to find her. Hazelton, we have a perjurer to catch, by any means necessary.”

  “Good day,” Hazelton said, bowing slightly. “I’d pack a few bags if I were you two. A lot of bags, with as much haste as you’re capable of.”

  Ashton got Hazelton by the arm and steered him to the door. “No mor
e helpful advice, your lordship. They’re on their own, as Lady Matilda was for six years.”

  As she might be again, that very minute.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Here they come,” Helen said through the speaking slot between the coach’s interior and the bench. “His nibs and Lord Hazelnuts.”

  Not Drexel, not that toadying little solicitor, not Samuels. Now that the moment of confrontation had passed, a suffocating dread had taken possession of Matilda’s body and her wits. A choking sensation wrapped about her neck, and weakness pervaded her limbs. She had clambered down from the coach roof intent only on eluding Drexel, then found herself without the resolve to do more than scramble into the coach and shut the door.

  Ashton joined her inside.

  “I’m about to be sick, my lord.” The further rocking of the coach as Hazelton took the opposite seat nearly proved Matilda’s prediction true.

  “So am I,” Ashton said, “but ladies first. Try putting your head down and breathing slowly.” He opened a small cabinet in the side of the coach, tipped a flask onto a serviette, and laid the wet cloth on Matilda’s nape.

  “Get me away from this place, Ashton, please.”

  He thumped the roof once. “At the walk, John Coachman.”

  The cold cloth helped, the knowledge that Ashton was taking her to safety helped more. “I am upset.”

  “I’m in a murdering rage,” Ashton said, refolding the cloth and laying it gently over the back of her neck. “What that man and his nephew did to you is inexcusable, my lady. I knew that when you told me your history, but to see Drexel puffing and posturing like a crow in the gutter, not a repentant bone in his body…. Hazelton, any debt you owe me has been repaid. But for your presence as a credible witness, I would have pitched the pair of them to the cobbles headfirst.”

  “I would have wished them a hard landing,” Hazelton said. “Basingstoke will be on the first packet for Calais, Drexel right behind him.”

  Matilda tried to straighten, but Ashton instead urged her to curl up on the bench, her head in his lap. A sensible arrangement under the circumstances.

  “Can you estimate the value of your inheritance, my lady?” Lord Hazelton asked.

  Matilda named a figure, one her father had muttered over morning coffee in the middle of the marriage negotiations.

  “Sweet Jesus come to Mayfair,” Ashton muttered. “You might be worth more than I am.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  He stroked her hair from her brow. “Just shows my unassailable good taste in countesses.”

  “Kitty’s portion isn’t as great,” Matilda said. “It’s substantial, though, or it should be.”

  “About wee Lady Kitty…”

  “Kidnapping is a felony,” Hazelton said in oh-by-the-by tones.

  “Separating two sisters needlessly for six years is an abomination,” Ashton retorted, “especially when they have no other family worth the name. We’ll fetch Lady Kitty for a visit with her sister and send a note around to Drexel thanking him for the suggestion. If a Border lord can’t reave one child from the clutches of an avaricious Englishman, then he’s no’ worth his tartan.”

  “A Border lord are you now?” Hazelton asked.

  “That’s the Scottish term for an earl where I come from,” Ashton said. “Lady Kitty isn’t the problem.”

  Matilda was having trouble following the conversation, so she made herself sit up. “Is Kitty in danger?”

  “Probably not from Drexel.” Ashton lifted the cloth from Matilda’s neck. “But Drexel professed ignorance of Stephen’s whereabouts, and it’s Stephen who’s been backed into the tightest corner.”

  “Explain yourself, please,” Matilda said. “My mind has all but stopped working.” Her hand functioned well enough to lace her fingers with Ashton’s, which had the odd effect of settling her belly.

  “You decamped before we concluded our discussion,” Hazelton said. “A nimble exit, I might add. As matters stand now, there is a valid warrant extant for your arrest. To have the warrant quashed, Stephen must recant his testimony.”

  “He’s had six years to set the matter straight,” Ashton said, “and in all that time, he’s failed to do so. Going back on his word now will be impossible without raising the specter of perjury. The solicitor implied that Stephen might modify his affidavit without exonerating you per se, but you’re still facing a trial.”

  “I have been through more than enough trials courtesy of Stephen Derrick.”

  “We can agree on that,” Hazelton said, “but the chances of getting the present magistrate to quash a warrant bribed out of a predecessor six years ago are poor.”

  “I’m right back where I was six years ago.” Except for losing her heart to Ashton, which very nearly made the entire ordeal worth the trouble.

  “You will never be back where you were six years ago,” Ashton retorted, “but I’m thinking you should pay a call on Hazelton’s countess.”

  Hazelton’s smile was bashful and oddly charming. “I thought you’d never ask, Kilkenney.”

  “I don’t know the Countess of Hazelton,” Matilda said. “I do know I want a bath and a nap.” That nap would preferably be in a bed shared with Ashton.

  “If we’re to see your good reputation restored,” Ashton said, “then I can’t be stowing you in my dressing room at the Albany, can I, lass?”

  “My good reputation…?” The weakness assailed Matilda again, because Ashton had named the prize she dared not wish for. The realization that Drexel had stolen this from her—this too—lodged like a fist in her throat.

  “All I wanted,” Matilda said, “all I want is to be safe and with you. If I can visit with Kitty, that’s more than I dreamed was possible. My fortune, my good name… Those are trappings, and I don’t need them.”

  How she longed for exoneration, though, for vindication of her decision to flee in the first place. She wanted assurance that she’d been wise, not foolish; resourceful, rather than imprudent.

  And hang the title she’d prided herself on all for all of her life.

  “Then humor me,” Ashton said. “I need to see justice done, and now that we’ve confronted Drexel, we’re closer to that goal, not farther away.”

  “He nearly had me,” Matilda said. “He very nearly had me, Ashton. I’m still wanted for murder.”

  Ashton kissed her knuckles, and abruptly, Matilda’s vision went dim at the edges and breath came short. She might even now have been locked in a cell at Bow Street.

  “Hazelton’s papa-in-law is a duke,” Ashton said. “You’ll be safe under Hazelton’s roof, and I would pit his countess against any regiment of foot you’d care to name. Hazelton and I can round up Stephen and come to terms with him.”

  “You will be safe, my lady,” Hazelton added. “Though you’ll be pampered within an inch of your sanity.”

  “Pampering sounds… agreeable.” Safety sounded too good to be true. “What have you planned for Stephen?”

  The men exchanged some sort of look. If Matilda had had brothers, she might have been able to decipher it.

  “What would you like us to plan for him?” Ashton asked as the coach swayed around a corner. They’d passed from the busyness at the center of London to quieter, broader streets. Mayfair, most likely, where Matilda had been by turns happy and miserable.

  “Stephen has at least one child that I know of,” she said, “an illegitimate daughter. If anything happens to Stephen, the child has a bleak future.” The concept of justice as opposed to revenge was difficult to grasp. Revenge simply made more victims, while justice put matters right—or as right as they could be.

  What did justice require where Stephen was concerned?

  Ashton tapped the coach roof twice, and the horses swung into a trot. “As it happens, Stephen has two daughters, according to Hazleton. If their situation weren’t a consideration, if you weren’t forever trying to look after everybody but yourself, what fate would you wish on Stephen?”


  “Not death,” Matilda said. “When I first bolted, I imagined all manner of revenge upon Stephen. Dashing his brains out, seeing him hauled away in chains, accepting his groveling apology… My imagination sustained me until the struggle to survive took precedence.”

  “And now?” Hazelton asked.

  “The whole time I’ve been a fugitive from the law, I’ve protected a corner of my dignity with the knowledge that I’m innocent. I might die a convicted murderess, but between myself and my God, I knew I was innocent. I never raised a hand to my husband, never wished him dead. What would it be like to be a fugitive from the law and know that you deserve to be caught? That you are guilty as charged and yet unpunished for the wrongs you’ve done?”

  “You assume Stephen has a conscience,” Ashton said.

  “No. I assume he has an entirely selfish desire to live, and threatening that desire will be as much justice as I’m capable of. Scare the hell out of him, Ashton. Scare him so badly, he’ll never be a threat to another woman.”

  “My countess would approve,” Hazelton said. “She’d approve wholeheartedly.”

  “I approve,” Ashton said. “But first we need to make a few plans.”

  * * *

  Lady Hazelton had taken one look at Matilda’s masculine attire and pronounced Ashton’s beloved two adventures shy of daft. The countess had then whisked Matilda above stairs for a bath, a pot of chocolate, and a plate of raspberry scones.

  Ashton sent his coach home, assisted Hazelton to change out of his court finery, and proceeded to wear a hole in the carpet of Hazelton’s study.

  “Should I have Archer Portmaine join us?” Hazelton asked from behind a massive, cluttered desk. “He’s a fine one for locating people who don’t wish to be found.”

  “Have Portmaine nose around Bow Street and chat with Drexel’s staff,” Ashton said, examining the signature on a sketch of the Portmaine family seat. “I made a lot of stirring declarations in Basingstoke’s office, but it could well be the servants were bribed to conform their stories to Stephen’s, or they’ve all been turned off.”