Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  “My countess has no objection to the occasional case. She would assist me to the extent she could. One hesitates to court the disfavor of my father-in-law.”

  “Moreland? You’re daft. His Grace would be envious if he learned you’d resumed your investigative activities.”

  Helen was playing Lady Kitty like a fish on a line, kicking the ball seemingly in all directions, but ending up ever nearer to the hedge behind which Maggie waited with a puppy in a basket. The puppy had been Kilkenney’s suggestion, immediately seconded by Helen. Archer would rush to the aid of the soon-to-be-distraught governess and offer her a goodly sum to look after Lady Kitty in a different household without giving notice.

  Or screaming.

  With any luck, Lady Kitty would have no idea she’d been kidnapped.

  “If I took an interest in investigating again,” Hazelton said, “the Duke of Moreland would not merely be envious, he’d meddle. His Grace’s ability to meddle is excelled only by his duchess’s ability to do the same, smiling graciously all the while. And there they go.”

  The girls made a third foray behind the hedge, nominally searching for a well-kicked ball, but mostly laughing and chasing each other. The governesses continued to chat happily on their bench, and the satisfaction of a well-laid plan coming together coursed through Hazelton like new wine on a crisp autumn day.

  Five minutes passed before Miss Reynolds left off speaking to rise and call for Lady Kitty.

  “That is your cue to be charming,” Hazelton said, “and my cue to leave.”

  Damn it.

  “Take one case,” Sir Archer said, propping his stick on his shoulder. “Take just one case, then tell me again you don’t miss it.”

  Hazelton watched him stride off, a gentleman determined to be of assistance to an increasingly distraught pair of governesses.

  Lady Kitty’s safety mattered, but having spent the last day conceiving and executing the plan to keep her so had been the closest thing to excitement Hazelton had had since… well, since courting Maggie Windham.

  * * *

  Without Helen’s company, Ashton’s rooms at the Albany became a prison. He sent a clucking, fussing Cherbourne off to visit relatives, and the two footmen spent most of the day lounging about in the kitchen, waiting for Ashton to concoct errands for them.

  He’d taken Helen’s suggestion and paid a late-night call on Matilda. Her ladyship was as impatient as Ashton, and worse, she was anxious to take flight.

  The time had come to confront Stephen Derrick—or to make him disappear.

  A knock sounded on the door, but not in the right sequence to herald a call from Hazelton. Ashton opened the door the width of two inches and beheld Hannibal Shearing.

  Sweet Jesus in the garden, not this again.

  Ashton unfastened the chain. “Shearing, how do you do?”

  “You’ll not let me in? Have I become that much of an outcast? I expected you, of all people, to give a fellow a fair hearing, Kilkenney.”

  Ashton did know how easily a fair hearing was denied on the basis of class, standing, or family associations.

  “I was about to go out and haven’t much time for socializing.”

  “And Fat George hasn’t much time for me,” Shearing said, pushing past Ashton. “You said you’d do what you could for me. If it’s a matter of money, then say so. I’ve pots of the damned stuff.”

  Shearing offered an insult, and Ashton would have tossed him back over the threshold for giving offense, but for the despair in the older man’s eyes.

  “You want your barony so badly that you’d insult me for it?”

  “Personally, I don’t give a single hearty goddam,”—Shearing thumped his walking stick once against the floor—“for a title, but my missus has asked only one thing of me. The old girl has stood by me, for richer and for poorer, and she suffered far too many years when poor was putting it nicely. She raised our daughters to be ladies, despite the snubs and the talk. You think titled men put their noses in the air? You should see the cruelty their wives and daughters are capable of, but my wife endured it all without complaint.”

  Shearing’s Yorkshire accent had become thicker as his lament went on, until he sounded not like a wealthy gentleman of means, but like a mine foreman weeping for his beloved.

  “Is your wife ill, Shearing?”

  Shearing examined the Gainsborough portrait above the mantel. A smiling, rosy young family, such as a wealthy bachelor might see in his future.

  “I doubt she’ll last until Christmas, though we’ve a grandchild on the way, and that’s put some heart back in her.”

  What mattered damned money, or a damned title, when the woman you loved was leaving you forever?

  Shearing produced a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “I’ll be going. I mean you no insult, Kilkenney, but there’s nothing I’d not do to secure my wife’s happiness. I’d give George my whole fortune, crawl down Park Lane, or swear an oath never to touch another drop of drink, if I could grant my lady this boon.”

  I know how you feel. “I have pled your case to George, and I will do so again. May I offer you a drink, Shearing?”

  “I’ll stop ’round the Goose and have a good old pint of ale,” Shearing said. “They rob me blind there, but I’m happy to do my bit by a hardworking publican. For too many, his is the only reliable comfort, aye?”

  Shearing left, closing the door softly.

  Ashton was still standing behind the closed door, trying to ignore a dawning sense of hope, when another knock sounded on the door. Two short taps, a pause, and three more.

  “For God’s sake,” came a low voice, “let me in, Kilkenney. I bring news.” Hazelton himself, and in a foul humor.

  “What news?” Ashton asked, opening the door and standing aside.

  Hazelton charged past him, straight into the sitting room. “Stephen has Lady Matilda, snatched her right off my back terrace with an entire press-gang of toughs. The ladies were having tea outside, Maggie was summoned to the nursery, and in the next instant, Lady Matilda was seized. The equally bad news is that we can’t find Helen.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After much wandering about the city, possibly in the interests of avoiding pursuit, the coach finally meandered into familiar territory. Matilda knew Knightsbridge, having walked its streets many times. If she was being taken to Knightsbridge, there was good news—Bow Street lay to the north and east—and bad news.

  Ashton would never think to look for her here.

  “Don’t attempt to escape,” the larger of her captors said. “The warrant says you’re a murderess, and if you’re shot while fleeing arrest, nobody will care. And you would be shot dead.”

  He chucked her on the chin with the barrel of a big, ugly pistol. Samuels was an angel compared to this thug. Whereas Samuels’ attire had been nondescript, Matilda’s captor was a rogue dressed to mock his betters.

  His clothes were the battered castoffs of some fine gentleman, for all that his cravat was perfectly tied and he wore gold at his cuffs. His incisors were gold as well.

  “We could have some fun with her first,” the second man said. He was small and dirty, though he had all of his teeth and displayed them in a rodent’s smile.

  “No time,” the leader replied. “Sooner we dump her off, sooner we get paid. I do fancy a lively murderess from time to time. They have a lot of fight in ’em.”

  “I have plenty of fight, but I’m not a murderess.” Neither was Matilda a countess, though she could have been, in which case these men might have been unwilling to kidnap her at any price.

  “Word to the wise,” the leader said, “save your fight for the man who means to kill you. He’s stupid as shite, and it’s him you hate. This,”—he waved his pistol—“is just business.”

  Helen might understand that definition of business. Matilda understood only that she’d fallen into Stephen’s hands and had thus put herself and Ashton at risk.

  Kitty was safe, though. Ashton had see
n to that. The girl had been taken to Sir Archer Portmaine’s, along with her governess, and was enjoying life in a house where servants smiled, and she was allowed out of the nursery whenever she pleased.

  Matilda had not enjoyed life since the day she’d met Althorpe Derrick.

  “Wouldn’t take but a minute to toss up her skirts,” the smaller man said, “and such fine skirts they be too. Marceline’ll—”

  The leader leveled the gun at his cohort. “How many times do I have to tell you? No names when we’re on a job.”

  He sighted down the pistol barrel, gold teeth winking in a cold grin.

  “You’re bluffing,” Matilda snapped. “If you fire that gun in the middle of a respectable neighborhood, you’ll attract notice, particularly when I start screaming. You’ll also use up one of only two bullets and increase the odds that I’ll escape when the horses bolt because of your need to bully all before you.”

  The pistol barrel swung back in her direction. “So you’re not a murderess, else you’d never have defended my dimwitted friend. Derrick doubtless takes offense at your brains more than at any crimes you might have committed. You’ll want to recall that when you’re reunited with your step-son.”

  He implied that Matilda should make it a point to act stupid if she encountered Stephen again. That was good advice.

  “You’re free enough with Stephen’s name.”

  “All I want from that one is coin. From my men, I expect obedience.”

  Althorpe had wanted obedience. “Wouldn’t loyalty stand you in better stead?”

  “Quite the philosopher, you are. A pity we haven’t the time to get better acquainted.”

  The coach—a clean conveyance, despite some age—rattled around a corner into an alley and then took a few more turns before coming to a halt. The leader got out, then trained his pistol on the coach door, while the second man shoved Matilda down the steps.

  A woman stood by a sagging garden gate. “You took your sweet time. Himself has been cooling his heels half the day, wearing a hole in my patience. So this is her?”

  She was a pretty brunette of about twenty, though her eyes were ancient and pitiless, and her dress was less than pristine about the hems.

  “No damned talk in the open air,” the leader snarled. “I’m surrounded by incompetents.”

  He hustled Matilda through a weedy patch of dirt into the kitchen of a house very much like the one she owned in Pastry Lane. Genteel, but not for much longer.

  The man with the gun jerked his head when they got inside, and the smaller man locked the back door.

  “You watch her,” the leader said, passing the woman the pistol. “She gets away, it’s on you. I have business to transact with Mr. Derrick. You,” he snapped at his lieutenant, “mind the stairs.”

  The men clomped up the steps, while Matilda considered the windows. “You’re Marceline?”

  “You wasn’t to know that,” the woman said, “but Ducky’s got a big mouth. Might as well have a seat. Stephen swears you killed his pa, though he doesn’t seem to mind his pa being dead.”

  “And now Stephen means to kill me,” Matilda said. The words made her sick, also furious in a whole new and reckless way.

  Why hadn’t she married Ashton when she’d had the chance? She could have been across the Border by now—with him.

  “He says he only wants you to go away.” Marceline slid into a chair at a small wooden table. “A smart woman doesn’t put too much stock in what Stephen says, though.”

  The window over the dry sink was locked tight, and cobwebs suggested it hadn’t been opened for ages. The window in the back door was too small to wiggle through, and that left only the stairs as an exit.

  “Has Stephen promised to marry you?”

  “He has… when he’s drunk. He’s drunk a lot.”

  If Marceline hadn’t been holding that loaded pistol in a competent grip, Matilda might have felt sorry for her.

  “Did he tell you he has two children already?”

  “Two?”

  “The oldest is six, and the younger closer to four.” Ashton had shared those details. “Both girls. He never sees them and makes no provision for their care. That job fell to Drexel, who has left Stephen only an allowance and a lot of debts.”

  If anything, Marceline’s grip on the gun steadied. “What do you mean, Drexel left him an allowance? Stephen gets the title, the whole lot, and Drexel ain’t dead yet. I can read the papers, and they make news of it when an earl dies.”

  “Marceline!”

  Matilda would have known that bellow anywhere. Stephen was in a pet, and not entirely sober.

  “Marceline, bring her up here!”

  “He wants me dead,” Matilda spoke quickly and quietly. “He wants me very discreetly dead, so Chancery won’t notice and Stephen can continue to steal from my fortune and my younger sister’s fortune. If you know Stephen is responsible for my death, then you’re a liability to him.”

  Marceline rose, and for a moment, doubt showed in her eyes.

  “We can leave out the back,” Matilda said. “I’ll see you’re kept safe, and Stephen will pay for his crimes.”

  “Can’t have that, can I?” Marceline said, gesturing with the gun. “I love him, you see, and in his way, he’s good to me. He comes to me when he has nowhere else to turn, because he knows I’ll do right by him. Nobody ever has, but that’s not your concern. Up you go, missus.”

  Stephen had been born with every privilege, spoiled endlessly, and indulged even in criminal wrongdoing.

  “You are deluded,” Matilda said, “and you will address me as my lady.”

  Marceline’s smile was pitying. “Oh, aye, then. My lady, if it would please you to go up them steps, I’ll kindly refrain from blowing a hole in your guts.”

  “Marceline!”

  “Coming!” She waved the gun at Matilda. “Up you go, and no tricks. He doesn’t want you dead, he only wants you far, far away for a very long time.”

  Matilda started up the steps, feeling as if she were ascending the stairs to the gallows.

  My life cannot end this way, not now, not when I’ve found a man worth loving, a life worth fighting for.

  “Parlor’s on the right,” Marceline said when they reached the top of the steps, “and it’s half day, so don’t be thinking some footman will rescue you. You’re done for, my lady.”

  “Then so are you. Stephen can’t have any witnesses, Marceline. He’ll repay your love with a grave.”

  Marceline jabbed the pistol at Matilda’s back. “Move.”

  Matilda moved at a pace suited to a lady in no hurry at all. When she entered Marceline’s parlor, Stephen remained sitting on a red velvet sofa.

  “Step-mama, what a lot of trouble you have put me to.”

  The adolescent bully had evolved into a worse article, all the more repugnant for being handsome.

  “Stephen, how nauseating to see you again.”

  He sprawled on the sofa, one button on the left side of his falls undone, a glass of red wine in his hand. His blond hair hung lankly, and he’d clearly slept in his clothes.

  “It’s marvelous to see you,” he said, pushing to his feet and spilling a few drops of wine on the carpet. “I wanted to be sure Tyburn had the right woman, though you have a bit of age on you now. Perhaps a guilty conscience has robbed you of your slumbers these past six years, hmm?”

  The stink of dissipation clung to him, and yet, his word alone could see Matilda hanged.

  “My conscience is clear, Stephen. What about yours? Pushing strong drink on your father night after night, knowing the more he drank, the more difficulty he’d have siring other children? Did Drexel put you up to that?”

  “Drexel was my example,” Stephen said. “And now he’s kindly taken himself off to the Continent and left me the freedom to deal with you. Marceline, get over here with that gun. If she moves, aim for the heart, and don’t miss.”

  * * *

  “Find Helen,” Ashton said, �
��and you’ll find Matilda. How long have they been missing?”

  “Not thirty minutes. I sent word to Portmaine, who’ll have half the street urchins and pickpockets looking for her already.”

  Fear and rage were battling for possession of Ashton’s wits, along with guilt.

  This was his fault. If he’d listened to Matilda, if he’d only listened…

  “Start with Stephen’s mistress,” Ashton said. “He’ll expect her to abet his schemes, and she’s no farther away than Knightsbridge.”

  “Good point,” Hazelton panted. “While you do what?”

  “Can your father-in-law get me in to see George without an appointment?”

  Hazelton was bent over, hands braced on his thighs. “You want me to involve the Duke of Moreland in a kidnapping and murder?”

  Ashton grabbed Hazelton by the cravat and hauled him upright. “I want you to help me save the life of the only woman I’ll ever love. Tell Moreland I need to see George so I can propose a solution to the problem of Hannibal Shearing. A solution that will cost George nothing. If Moreland can’t help me, I’ll go to the Duke of Murdoch, to anybody with the standing to get me in to see the king.”

  One of the oldest privileges of a peer was the right to advise the sovereign, and by God, Ashton had some urgent advice for the king.

  “You are mad,” Hazelton said. “What does King George have to do with—?”

  “Get me the hell in to see the king now, ye gobshite dung-heap of a ditherin’ Englishmon!”

  Half the lodgers at the Albany had probably heard Ashton’s broad Scots bellowing. He turned loose of Hazelton, who wore a curious hint of a smile.

  “We have some time, your lordship,” Hazelton said, striding toward the door. “A commotion in the middle of a decent neighborhood will bring hordes of curious Londoners on the instant, which is the last thing Stephen needs and the first turn Lady Matilda will serve him. He’ll not kill her with his bare hands, lest she unman him. Moreland House is two streets over, and you can take my horse once we get the requisite note of introduction from His Grace.”