Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (13 page)

“You’re for home,” Ashton said, flipping Helen a coin as a hostler led Dusty from the livery. “Get something to eat and stop by the
Albany for my mail. I’m off to the park.”

“I could come with you.”

“I’m after a hard gallop, or the pale imitation available to me in this cesspit of greed. Tell me three words that begin with
w
.”

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?”