Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (22 page)

“You will too,” Ashton said. “Murdoch’s brother, a former army captain, owns a distillery or two, and the man knows what he’s
about. Has an excellent head for business, does Colin MacHugh. Will this do?”

Hazelton sniffed the daffodils and got pollen on his lordly nose. “How do you know how to arrange flowers? I understand that you can shoe a horse or
train one, that you’re accomplished at manual labor, and have other skills as a result of your tenure at Blessings, but arranging flowers?”

“When a man is a lowly steward, he’s not entirely a gentleman. He works for his wage, even though others work for him too, and the work is
hardly genteel. When he approaches a woman, he knows his paltry wealth, standing, and consequence mean nothing to her. He must acquire the courage to be
desired for himself and for what courtesies and considerations he can bring along. Failing that, a bouquet of flowers never hurts.”

“You’re lecturing me. You, the confirmed bachelor, the reluctant earl, the noble bumpkin in a kilt no less, and yet, I must admit you have a
point.”

“Your lordship has pollen on his nose.”

Hazelton produced spotless linen and erased the evidence of his proximity to the flowers. He went to the door and summoned a footman next, proving that
rank was no guarantee of brains.

“You don’t have the footman deliver the flowers, Hazelton. You seek out your lady and present them yourself. She will be pleased, and you will
be on hand to enjoy her reaction. How did you ever solve mysteries, if this is an example of your deductive abilities?”

“I solved them by dogged persistence and grim determination. I will, of course, bring her ladyship the flowers in person, but the footman will know
where she is.”

Oh, right.
Ashton swept the trimmed stems into his hand and tossed them among the greenery. “How is my list of scandals coming?”

Hazelton resumed his place on the sofa, his posture more relaxed. “I’ve unearthed a good half-dozen juicy scandals, two of which never appeared
in the papers. I can send you a written summary, though it will be unsigned. I don’t investigate anymore.”

“You should. You enjoyed it, and you helped solve difficult problems.”

Such wistfulness crossed Hazelton’s saturnine features, Ashton would have thought the countess was biding up in the north, hundreds of miles away.

“I meet with my cousin from time to time to discuss cases.”

“Tell Sir Archer you want an assignment or two, especially if they involve the court set, or polite society. Not everybody has that sort of
entrée.”

“Few do. Speaking of court entrée, do you know a man named Hannibal Shearing?”

They had been speaking about curing Hazelton of a case of the blue devils. “Shearing is a coal nabob in Northumberland. Wants a spot on the honors
list so badly he’s probably funding half the renovations at Brighton to get it.”

Ashton pushed away from the workbench, gave a sprig of quince a half-inch nudge to the right, and considered the bouquet complete. 

“He asked me to accompany him to a levee,” Hazelton said, “of all the presumptions. You will be there on Tuesday?”

“We’ve been over this. You will show up for cards on Monday. Tuesday morning, I will pick you up in my coach. Bring Murdoch and
your-cousin-the-investigator to the card party, and I will fill them in on all the Scottish gossip. Did any of the scandals you researched mention somebody
named Althorpe?”

Hazelton rose and picked up the bouquet. “No. Is that a first name or a family name?”

“First name, I’m guessing, but it could be a family name.” Matilda might have resorted to use of her maiden name, or she might be
traveling under an alias.

“Doesn’t ring a bell. My thanks for the flowers.”

“My thanks for the scandals. Keep looking, will you? Focus on gossip surrounding somebody named Althorpe who’s no longer among the living. I
have a hunch it’s important.”

Hazelton assayed another whiff of the daffodils and bowed with the flowers in hand.

Ashton took his leave without informing his lordship that a streak of fern-dirt now graced the earl’s cravat. Hazelton’s countess would find
that detail adorable, as she very likely found the rest of her earl adorable, did the poor fellow but know it.

“Please be sure the words ‘She Should Have Known Better’ are prominently etched on my tombstone,” Matilda said, “assuming
I’m interred in hallowed ground.”

Pippa hung her bonnet on a hook near the back door. “If you say so, ma’am, but are we to be coming and going through the garden now?”

“Yes,” Matilda said. “And Pippa, if you have other prospects for employment, you should pursue them.”

Pippa was savvy, and she’d made the transition from streetwalker back to respectability, or its shabby near-relation. Helen’s situation was
more difficult. Ashton would see to the girl, if Matilda asked it of him, which she would.

Then there was the house. Matilda could probably rent the entire premises to a gentleman in town for the Season, but after that, it should be sold, though
a documented legal transaction was always risky.

“I don’t have other
prospects for employment
,” Pippa said, “not unless you want me chasing Sissy off her street corner to
flaunt me wares again, which I don’t fancy. The French ailment is everywhere these days, and it will put you in the grave, they say, after it drives
you mad.”

Matilda was going mad, though with that peculiar manifestation of insanity that allowed her to think clearly with part of her mind, while collapsing into a
howling fit with the other.

“I’m back!” Helen called from the laundry room. “What’s for lunch?”

“Pippa, please find Helen something to eat, and don’t forget your own meal. I have a few matters to sort out.”

One option was to grab the bundle Matilda kept under her bed and disappear. Mrs. Bellingham had taught her to do that. All the women in a bawdy house
learned to keep a bundle close at hand for when the authorities raided the premises.

“Do a bunk,” Matilda muttered. Street talk for disappearing into the night, not a trace to be seen.

Another option was to stay right where she was and let the damned law find her. She’d considered that option many times.

Or she could take a short time to plan and then leap in the most sensible direction.

The front door closed, and a distinctive tread sounded in the front hall. Abruptly, the thinking side of Matilda’s mind stumbled to a halt as Ashton
Fenwick came down the stairs.

Booted feet, bare knees, soft wool pleats and a plain leather sporran, trim waist, dark jacket with a lacy cravat, and then the part she’d miss the
most—his smile.

“Mrs. Bryce, good day. These are for you.” He held out a bunch of daffodils, their bright color more cheering than a simple bouquet should be.
“Miss Pippa, good day to you as well.”

“My thanks,” Matilda said, ignoring Pippa’s smirk. “My vase is in the sitting room, and there’s a pitcher of water there as
well.” She had only the one vase, a cheap vessel that had been pressed into service far too seldom.

He offered the flowers with a flourishy bow. “They need water. I’ve carried them from Mayfair, and I learned a thing or two on the way.”

How would Matilda learn to leave him, much less without a word? “Tell me.” She took the daffodils and led him up the steps to the parlor.

“A man in a kilt turns heads, but a man in a kilt who’s carrying flowers makes conquests. Your suggestion that I wear the dress of my homeland
was sheer genius.”

Utter folly, more like. Any suggestions that made the members of Matilda’s household distinctive had been stupid in the extreme. A woman trying to
live her life beyond the notice of the law knew better, though self-recrimination was pointless.

A woman raised for nothing more than genteel family life couldn’t be expected to turn herself into a very successful fugitive.

“Matilda, is something wrong?”

Everything was wrong.
“Market was crowded this morning, and Pippa is in a mood.” She fetched her humble vase from beneath the sideboard. The vessel was cylindrical,
periwinkle blue, with a slightly uneven lip. No chips or cracks, but no art to it either.

Ashton stood behind her while she arranged the daffodils in the container. Her hands shook, then she nearly spilled the water trying to pour it from the
pitcher.

“I left you after breakfast,” Ashton said, “and your smiles could have lit up the Outer Hebrides on a January night. I come home, and
you’re as pale as a lost soul and as tense as a fiddle string. Did you see Mr. Aberfeldy’s ghost again?”

This was not his home. Soon it wouldn’t be Matilda’s either.

Ashton topped off the vase with the water, but the stems were too long for the container, and the whole business looked pathetic. He used his handkerchief
to wipe up the drops of water Matilda had spilled on the sideboard.

Such a competent man. Matilda took the sorry bouquet from the sideboard thinking to set it in the windowsill. The flowers were doomed to fade and die, but
they might as well have the comfort of sunshine in their final days.

Ashton stood in the middle of her parlor, making the scarred sideboard, faded carpet, and plain vase that much more humble by comparison. His expression
said he was concerned for her, and all Matilda could think of was how to leave him with most of his ignorance intact.

She’d been moving too swiftly, or too thoughtlessly, and misjudged the distance to the windowsill. The bottom of the vase smashed against the
woodwork, and water, glass, and flowers went everywhere.

“Blast it to Hades. That was my only vase.”

And the only bouquet any man had ever brought her.

Ashton’s arms came around her. “Did you see our journalist again?”

Oh, the comfort, the safety, the rightness of his embrace. “How did you know?”

“Because you’re furious, and frightened. A mere journalist would not have put you in this state.”

“Ashton, he’s not a journalist. He’s a thief-taker, and he’s after me.”

Matilda was shaking with upset, while water dripped from the windowsill to the carpet in a steady stream. Ashton got out his flask and tipped it to her
lips.

She drank, she coughed, she waved a hand in front of her face, and some of her color came back.

“Tell me what’s afoot, Matilda, or I will march out your door, find this thief-taker, and give him a drubbing he won’t soon recover from.
If you nicked a purse in a weak moment, I’ll make it right. I have the funds, and you wouldn’t steal unless somebody you loved were
starving.”

Matilda stood in the circle of his embrace, but she wasn’t there. She wasn’t his vibrant, articulate, easily annoyed Matilda.

“I don’t know how to nick a purse, and I nearly did starve. If I tell you any more, you’ll become an accomplice after the fact of my
crime. I couldn’t bear that.”

He led her to the sofa, sat her down, and put his flask in her hand.

“The flowers…” she said, looking as if she’d pop right up and tend to the housekeeping rather than discuss the danger she was in.

“I can clean up a wee mess,” Ashton said. “If you think to protect me by remaining silent, you’re daft. I’ve already set a
man to unearthing the scandal in your past, and—”

“
You didn’t
.” She’d closed her eyes and clenched her hands around Ashton’s flask so tightly she might well crumple
it.

“A very discreet man, who’s doing nothing more than reading his journals and consulting his lady wife at present. He’s not the reason a
thief-taker has been after you since nearly the day I met you.”

Water dripped in a slow trickle from the windowsill, and Matilda offered Ashton no contradiction.

Well, damn.
“Stay right there,” he said. “I mean that. No climbing out the window with the clothes on your back, Matilda. I’m off to find a
dustpan and broom, and you will compose your story from the start.”

She eyed the window Ashton had hauled her through days ago. “I’ll stay.”

For now.
The words silently echoed about the room along with the fragrance of daffodils.

By the time Ashton brought a broom, dustpan, and rags to the parlor, Matilda had moved from the sofa to the house’s only rocking chair. Ashton tended
to the destroyed vase, put the flowers in a drinking glass, and left the wet rags, broom, and dustpan outside the door.

“Talk to me,” he said, taking a place cross-legged on the worn carpet beside Matilda’s rocking chair. “Tell me the truth, Matilda.
Lies at this point will only waste time and put me in a temper.”

“Lies might save your life. An accomplice to murder can swing beside the murderess.”

“You’re a murderess now?”

“I’m stating a fact of English law.”

Ashton didn’t care if she’d taken a life, because Matilda Bryce would have done so only in self-defense or in defense of a loved one. Even that
blighted convolution of common sense known as English law forgave a life ended under those circumstances.

Though Matilda might not forgive herself.

“Don’t tell me facts, then, tell me a story, a fanciful tale of a young woman, gently raised, whose marriage was a disappointment.”

“She was a good girl,” Matilda said, rocking slowly, “but ignorant, as good girls are meant to be. She married an earl’s heir, and
she’d become a countess in time. This was supposed to matter.”

“Earldoms are forever causing problems,” Ashton said. “Go on.”

“Her husband was not the worst man ever to take a bride. He was unkind, his weapons of choice harsh words, disparaging glances, public insults. He
was a trial, and his sole purpose in taking this young woman to wife was to get a spare on her, for the man’s older son was also a trial.”

“Tends to work like that, acorns and oaks being what they are.” Sitting cross-legged in a kilt on a worn carpet was uncomfortable, though
Ashton would not have left Matilda’s side if the 95
^th
Rifles had aimed every gun at the parlor window.

“Just so,” Matilda said, “and all might have eventually settled into tame, domestic animosity, but the young lady did not
conceive.”