Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (28 page)

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 and 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.

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.

“Come,” 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.”

She closed and locked the door. “You’ve already enchanted me with your charms, but there’s a warrant for my arrest being shouted from
every street corner. If you assist me to flee, you’re an accessory after the fact.”

He was tempted to kidnap her. Once over the Border, Matilda might be calm enough to see the wisdom of marrying him. As his Scottish countess, she’d
be safer than Mrs. Bryce, late of Pastry Lane, had ever been.

“Helen is taking down the handbills as fast as Samuels puts them up,” Ashton said. “The Season will soon start in earnest, and
you’ll be able to travel north with me. Please assure me you’ll think about it.”

Matilda took his cuff in her hands and undid the sleeve button. “I’ll think about it.” She extended her wrist, and in an odd exchange of
courtesies, they valeted each other. While Ashton made use of the toothpowder, Matilda dispensed with her wig and tended to her hair.

Ashton was tall enough to see her over the privacy screen, though she doubtless thought herself unobserved. Sitting at his vanity, Matilda hunched forward,
her face in her hands, her hair spilling about her.

Her posture radiated defeat and sorrow, and that ripped at him with more force than any taunt he’d endured as a bastard Scot coming of age in a world
ruled by legitimate English sons.

“Your turn,” he said, coming around the privacy screen. “Do we leave the window open?”

“The fresh air helps me sleep. I feel safer with a window open.”

No woman should need assurances of a means of escape even while she slept. Drexel and his greedy heir would be held accountable. Ashton had made quiet
arrangements to meet with Archer Portmaine later in the week to start that process.

Matilda wore Ashton’s dressing gown, and he’d kept his breeches on. They shed their last articles of clothing at the same time and smiled at
each other across the bed. She was not a blushing girl, and he wasn’t a callow swain.

Thank God.
They climbed into Ashton’s bed from opposite sides, meeting in the middle and entwining bodies as naturally as a couple ten years married.

“I truly do want to marry you,” Ashton said, wrapping an arm around Matilda’s shoulders. “I’ve always carried a restlessness
inside. I attributed it to bastardy, because my father’s name was a gift, not a birthright.”