Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (32 page)

As she might be again, that very minute.

“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.”

The Blessings estate sat amid the Cumbrian hills, and the artist—Hazelton’s sister Avis—had done justice to the subject. The bucolic
image made Ashton miss the sprawling monstrosity at the seat of his own earldom. He was accustomed to missing his family, but when had he come to see
Fenwick Manor as his refuge and his home rather than as his brother’s house?

“I doubt Drexel would turn off staff en masse following a scandal,” Hazelton said. “That’s the surest way to spread talk at all
levels. If there’s a single chambermaid who recalls the night of Althorpe’s death, Archer can find her and charm her honest recollections from
her.”

“What are the chances of having Althorpe’s remains exhumed?” And how long could one woman soak in a bathtub?

“Exhumations are rare,” Hazelton said, tidying a stack of correspondence piled on one corner of the desk. “Althorpe was an earl’s
heir, much time has passed, and if Drexel had a shred of common sense, he’d have found some poor fool who died of bludgeoning and switched the bodies
prior to burial.”

Ashton subsided onto a worn sofa, one upon which Hazelton had doubtless taken many a nap. “One fears for your dreams, Hazelton. Why is a nice earl
like you offering conjectures like that?”

“Because one is honest with one’s friends. I’ve seen worse machinations undertaken in the interests of stealing a fortune. Drexel is
greedy. He’s not stupid.”

“He’s evil, and that nephew of his worse. Would your countess do me an injury if I interrupted a lady at her bath?”

“Several. Maggie’s father is a duke, and in all but name, Moreland’s duchess is her mama. Tangle with my wife at your peril, and expect
no sympathy from me.”

Ashton toed off his boots and stretched out. “This sofa is too short by half. Am I getting you in trouble with your in-laws by bringing scandal to
your doorstep?”

Hazelton propped his feet on a corner of his desk. “You’ll make them envious. My father-in-law is the Duke of Meddling. He’s married off
all of his children, and his four nieces are steadfastly adhering to spinsterhood. Moreland’s interfering can thus take an unpredictable turn. You
and he would get along famously.”

“Your countess and mine must be getting along famously. What can be taking them so long?”

“Lady Matilda isn’t your countess yet, Kilkenney.”

“A detail. Drexel has preyed on her for too long, and as my countess—” Ashton paused to yawn and was saved from further blustering by a
knock on the door.

“Am I interrupting?”

Matilda stood in the doorway, but not any version of her Ashton had beheld before.

Hazelton was on his feet. “Your ladyship’s appearance spares me from tying yonder kilted lout to the piano. I’ll see about getting some
decent sustenance up here and have a word with my countess. My lady.”

He sketched a bow at Matilda, sent Ashton a glower, and marched off.

Ashton closed the door and fastened the lock. “Sweet Jesus at the fashionable hour. Look at you.”

Gone were the brassy highlights in Matilda’s hair, replaced by golden tresses styled half up and half tumbling over her shoulder. She wore a blue day
dress with minute green and purple embroidery about the collar, hems, and cuffs, and completed the ensemble with a green paisley shawl.