Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (36 page)

Kitty was safe, though. Ashton had seen 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.”

“I owe you, Hazelton. I will always owe you.”

“We’re even, then.”

Less than thirty minutes later, with a sealed missive in his hand, Ashton was one functionary shy of an audience with his sovereign.

“My lord, you do not have an appointment.” The groom of the scheduling book or minister of the royal pocket watch—whatever the hell he
was—was a small, balding man who had a habit of hopping his heels together at the end of his sentences. “If I allowed any importuning courtesy
lord to barge in on the royal presence, my position wouldn’t be worth—”

“Sir, I am the Earl of Kilkenney, Viscount Kinkenney, and Baron Mulder. I bring urgent communication for His Royal Majesty from Percival, Duke of
Moreland, and Benjamin, Earl of Hazelton. If you value
your life
, you will show me in to see my king now. I’d barge into hell itself to
accomplish my purpose.”

Ashton had shouted and in a corridor so vast that his words echoed against marble, gilt, and glass.

The door behind the secretary opened, a footman in powdered wig and livery peering about.

“I’m here to see His Majesty,” Ashton started again. “I bring—”

“We heard you the first time,” caroled the royal drawl. “Come in, Kilkenney, and you had better not ask for that sporran back. It’s
become quite our favorite accessory.”

Ashton scooted through the door before the secretary skewered him with a quill pen. “Your Majesty.” He bowed as court protocol required, then
thrust Moreland’s missive under the royal nose.  “Apologies for my attire, sir. The situation has arisen of a sudden.”

George scanned the epistle, two footmen hovering at his back. “Moreland says you have a solution to the Hannibal Shearing problem, but he’d
appreciate my gracious consideration of your own small contretemps. Moreland does not exert his favor where
small
contretemps are concerned,
Kilkenney. You’d best tell us what this is about.”

George settled on a sofa that looked too delicate for his weight, the footmen positioning themselves at either side.

“I need to quash an arrest warrant, as of yesterday, not when some solicitor gets around to drawing up the proper motion and some barrister argues it
before a judge who might withhold a decision indefinitely.”

“Have you been naughty, Kilkenney?” George asked, shaking a finger.

Sweet Jesus in a ball gown. “The woman I love was sorely mistreated six years ago, wrongly accused of her husband’s death, and forced to flee
for her life. Her in-laws sought to control her fortune and thus saw a warrant issued for her arrest. She’s been living in hiding ever since, while
they plunder her inheritance. The warrant is based on the affidavit of the very man who now stands to benefit most from my lady’s ill fortune. All
other available evidence exonerates her.”

“Damsel in distress,” George said, wrinkling his nose. “Those can be so very sticky, you know.”

“She’s innocent, sir. My life on it, and I’m prepared to add a barony into the bargain.”

George waved a beringed hand. “Away with you, lads.”

The footmen bowed and backed from the room.

“We don’t trade clemency for coin, Kilkenney. Why not have the matter come to trial and allow justice to take its course?”

Ashton paced before the couch and to hell with protocol. “Because the same man who laid information against my lady has now abducted her. He did not
take her to the proper authorities and has already tried to hire someone to kill her once.”

“Who is this scoundrel?”

“Drexel’s heir. His name is Stephen Derrick.”

“He’s a vain little peacock.” George’s tone suggested vanity was a worse offense than bearing false witness or conspiring to commit
murder, though George himself was the biggest peacock in the realm. “Drexel was much the same as a young man. What have you in mind for Mr.
Shearing?”

“I have a barony for him, sir. Beautiful little parcel of property situated right on the Border. He and I would be neighbors, in a manner of
speaking.”

George left off fluffing the lace at his cuffs. “How came you into this parcel?”