Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (37 page)

“I own it. About four generations back, a river shifted and put a portion of my earldom on the English side of the Border. The river has refused to
shift back, and thus about one-eighth of my acreage lies in England. I propose to yield that property to the crown, to be disposed of however Your Majesty
pleases.”

“Don’t suppose we could get two baronies from it?”

Thank God
for a king more pragmatic than he was given credit for
.
“Those two baronies would have to share a single village, but it could be done.
I’d further ask that Shearing’s barony descend through heirs general, sir. He has only daughters.”

“We like a man who considers the details, Kilkenney.” George rang a bell sitting on the side table, and both footmen came through the door.
“We need our desk and sealing wax. Kilkenney has served us well this day.”

“There is one other matter, sir, though it’s not as pressing.”

“Imagine that, a matter that isn’t pressing. Is this an example of Scottish humor?”

The footmen produced a beautiful oak lap desk, and George set it on the low table before the couch. The king wielded the pen with a competence at odds with
his languid speech and fussy airs.

He set the paper aside and sat back. “What is the other matter, Kilkenney? I’m doubtless late to watch a tennis match or preside at an archery
contest. Maybe the duck races were today, such is the lot of your sovereign.”

Ashton endured a stab of fellow-feeling for his sovereign. George had been doomed to rule from the moment of his birth. Ashton had had nearly thirty years
free of a title, and they had been good years.

Very good years, in hindsight, and perhaps Ashton’s father had wanted that for him.

“Your warrant is quashed,” George said, impressing the royal seal on what amounted to Matilda’s pardon. “Now about that other
matter?”

 Ashton explained about the other matters—both of them. Then he took a decorous leave, waiting until he’d quit his sovereign’s
immediate presence to bolt through the royal residence at a dead run.

“I’ll not commit murder!” Marceline retorted. “You said you wanted her to disappear. I thought you’d ship her to the
Antipodes, quiet-like, not make a murderess of me.”

“It’s worse than that,” Matilda said. “He’ll make a murderess of you, then swear an affidavit as a witness claiming he tried
to stop you, but you were jealous of me, or some such rot. Stephen will be overcome with grief at having to do his duty, despite his tender regard for you,
and the magistrate will haul you away in chains. Stephen gets everything, including a reputation for honorable conduct, and you and I are dead.”

Matilda spoke steadily, despite the likely accuracy of her prediction. 

“Shut your mouth,” Stephen shouted. “Shut your lying, murdering mouth. Marceline, you should kill her for her disrespect of me.”

“Kill her yourself, if that’s your plan now. I’m done with this.” She set the gun on the mantel to Stephen’s right and
flounced out.

Behind Stephen, a movement at the window caught Matilda’s eye. Ashton put a finger to his lips, and a knife blade slipped through the crack between
the sash and the sill.

Thank God, and please keep Ashton safe.
“Now what, Stephen?” Matilda said, inching toward the door. “You shoot me, and Marceline testifies against you. The Earl of Kilkenney has
already set the lawyers on your uncle’s ledger books, and embezzling is a serious crime. Will you add another blot to the family’s already
much-spattered escutcheon?”

“You were the blot on the escutcheon.” Stephen retrieved the gun from the mantel. “What man in his right mind feels compelled to produce
a spare when the heir is nearly of age, in roaring good health, and a sound breeder? Everything was fine until
you
showed up.”

The window sash raised two inches, enough that Ashton could get a grip on it.

“How odd,” Matilda murmured, half turning her back on Stephen and pretending to study a framed print. “I could say everything in my life
was fine until you showed up. Your father wasn’t evil, Stephen. He was difficult and struggling with demons you and Drexel kept well fed.
Marceline’s taste in art runs to Hogarth. Are you familiar with
A Rake’s Progress
?”

“I bought her the damned thing. Stop moving about.”

“I suspect you can’t kill me,” Matilda said. “I suspect somewhere, beneath the bully, the spoiled boy, the venal rake, and the
thoroughgoing rotter, there’s still a man who dreads to have murder on his conscience when he meets his Maker.”

“You will have murder on your conscience.”

For the first time, Matilda considered that
Stephen truly believed her to be guilty
. The notion was disquieting in the extreme.

“I did not kill your father, Stephen. He’d had far too much to drink. He overbalanced and struck his head on the hearthstones. If you search
your memory, you’ll recall the racket of the hearth set falling over, clattering loudly. I was putting the hearth stand to rights, thinking your
father had simply succumbed to drink—as he so often did—when you rushed in, making vile accusations and embellishing to a criminal extent on
what you saw.”

The window sash scraped against the frame, and Matilda commenced a coughing fit.

“Stop that. Fetch yourself a glass of water, but stop coughing.” Stephen’s upper lip was beaded with sweat, though his hold on the gun
remained steady.

And the window was open as far as it could go. Ashton might be able to squeeze through, but as he made the attempt, Stephen could easily shoot him.

Matilda crossed to the sideboard and fumbled about pouring herself a drink—her hands shook that badly.

“I never threatened your father’s life,” she said. “You made that up. You neglected to tell the magistrate that the hearth set was
scattered about. You didn’t mention your father’s broken neck. You didn’t mention that I’d never raised a hand to anybody in all
the years you’d known me, never threatened to so much as sack the tweeny when she was tipsy before noon. You lied, Stephen, over and over, and turned
a tragic accident into a murder. Damn you for that. Damn you, damn you for stealing six years from me, and damn you for trying to steal even more
now.”

Ashton had one leg through the window.

Stephen cocked the gun. “You killed my father, my only surviving parent.
You took him away from me
, you did. You smacked him with that
poker—I saw the wound on his temple—and he overbalanced and broke his neck and thus his death is
your fault
.”

Insight came, too late to do any good. Stephen might dimly suspect Matilda was innocent of murder, but he was equally convinced that Matilda had taken his
father’s affection from him. In Stephen’s mind, Matilda—not his own debauches at university, not his sexual irresponsibility, not his
profligate spending—had turned Althorpe away from his only son.

“If you don’t put that gun down, Derrick,” Ashton growled, “I will take away your life.”

Matilda tossed the glass of water in Stephen’s face just as his gun went off. A searing pain hit her chest, and the sound of Ashton’s cursing
followed her into a pain-filled haze of red.

“Let me go, you bloody, thrice-damned, interfering, grub-shiting excuse for an earl, or I’ll hoop yer barrel until yer countess won’t
recognize you.”

Helen thrashed in Hazelton’s arms, a small tempest of elbows, knees, teeth, and determination.

“You have to stay here,” Hazelton said, giving her a shake. “Stay here quietly, or you’ll bring the authorities down on
us—”

A single pistol shot exploded across the afternoon quiet.

Hazelton’s attention was diverted for one instant, during which Helen bolted for the back gate of Marceline’s property.

“Damn it, child, don’t you dare—”

She was over the back gate—didn’t take the time to unlatch it—and heading for the open window Kilkenney had eased through moments
earlier. Hazelton followed, admiration, terror, and an odd sense of exhilaration giving his tired feet wings.

“He’s not hurt,” Helen yelled over her shoulder, “but my lady’s bleeding fierce. The rotter’s still standing, but he
won’t be for long when I get through with him.”

Hazelton got to the window in time to see Helen march up to Stephen Derrick and punch him twice—a left, then a right—in the privities, hard
enough to express a lifetime of anxiety, fear, resentment, and anger.

Stephen stood for the space of a shuddering breath, then went down in a gagging heap on the faded carpet.

Hazelton wedged himself through the window, while Helen walked a circle around the fallen man.

“Wish I’d thought to do that,” Ashton said, shoving the gun at Hazelton, handle first. “Well done, Helen. Matilda, love, can ye
hear me?”

Lady Matilda sagged against a dusty sideboard, her posture similar to Stephen’s, but her stillness unlike his writhing misery. Worse, her bodice and
sleeve were spattered with blood, and a bright red stain bloomed at her shoulder.

“It stings,” she said, straightening gingerly. “Good God, it stings awfully. Is Stephen dead?”

“Not yet.” Kilkenney carried the lady to the sofa, glass crunching under his boots. “Helen will see to that, I’m sure. This
isn’t a bullet…”

He probed delicately at the greatest source of the bleeding and held up a bloody shard of glass. “You’ve been attacked by an exploding
decanter. Thank God, you’ve not a bullet in you.”

Stephen’s breathing took on an odd rasp. “Don’t let… her… hurt me again.”

“You fired your gun at the woman I love,” Kilkenney retorted, brushing more glass from Lady Matilda’s sleeve and bodice, “and I
witnessed your attempt at murder. A drubbing is merely the start of what you deserve.”  

 “Didn’t mean to fire,” Stephen said. “You startled me. Damned gun had a hair trig—keep her away from me!”

He curled up tight while Helen stood over him, her fists clenched. “You set
Tyburn
on my lady, you rat-infested barge of pig manure.
Tyburn
, and that damned Ducky, who’d as soon kill a body as look at her.”

“Who’s Tyburn?” Kilkenney pressed a handkerchief to Lady Matilda’s shoulder.

The name alone justified Helen’s rage. “A very bad hat,” Hazelton said. “A very, very bad hat. He owns magistrates, MPs, and half
of London, along with a few bits of Paris. His word is a law beyond the law; nobody who crosses him lives to brag about it for long.”

“Makes owning a lot of sheep and putting up with a few grouchy tenants seem like a lark.” Kilkenney refolded his handkerchief and pressed it
again to her ladyship’s shoulder. His touch could not have been more gentle, though his hand shook a bit. “Don’t get up, Derrick, or
Helen will have to deal severely with you.”

“She hasn’t… already?”

“I haven’t even started to deal with you,” Helen said, cracking her knuckles. “Your kind set a lot of store by your almighty cods,
because you want heirs and spares and such like. His lordship keeps a nice, sharp knife on his person at all times. I might borrow it.”

“I have a spare blade,” Hazelton said, because Stephen Derrick deserved a lifetime of dread for what he’d done. “Also a spare
handkerchief.”

He passed it to Kilkenney, who was on his knees before Lady Matilda.

“Am I interrupting?” Sir Archer Portmaine, looking entirely too composed, stood in the doorway. “Dear me, has somebody had an
accident?”

“Somebody crossed Helen,” Kilkenney said. “Where’s Marceline?”

“Chattering like a magpie to one of my better-looking solicitors,” Portmaine said. “Do we need a surgeon?”

Kilkenney put the clean handkerchief to her ladyship’s shoulder. “Matilda, shall we summon a surgeon? The bleeding has slowed, though
I’ll not rest until each of these cuts has been tended to.”

“Somebody needs to toss out the slops,” Helen said, nudging Stephen with the toe of her boot. “Maybe we should tell Tyburn we have a job
for him.”

“Make her stop.” Stephen sat up enough to put his head in his hands. “Make this demon child go back to whatever hell she emerged
from.”

“You’ll see her in your nightmares,” Kilkenney said, taking a seat on the sofa beside his lady. “What do we do with him,
Matilda?”

Hazelton would not have thought to defer to the lady, but then, he wasn’t in love with her, while Kilkenney was hopelessly smitten.

“After six years of being hounded and frightened and hunted,” Lady Matilda said, “you’d think I’d know how to answer that
question. Stephen told Marceline to shoot me, as casually as he’d order a pot of tea.”

“I only suggested she should shoot you,” Stephen said. “Marceline never does what she’s told.”

“And I thank God for your mistress’s obstinate nature,” Kilkenney retorted, rising from the sofa. “When I think how close Matilda
came to—”

“I can hit him again,” Helen offered.

“I need time to think,” Lady Matilda said, “but I killed no one. If you’d taken five minutes to consider the evidence, Stephen,
you’d see that. I also need to get out of this dress. Lord Hazelton, may we prevail on your hospitality?”