A fine compromise all around.
Except that, after three years, Alyssa had three babies, twins followed by a single birth. The infants were indeed great, strapping specimens and the births as easy as births could be… and every one of the children was female.
* * *
A bump-and-jostle of the criminal variety introduced Ashton Fenwick to his temporary salvation.
Fortunately, she was neither the little thief who so deftly dipped a hand into his pocket, nor the buxom decoy who feigned awkwardly colliding with him immediately thereafter, while the real pickpocket quietly dodged off into the Haymarket crowd.
Or tried to.
Ashton was exhausted from traveling hundreds of miles on horseback, and had barely noticed the thief’s touch amid the sights, noise, and stink of London’s bustling streets. In the instant after the bump, and before the jostle part of the proceedings—a game girl, from the looks of her paint and pallor—Ashton realized how London had welcomed him.
“Stop the wee lad in the cap!” he bellowed. “He’s nicked my purse!”
Five yards down the walkway, a woman darted into the path of the fleeing thief and faced off with him. A housewife from the looks of her. Plain brown cloak, simple straw hat, serviceable leather gloves rather than the cotton or lace variety.
Ashton had an abiding respect for the British housewife. If the nation had a backbone, she was it, not her yeoman or shopkeeping husband, whose primary purpose was keeping brewers in business and the wife in childbed.
The lady was diminutive, nimble and sharp-eyed. When the child dodged left, so did she, and she never took her gaze off the miscreant.
“Give it up, Helen. You chose the wrong mark.” A hint of the north graced the woman’s inflection, also a hint of the finishing school. A lovely combination.
The child gazed up, then small shoulders squared. “You needn’t take on, Mrs. Bryce. I dint nick ’is purse.”
“You didn’t steal my purse,” Ashton said, letting the thief’s accomplice scurry away, “because I know better than to keep it where it can be stolen, but you got my lucky handkerchief.”
“Hit’s just a bleedin’ ’ankerchief,” the girl shot back. “Take it.” She withdrew Ashton’s bit of silk from inside her grubby coat, the white square a stark contrast to her dirty little fingers.
A crowd had gathered, because Londoners did not believe in allowing anybody privacy if a moment portended the smallest bit of drama. Some people looked affronted, but most appeared entertained by the thought of the authorities hauling the girl away.
“Helen, what have I told you about stealing?” Mrs. Bryce asked.
Helen’s hands went to skinny hips clad in boy’s trousers. “What ’ave I told you about starvin’, Mrs. B? Me and Sissy don’t care for it. ’E don’t need ’is lucky piece as much as me and Sissy do.”
Somebody in the crowd mentioned sending for a patroller from nearby Bow Street, and if one of those worthies arrived, the child’s fate would be sealed.
“We won’t settle this here,” Ashton said, taking the girl by one slender wrist. “Let’s repair to the Goose and have a civilized discussion.”
Her eyes filled not with fear, but with utter terror. Ashton was big, male, and he was proposing to take the child away from the safety of public scrutiny. Well, she should be terrified.
“Mrs. Bryce,” Ashton went on, “if you’d accompany us, I’d appreciate it. Ashton Fenwick, at your service.”
“Matilda Bryce.” She sketched a curtsey. “Come peacefully, Helen. Unless you want to find yourself being examined by the magistrate tomorrow morning.”
The child was obviously inventorying options, looking for a moment to wrench free of Ashton’s grasp. As many spectators as had gathered, somebody would snabble her, and she’d be in Newgate by this time tomorrow.
“If you’d join us for a pint and plate, Mrs. Bryce,” Ashton said, “I’d be obliged. I realize a lady doesn’t dine with strangers, but the circumstances are—”
“She’s a landlady,” Helen said, stuffing Ashton’s treasure back inside her jacket. “Down around the corner, on Pastry Lane. Was once a bakery there. I could use a bite to eat.”
The child could use a year of good meals, for starters. Ashton hoped the thought of hot food would tempt the girl from more reckless choices, but he kept a snug hold of her wrist nonetheless.
“Helen offered to return your goods, sir,” Mrs. Bryce said. “Can’t you let it go at that?”
“Perhaps,” Ashton said. “But the longer we stand here debating, the more likely the authorities are to come along and take the child off to the halls of justice.”
“Move, Helen.” Mrs. Bryce seized the girl by the other wrist and started off in the direction of the nearest pub. “If the law gets hold of you, it’s transportation or worse. Heaven knows what will become of your Sissy then.”
Mention of the sister wilted the last of the child’s resistance, and Ashton was soon crossing the street while more or less holding hands with a small, grubby female.
Who still had his lucky handkerchief.
The Goose was a respectable establishment, and because the theater custom was in general a cut above London’s meanest denizens, the food might be better than passable. Ashton bought steak, potatoes, and a small pint for each of the ladies.
For himself, brandy. He was in London, prepared to take up residence at no less establishment than the Albany apartments. Titled lords ready to embark on the joys of the social Season drank brandy, or so Ewan claimed.
Besides, Ashton was hoarding his whisky for emergencies and celebrations, which this was not.
“Now,” he said, when the child had shoveled down an adult portion of food in mere minutes. “You, Miss Helen, need to work on your technique if you’re intent on a life of crime. Would you like some cobbler?”
Her eyes grew round while Mrs. Bryce wiped the child’s chin with a linen serviette. “Don’t encourage her. She’ll end up on the gallows at the rate she’s going. Do you want her death on your conscience?”
“Do you want her starvation on yours?”
Over the empty plate, the child’s gaze bounced between the adults on either side of the table. “About that cobbler?”
Ashton reached into the girl’s coat and withdrew his handkerchief, then passed it to Mrs. Bryce. “Wait here, child, if you want your cobbler.”
He went to the bar, placed an order for three cobblers, and kept his back to the tables while the kitchen fetched the food.
When they’d chosen their table, Mrs. Bryce had taken off her hat and gloves. Her hair was an unusual color, as if she’d used henna to put a reddish tint in blond hair, which made no sense. Few women would choose red hair over blond, but then, Ashton was in the south. Everything from the sunshine to the scent of the streets was different.
“Your cobbler, sir,” said the publican, putting a sack before Ashton. “We expect return of the plates in a day, if you please. Mrs. Bryce is always very good about that.”
The barkeeper was short, graying, and solid—not fat. His blue apron was clean and free of mending.
“Mrs. Bryce patronizes your establishment often?”
“We’re neighbors, across the alley and down a street, and her tenants frequently send out for their meals. She always sees to it we get our wares back. Haven’t seen her in a bit, or had an order from her lately. Please give her my regards.”
“She runs a good establishment?” Ashton asked.
“We hear nothing but compliments from her tenants. The place is very clean, very quiet, if you know what I mean. A widow can’t be too careful. She keeps out the rabble, which isn’t always a matter of who has coin, is it?”
Ashton had a very particular fondness for widows of discernment.
“True enough,” he said, putting a few coins on the bar and gathering up the cobblers. “My thanks for a good meal.”
A hearty meal. Not the refined delicacies Ashton had been expected to subsist on from
the earldom’s fussy Italian chef.
Mrs. Bryce was dissuading Helen from licking an empty plate when Ashton rejoined the ladies.
“I have here three cobblers,” he said, setting the sack in the middle of the table. “I’m too full to enjoy my portion. Perhaps Helen’s sister would like it?”
Fine gray eyes studied him from across the table. Mrs. Bryce’s gaze was both direct and guarded, which made sense if she’d lost her husband. Widows were as vulnerable as the next woman, and yet, they had more freedom than any other class of female in Britain.
“Sissy loves her sweets,” Helen said, kicking her legs against the bench. “I’m right fond of a treat myself.”
Ashton slid onto the bench. “I’m fond of young ladies who take responsibility for their actions.”
Helen shot Mrs. Bryce a puzzled glance.
“He means, you stole his handkerchief, and now we must decide what’s to be done.” Mrs. Bryce folded up Ashton’s handkerchief and passed it to him.
Ashton set the cloth beside the cobblers. “What would you do, Helen, if somebody had stolen your lucky piece?”
“Ain’t got a lucky piece. If I had a lucky piece, maybe I wouldn’t be stealin’ for me supper.”
Ashton snatched off the girl’s cap, and ratty blond braids tumbled down.
The child ducked her head as if braids were a mark of shame. “Gimme back me ’at, you!”
“How do you feel right now?”
“I’m that mad at you,” Helen shot back. “You ’ad no right, and now everybody will know I’m a girl.”
Ashton passed over the hat. Helen jammed it back on her head and stuffed both braids into her cap before folding her arms across her skinny chest.
“I gave you back your hat. All better?”
“You know it ain’t. Damned Treacher saw me without me cap. Now I’ll have to cut me hair again and stay out of his middens for weeks.”
Mrs. Bryce watched this exchange, looking as if she was suppressing a smile. She had a full mouth, good bones, and a sunrise-on-summer-clouds complexion worthy of any countess. She was that puzzling creature, the woman who didn’t know she was attractive.
Or perhaps—more puzzling still—she didn’t care that she was attractive.
“So, wee Helen,” Ashton said, setting the empty plates out of the girl’s reach. “You’ve returned my handkerchief, and I’ve returned your cap. You still disrupted my day, gave me a bad start as I arrived in your fair city, and have inconvenienced Mrs. Bryce, who I gather is something of a friend. How will you make it right?”
The child scrunched up her nose and ceased kicking the bench. “I don’t have anything to give you. You could thrash me.”
From her perspective, that was preferable to being turned over to the authorities. Mrs. Bryce was no longer smiling, though.
“Then I’d have a smarting hand,” Ashton said, “and more delay from my appointed rounds, because you would require a good deal of thrashing. Fortunately for us both, you are a lady, and a gentleman never raises his voice or his hand to a lady.”
Now the looks Helen aimed at Mrs. Bryce were worried, as if Ashton had started babbling in tongues or speaking treason.
“Your papa wasn’t a gentleman,” Mrs. Bryce said gently. “We mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Fenwick is telling you the truth. Gentlemen are to protect ladies, not beat them. In theory.”
“I don’t know what a theory is, ma’am. Can I ’ave my cobbler yet?”
“May I,” Mrs. Bryce replied. “I think Mr. Fenwick expects an apology, Helen, and you owe him one.”
“I’m sorry I nicked your lucky piece. If I’d known it was a lucky piece, and not just fancy linen, I might not ’ave nicked it. Next time, keep your purse in your right-hand pocket, and nobody will be stealin’ your lucky piece.”
Helen clearly didn’t realize this earnest advice was in no way helpful.
The comforts of the Albany awaited, and those comforts had been sufficient for ducal heirs, nabobs, and Byron himself. Once Ashton stepped over the threshold of that establishment, he declared himself the Earl of Kilkenney in new and irrevocable ways.
He’d rather be enjoying a plain meal at the Goose, and getting lessons in street sense from a half-pint thief.
“As it happens, I’m glad you didn’t get my purse, because I’m newly arrived to Town this very day, and to be penniless in London, as you know, is a precarious existence.”
“Perilous,” Mrs. Bryce translated. “Dangerous.”
“Not if you know who your mates are and are quick on your feet,” Helen said—more misguided instruction. She was a female without protection or means. Odds were, sooner or later, the London streets would be the death of her.
“You have nonetheless taken up a good deal of my time when my day was already too busy,” Ashton said. “I need to establish myself at suitable lodgings. I need to hire a tiger for my conveyance. I need to get my bearings in anticipation of taking up responsibilities for the social Season.”
Not only a busy day, but also a damned depressing one.
“You need a home,” Mrs. Bryce said, and she wasn’t translating for Helen. “Or a temporary address to serve as your home.”
Her gaze turned appraising, though not in any intimate sense. The tilt of her head said she was evaluating Ashton as a lodger, not a lover. A novel experience for him, and a bit unnerving.
His attire was that of the steward he’d been for years before he’d become afflicted with a title. Decent, if plain, riding jacket. Good quality, though his sleeve had been mended at the elbow. His linen was unstarched but clean enough for a man who’d been traveling, and a gold watch chain winked across his middle.
“What is your business in London, Mr. Fenwick?” Mrs. Bryce asked.
He was here for one purpose—to find a woman willing to be his countess. She’d have to comport herself like a faithful wife until at least two healthy male children had appeared. Not a complicated assignment, and the lady’s compensation would be a lifetime of ease and a title.
Ashton had had three years to reconcile himself to such an arrangement, three years during which he’d tried to find the compromise—the woman he could adore and marry, who might adore him a little bit too—but she hadn’t presented herself.
Though three wee nieces had arrived.
“My excursion to the capital is primarily social,” Ashton said. “I’m renewing acquaintances with a few friends and tending to business while the weather is fair. I’ll return north in the summer.”
And be damned glad to do so. According to Ewan, house parties followed the social Season, and rather than hunting grouse, Ashton could pass his summer with further rounds of countess hunting.
He could take up that apartment at the Albany some other day. Next week would do.
Or the week after.
A voice in Ashton’s head said he was putting off the inevitable, retreating when he ought to be marching forward. Another voice said Mrs. Bryce would not consider offering a strange man lodgings unless she needed a lodger desperately.
“As it happens,” Mrs. Bryce said, “I have an apartment available. A sitting room and bedroom, with antechamber, and kitchen privileges. Breakfast, tea, and candles are included, and your rooms will be cleaned twice weekly, Tuesday and Friday. Bad behavior or excessive noise is grounds for eviction, and if you sing or play a musical instrument, you will do so only at decent hours. Coal is extra, payable by the week.”
“Mrs. Bryce makes the best porridge,” Helen added. “She puts cream on it if it’s too hot.”
Don’t put off what must be done. Don’t shirk your duty.
“What is your direction?” Ashton asked.
“Pastry Lane is around the corner and halfway down the street,” Mrs. Bryce said. “The rooms are quiet, clean, and unpretentious, but suitable for entertaining such callers as a gentleman might properly have.”
No game girls, in other words.
“There’s a garden,” Helen offer
ed. “Big enough for Mrs. Bryce’s herbs, but not big enough for a dog. She has a cat.”
Mrs. Bryce also, apparently, had something of a champion in Helen.
The child was skinny, but not starving. When truly deprived of food for a long period, the body lost the ability to handle a meal of steak and potatoes washed down by a small pint of ale. Helen’s diet might be spare and irregular, but Mrs. Bryce’s porridge figured on the menu often enough to keep body and soul together.
“I like cats,” Ashton said. “What about a mews?”
“No mews, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Bryce said, brushing a hand over the handkerchief on the table. “If you need a mews, I can suggest Mrs. Grimbly, off of Bow Street, though you must provide your own groom.”
The fingers stroking over Ashton’s handkerchief were slightly red, the back of Mrs. Bryce’s hand freckled. No rings, and a pale scar ran from wrist to thumb.
Not the hands of a countess, though, to Ashton, beautiful in their way.
“I can stable my horses elsewhere,” Ashton said. “My brother is more familiar with London than I am and recommended an establishment he and his friends use. What do you charge?”
She named a figure, neither cheap nor exorbitant, though her focus on the handkerchief had become fixed. The cuff of her cloak was fraying, her straw hat was the lowliest millinery short of Helen’s battered cap.
Mrs. Bryce was in need of coin, while Ashton was in need of peace and quiet. The social Season hadn’t yet begun, and a week or two of reconnaissance was simply the act of a prudent man—or a reluctant earl.
“Mrs. Bryce bakes her own bread,” Helen said. “And she serves it with butter and jam.”
“May we start with a two-week lease?” Ashton asked. “I am new to London, and a trial period makes sense for all parties.”
“That will be acceptable, though I’ll want the rent for both weeks in advance with an allowance for coal.”
Ashton extended his hand across the table. “Mrs. Bryce, we have a bargain.”
Chapter Two
The angel of bad fortune had plagued Matilda Bryce for the past nine years, but since January the wretch had been perched on her very doorstep. Her last tenant had fled to the Continent with three months’ rent and coal fees owing, and he’d kept his apartment roasting.
Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) Page 2
