Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  Ashton could go around to the front and let himself in, but whoever was following Mrs. Bryce had seen her accept his escort. The sun had set, a single cricket was trying to ignore the spring chill, and Ashton was not about to leave a woman alone in the gathering darkness if he could help it.

  “We’ll improvise.” He extracted his folding knife from his boot and examined the ground-floor windows. The house was old, glazing cost money, and he was determined.

  “That is a nasty bit of weaponry, Mr. Fenwick.”

  “Success in life is largely a matter of having the right tools.” If you were a bastard. If you were not, then coin and social connections would suffice.

  The first window had been tightly latched, but the second, which opened into a sitting room, proved accommodating. Ashton used the slim blade to lift the latch from the outside and soon had the window open.

  “Don’t let Helen see you do that,” Mrs. Bryce said. “She’ll get ideas.”

  “She needs an entire team of instructors and tutors,” Ashton said, tossing the package into the sitting room and hoisting himself through the window. “For that child, a single governess wouldn’t stand a chance.” He leaned out the window, scooped up the lady, and hauled her in after him. Mrs. Bryce was a curvaceous armful of female, agreeably scented with lemon verbena, and he’d caught her by surprise.

  A pleasure that.

  She yelped, and the instant her feet touched the carpet, she jerked away from him. “You might have simply unlocked the door for me, Mr. Fenwick.”

  He picked up her package and passed it to her. “You’re welcome. Why was that man following you? Does he covet your house as well?”

  If Mrs. Bryce thought the lovestruck Mr. Aberfeldy was solely interested in her real estate, she was daft.

  “I’d never seen him before. I told you that.”

  The parlor was all but dark. Lighting candles or starting a fire in the hearth would mean a trip to the kitchen. If Ashton left the room, though, he suspected Mrs. Bryce would disappear to her own quarters.

  Possibly for the next two weeks.

  “You should replace the latch on this window.” He closed the shutters, then the window itself, and secured the latch.

  Shutters kept out wind and sun, true, but their first purpose was to prevent an intruder from bashing through the glass and gaining access to the house. Shutters couldn’t serve that purpose unless they were closed and latched from the inside.

  “Thank you for that very obvious reminder, Mr. Fenwick. You neglected to mention that I should chide my maid for not securing the shutters before retiring. That job, however, is mine, and I was detained by no less person than yourself.”

  The parlor was chilly, Mrs. Bryce’s tone was arctic.

  “He frightened you.”

  Mrs. Bryce’s fear reassured Ashton, because a woman living with only a young maid on the premises and limited security was easily preyed upon. Weapons might increase her danger, because they could be turned upon her.

  “You frightened me,” she shot back, rubbing her arms. “He merely trailed behind me on the walkway, along with a substantial portion of the neighborhood’s working population. You’re the one who claims that man’s attentions were cause for alarm.”

  She was very frightened, indeed. Ashton took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Have you another hypothesis to explain his casual patrol of the street where he last saw you?”

  Mrs. Bryce clutched Ashton’s coat close when he’d expected her to toss it back at him. “Maybe he was looking for you, and he saw you escorting me from the Goose earlier in the day. It’s been years since I’ve been pursued by any save Mr. Aberfeldy and his ilk. Then you show up, and I supposedly become quarry of a different sort.”

  She’d been pursued by somebody at some time. Ashton saved that admission for exploration when he had enough light to assess her demeanor.

  “I’ll need a candle for my rooms,” he said. “Shall we take this discussion to the kitchen?”

  Mrs. Bryce led the way through a house grown dark, her steps sure, even on the stairs leading down to the lower floor.

  “Is there a cellar below the kitchen?”

  “Yes,” she said as they reached a large, cozy kitchen. “For storage and coal deliveries.”

  “You’ll want to make sure your coal chute is securely locked.”

  In most households, the fire in the kitchen hearth never went out. It could burn down to ashes and coals, which would be carefully banked for the night. The coals in Mrs. Bryce’s kitchen cast some illumination, enough for Ashton to see that his landlady was pale and angry.

  “I know you mean well, Mr. Fenwick, and it’s possible you have spared me a problem with your escort tonight, but I have owned this house for more than five years without being inconvenienced by criminals. My lodgers, by contrast, are a good deal of bother. Please stop presuming I’m stupid.”

  “I’m trying to be helpful.”

  “And failing. I am very mindful of my safety, and Pippa’s. The coal chute is locked.”

  He retreated into silence while she scooped fresh coal onto the hearth and worked a bellows that mostly sent ashes up the flue.

  This woman did not give up, nor did she let up. Ashton admired her tenacity as much as he disliked her bitterness.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, putting the bellows aside and dropping onto the raised hearth. “I ought by rights to dwell in a one-room cottage in the West Riding, where my shrewish temperament need be endured by only my cat. The income from renting out the rooms upstairs exceeds what I could make in the cent per cents. Then too, this house is worth more now than when I bought it, and I expect that trend to continue as long as I’m here to maintain the premises.”

  She spouted economics, an improvement over her scolding. Ashton decided to meet her halfway, though he was tempted to snatch a candle and leave her to her ire.

  “I’m more comfortable in the country myself.”

  “What brings you to London?” she asked as the fire caught. “Besides the usual platitudes.”

  “Duty. I became responsible for properties and the people on them a few years ago. I am obligated to perform certain functions here in London as a result. I don’t anticipate being in Town past the end of June.”

  “You cannot perform these functions through third parties?”

  “I tried that. No luck.” Alyssa had set him up with all manner of blushing young maidens, each more tongue-tied and well dowered than the last.

  “You can sit, Mr. Fenwick. I’m not some duchess that all must stand on their manners before me.”

  Even her graciousness had a bite. Ashton took the other side of the hearth, so the fire crackled between them. Shadows danced on the kitchen walls, and an old house settled in for another night.

  “I’m tired,” Mrs. Bryce said. “I thought being a widow would be the great prize for which I endured years of marriage. I know that makes me sound like a monster. My husband was unkind, and those who arranged the match knew it. Now I live the smallest possible life, bothering the fewest number of people. Why would anybody want to follow me?” she asked more softly. “I’ve devoted the last five years of my life to being nobody.”

  Ashton understood her lament, for he’d enjoyed very much being the next thing to a nobody.

  “I might have overreacted to what I saw,” Ashton conceded. “If you’re fatigued, I should leave you in peace.”

  He knew Mrs. Bryce hadn’t referred to a simple lack of sleep, though. She was weary of contending with a world that refused to accommodate her terms. Most people gave up that struggle for the lesser effort of merely coping.

  She rose and took a twisted taper from a jar on the mantel and used it to light a carrying candle. The light revealed both her beauty and a bewilderment Ashton suspected she’d die rather than knowingly let him see.

  “Good night,” he said, taking the candle from her. “Thank you for sharing your accommodations with me.”


  She said nothing, as if sincere thanks were a forgotten element of her English vocabulary. As the fire leaped higher and gave off both light and heat, Ashton realized she needed him to leave her alone in her own kitchen.

  He kissed her forehead and took himself up the stairs, though he’d rather have stayed and at least offered the woman a shoulder to lean on while she cried.

  * * *

  Ashton Fenwick, eighth Earl of Kilkenney, Viscount Kinkenney, Baron Mulder, paced about in Benjamin Portmaine’s library as if he were a stall-bound horse, his enormous energy confined in much too small a space.

  “The stink alone should repel any who approach the metropolis,” Fenwick groused. “Then there’s the racket. Does London ever stop making noise? Does it ever grow less crowded?”

  “In the parks, first thing of the day,” Benjamin began, “there’s peace and—”

  “There’s no peace a’tall,” Fenwick shot back. “Behind every bush, at every bend in the bridle path, there’s some damned baroness or duke cluttering up my morning with ‘good day’ and ‘what a handsome horse you have.’ Auld Dusty is the next thing to plow stock. Do they think I’m simple?”

  Three years of being a Scottish earl had deepened Fenwick’s burr. Bush became boosh, t’s were sharpened to elocutionary quill points, and vowels acquired a growled quality their English cousins lacked.

  For Benjamin, who held an earldom in Cumberland, Fenwick’s accent was nearly the sound of home. Fenwick had spent years as the steward at Blessings, the Hazelton earldom’s seat, and had kept a close eye on Benjamin’s sister when Benjamin had dwelled in London.

  Three years away from the stables had not improved Fenwick’s disposition, which had been almost as inclined to temper as flirtation—almost.

  “They think you’re new to Town,” Benjamin said, taking a corner of the sofa that afforded him a view of the entire room, “and deserving of a friendly welcome.”

  “While they count my teeth and how many acres I own.” Fenwick settled into an armchair, Benjamin’s favorite because it was the least elegant in the house. Maggie, his countess, threatened to replace it periodically, and then Benjamin would remind her how comfortably two could occupy that chair when a countess cuddled in her earl’s lap.

  “You’re here to find a bride,” Benjamin said. “The morning hack can save you time. If I’d known you were in Town, I would happily have joined you and begun the introductions.”

  Fenwick ran a finger around the collar of his cravat. “You knew I was in Town. You know everything.”

  Once upon an impecunious time, Benjamin had earned coin as an investigator for the wealthiest families of the realm. A wastrel son who disappeared into the stews, an errant daughter attempting to elope, a necklace pawned by a dotty aunt… He’d discreetly handled all manner of delicate situations, though now most of that business was in the hands of an enterprising relative.

  “I don’t know everything,” Benjamin replied. “Knowing even a few secrets is a greater burden than you’d think. I do know your trunks arrived at the Albany two days ago, your horses arrived the day before that, along with your town coach and your phaeton. The entire entourage appeared on schedule, but no Earl of Kilkenney showed up with them. As far as I can tell, you’re still not in residence at your assigned direction.”

  Fenwick was back on his feet, wearing a path before the pink marble fireplace. “I’ll thank you not to be assigning me directions, Hazelton. I’ve found other quarters for the moment.”

  This would not do. Fenwick was canny, capable, and big enough to look after himself in most situations. London in springtime for a single earl of means was not most situations.

  “Fenwick, you’re new here. Now is not the time for frolic and detour. In parts of London the rats are the closest you’ll come to good society. If you think Mayfair is crowded now, wait another month. You won’t be able to walk down the street without a parasol poking you in the eye.”

  Fenwick came to a halt beneath the portrait Benjamin had commissioned of his countess. Maggie was tall, red-haired, and the very definition of formidable—until her husband tickled her feet.

  “How’s your family?” Fenwick asked. “Apologies for not inquiring after them sooner.”

  “That you launched your invective against Old Londontowne before observing the civilities is proof of how rattled you are. You’ve always had excellent manners.”

  Fenwick’s smile was devilish and bashful. “For a bastard, ye mean?”

  “For a scamp,” Benjamin said. “Maggie is already making lists—note the plural—of young ladies who might suit you. She has five sisters, Fenwick, and her mama’s a duchess. Your bachelorhood might as well be the last grouse on the moor on the final day of the shooting season.”

  Fenwick collapsed into the chair, its joints squeaking. “Sweet Jesus ascending. Ye canna put a stop to it? I’m not here forty-eight hours, and you’ve set the matchmakers on me. If that’s your definition of loyalty, we need to have a wee chat.”

  “One doesn’t tell my countess what to do. You must steel yourself to be charming, agreeable, even friendly. To dance until all hours, then go without sleep to pretend a cold saddle at dawn is your definition of manly delight.”

  “Marriage has addled you, if a cold saddle fulfills that job.”

  “Marriage has pleased me enormously,” Benjamin shot back. “If you’d stop whining, you might consider that marriage offers pleasures no other circumstance can equal.”

  Fenwick stretched out his legs and stared at his boots. “I can see the contentment on you. Ewan has the same air, when he’s not wearing his cravat too tight. Please recall, you chose your lady with no pressure from family, friends, or list-making strangers. I still expect to wake up to a barn full of horses impatient for their hay, but no, I’m here, in bloody London, the last place I ever wanted to be.”

  Fenwick was desperately homesick for that horse barn. Maggie corresponded with Benjamin’s sister Avis, who corresponded with Fenwick’s sister-in-law, Lady Alyssa. Year by year, niece by niece, Fenwick grew grimmer, more serious, and less the devil-may-care flirt who’d kept Benjamin’s estate running for years.

  “You will soon be a Scottish curmudgeon,” Benjamin said. “Is that what you want? No children, your title going to some fourth cousin, or worse, back to the crown?”

  “Of course not, but neither do I want you setting your dogs upon me before I’ve even washed the dust of the road from my boots.”

  His boots gleamed. Somebody had done a proper job on them, possibly Fenwick himself.

  “I didn’t set my dogs on you, but I am acquainted with several gentlemen who bide at the Albany. I came across two of them in the park this morning.”

  Before he’d seen Fenwick having a mad dash on his warhorse at an hour when polite talk and a sedate canter were the done thing. Benjamin had waited until Fenwick’s gelding had cooled out to accost the errant earl and invite him to pay a call.

  “Right,” Fenwick said. “My whereabouts were the subject of innocent gentlemanly gossip. Like I believe that. Then explain why last evening, somebody was following either me, or the person who’s renting me temporary lodgings. I realize pickpockets abound in this temple of civilization, along with housebreakers, members of Parliament, drunks, and other fine company, but this fellow knew what he was about.”

  To anybody else complaining of having been followed, Benjamin would have offered mindless reassurances—all in your head, lack of rest, new surroundings, overset nerves, nothing to bother about. He had too much respect for Fenwick’s instincts, and his fists, to attempt such platitudes.

  “Describe the fellow.”

  “Attired to blend in. No hat, walking stick, watch fob, mustache, nothing to distinguish him. Attired in brown, not too flashy, not too plain. He’d fit in at any tavern and not quite offend when paying a call. Parson-ish, but no collar, if you know what I mean.”

  “A journalist,” Benjamin said, relief coursing through him. “They h
aunt Piccadilly, Bond Street, the Strand, St. James’s. All the neighborhoods where fashionable society can be spotted out of the preserves they exclusively control.”

  “This grows bizarre.” Fenwick rose, a prime specimen in his riding attire. “I’m just a man who doesn’t want to spend the rest of my life without a lady of my own. A little on the rough side, but good-hearted, according to most—most of the time. I don’t want to be a public spectacle, Hazelton. If you have hired somebody to watch me, call him off, or I’ll have to protect my privacy as I see fit.”

  “That is exactly the kind of talk that will get you gossiped about if you make such threats among your peers. You’ve a title now, and while you may not—”

  Fenwick brushed a gloved finger along the bottom of Maggie’s portrait. “Benjamin, your word, please. No surveillance, no hiring the urchins and game girls to note my comings and goings. Violate my privacy again at your peril. My valet is on probation for the same offense, so don’t approach him to do your spying.”

  The threat was insulting—spies were universally vilified, no matter how indispensable they were—and yet, Fenwick was serious. He dreaded this bride hunt, a challenge most men looked forward to, reluctant though they were to admit it. Taking a wife marked the last division between boyhood and manhood, and most adult males were eager to make that transition as soon as they could afford to.

  Then too, companionship, an ally in life, an intimate partner with whom one could be oneself, children, a true home rather than bachelor quarters… Marriage done right would suit Ashton Fenwick to his big, Scottish toes.

  Benjamin rose and extended a hand. “You have my word, no surveillance.”

  Fenwick shook. “That goes for your countess too. The ladies excel at gathering information.”

  “That they do, so why not simply tell me where you’re staying?”

  “You can get word to me at the Albany for now. I’ll move there soon, but first I’m getting my bearings in less conspicuous surroundings.”

  Brilliant strategy. “Be careful, Fenwick. This isn’t the Borders or Cumberland, where you can spot a man riding toward you from halfway up the valley.”