“The whole estate is in a temporary trust, thanks to friendly chancery judges, and that trust is managed by the earl, along with my settlements. I left with little more than the clothes on my back and a few of the jewels my husband had given me as a part of my dower portion. Those, at least, I could not be regarded as stealing.”
For a young woman who’d been traumatized by the loss of her husband, and by the betrayal from his family, Matilda’s clear thinking was remarkable.
Ashton hauled her over his leg so she sat on the floor between his knees, cradled against his chest.
“What was your plan, Matilda? You have a plan. I can feel it in you.” Right along with the anger, bewilderment, and despair.
“My plan was to die, and that is still my plan.”
Chapter Eleven
Matilda hadn’t told Ashton the whole of it, but she hadn’t intended to tell him any of her past, so she waited for his next question.
He kissed the top of her head. “That plan will not do, not if it involves hastening the Creator’s original schedule for you. I’ve grown fond of your apple tarts.” His tone was gently chiding, his hold was utterly secure.
He’d grown fond of her apple tarts? Matilda wasn’t fond of Ashton, she was enthralled with him. Entranced by his patience, his humor, his stubborn brand of honor, his disdain for the world that had delighted in a scandal that might yet cost her her life.
He’d grown fond of her apple tarts.
An old, familiar ache started in Matilda’s chest, then got a tight hold on her throat. This time, she could not think, move, or flee past it. The tears ambushed her, coming even more unexpectedly than Lord Drexel’s betrayal, more unexpectedly than Althorpe’s unkindness.
“I never cry. It does n-no good.”
“Where’s the harm in admitting you have much to cry about?”
Six years and twenty-odd days’ worth of tears was a lot of tears, and they left Matilda weak, hot, and spent. She remained in Ashton’s arms, not only because his embrace was an ineffable comfort, but also because without the anchor he provided, without the tears to weigh her down, she might have dissolved on the next spring breeze.
“How did you survive, Matilda? How did you, a gently bred countess-in-training, avoid the law and make a new life?”
“It’s not a pretty tale,” she replied, “but the long and short of it is, I grew up. I was in the habit of saving back from my pin money, because I liked to buy my husband an occasional gift or surprise. A pair of cuff links, a book I thought he’d enjoy. I eventually gave up on the gifts—nothing ever pleased him—but I kept the habit of living within my means.”
Ashton rose with Matilda in his arms. The sensation was like a ship casting away from the dock. Calm one minute, in the grip of a powerful tide the next.
“This calls for a sofa, at least,” he said, depositing her on the cushions. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yes, please.”
Matilda hoarded up the sight of Ashton pouring her drink—doing for her, as Pippa would have put it—right down to the grip of his hand on the plain glass. He settled beside her, stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, and passed her the drink.
She took a sip, the cool liquid sliding down her throat like balm.
“So you took your money, crept down the back stairs, and disappeared?”
“I’d read enough Gothic novels to know I needed to mound the pillows on the bed first, and I instructed my maid that I wasn’t to be disturbed, for any reason, until the earl summoned me in the morning. I knew the magistrate would have to examine me before I could be bound over, and he was hardly likely to haul me off to Bow Street to spend the night with habitual drunks and abbesses.”
“There is worse company.”
“I know that now.”
Matilda fell silent, reveling in the sense that Ashton would sit right beside her, no matter how long her recitation took, no matter what misdeeds she’d done in the name of survival. Tomorrow, she’d likely be on her way to France, all the lonelier for having trusted him.
For the moment, she was sitting beside a man who was a true friend, the first true friend she’d ever had.
“You collected your money, your wits, possibly a small bundle, and away you went, into the London streets in the dark of night.”
“Not quite the streets. I had socialized among our Mayfair neighbors enough to know where a ducal mews was, and I took shelter there until morning. I hid for days, venturing out at dawn before the grooms stirred, and traveling not into the parks or squares familiar to me, but east, into the part of London that works for a living. I took great comfort in sharing the leavings of my chophouse meals with the alley cats.”
“For me, it was the horses,” Ashton said. “I was never entirely alone as long as I could confide my troubles in a friendly equine. I gather your money ran out.”
“My money was stolen. I had purposely let my cloak get dirty, but it was finely made. My reticule was stolen the second week. By then, I carried only money in it. My comb, jewels, and other bits and bobs remained hidden in whatever stable I was sheltering in, thank God.”
“I gather the tale grows darker.”
Matilda gave in to temptation and curled down to rest her head on his thigh. “I nearly starved. I wasn’t any good at rooting through garbage to find sustenance, and the best garbage heaps are fiercely guarded by those tough enough to make use of them. I knew I couldn’t pawn my jewels for two reasons. First, I would be cheated, being a woman clearly in desperate straits, and second, word of the transaction would get back to my brother-in-law. He’s shrewd; he’d know that pawning jewels was one option open to me.”
Ashton began pulling pins from Matilda’s hair, his touch already familiar and dear. “I’m afraid to ask what happened next.”
“I grew desperate and might have taken up sharing a street corner with Sissy and Pippa, but I recalled Mrs. Bellingham, the madam from whom I’d sought answers once before.”
“The fallen woman,” Ashton said. “Of course.”
“She’d been gracious to me, a stranger from among those who disdained her, and had told me she was available for further discussion if I ever had the need. I slipped into her kitchen, a bedraggled, dirty, wretched version of the woman she’d known. She took one look at me, ordered me a bath and a pot of tea, and asked what man was responsible for my misery.”
“Almighty, ascending angels. You do realize she might have locked you in a room upstairs and auctioned off your favors?”
“Now, I realize that. At the time, an assurance of food, clothing, and shelter might have been adequate compensation for my virtue. I was beginning to think myself the murderess my in-laws had painted me. The newspapers got wind of the scandal, and I saw handbills advertising a reward for my arrest and conviction.”
Because that was how justice worked in Merry Olde England. The citizenry was expected to aid in the enforcement of the king’s laws, but the victim was the only person motivated to bring the criminal to justice. Bow Street’s men were paid their reward when a conviction was earned, no matter if the true culprit had been apprehended, or some unfortunate fool who merely looked guilty to a jury.
“Mrs. Bellingham had to have seen those handbills,” Ashton said. “She could have turned you in for the reward, stolen your jewels, or tossed you in the river.”
“You describe my titled in-laws, not the woman who explained to me that I must travel to Amsterdam as a French widow, sell the jewels there, and then learn to live as quietly as I could among a much lower strata of society. She also told me that I must never cover the same ground twice. I wasn’t to return to her, or to Amsterdam, or to my in-laws’ properties. ‘Run forward and run alone,’ she said, as if she knew exactly what was needed based on personal experience.”
Ashton had removed every last pin, and he was massaging Matilda’s nape with a slow, deep pressure. Her eyes grew heavy, though she dared not fall asleep lest he be gone when she awoke.
&
nbsp; “A good hunter will watch his quarry’s back trail,” Ashton said. “But you went to Amsterdam and did as suggested. Then you bought this house?”
“I waited nearly a year, living at lodging houses and taking in mending or doing piecework. A young lady is taught how to embroider and tat lace. I couldn’t support myself on those proceeds, but I could supplement my funds and learn to be just another poor widow.”
She did close her eyes, lulled by caresses and fatigue. “When the scandal had faded,” she went on, “and this house came up for sale, I bought it. I’d been lodging here on the third floor and knew the building was sound. The owner was Dutch and wanted the transaction handled from Amsterdam, which suited me perfectly.”
“You survived on luck, cunning, and the kindness of strangers. Your family should be pilloried.”
Ashton’s words were all the more ferocious for being quiet.
“My parents are gone,” Matilda said. “My father died thinking his older daughter a murderess, and for that, I will never forgive my in-laws.”
Ashton’s hand paused as he traced the curve of Matilda’s jaw. “What of your inheritance from your parents? Your brother-in-law kindly manages that?”
“Yes. He’s welcome to the whole of it too, as long as he leaves me in peace. I suspect he’s been happy to have my fate twisting in the wind, because as soon as I die, he loses control of much of the money. I won’t be exonerated—my in-laws have seen to that—which brings us to your original question. My plan was to die.”
“You’ll not be dying any time soon if I can help it,” Ashton said. “I can have you on the way to Scotland at first light.”
He spoke so casually, his words took a moment to penetrate the lassitude pulling at Matilda. She needed to pack up and run, but she also needed to rest and say her farewells.
“You’d send me to Scotland?” she asked, struggling to a sitting position. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, which made the undertaking more complicated.
“You are innocent of wrongdoing and were either betrayed or abandoned by the people who should have protected you.” Ashton was off the couch, pacing the small parlor, his kilt flapping about his knees. “Your brother-in-law, the earl, should have told the magistrate Althorpe had fallen after another night of over-imbibing—the simple truth—and that Stephen was a greedy, randy boy. The matter would have been dealt with quietly.”
“You’re very sure of this.”
“Your brother-in-law is titled. If he lies to an officer of the law, his perjury is tried in the House of Lords. They don’t convict their own, so there’s no point bringing charges against them except in extreme cases. Althorpe was a commoner, disagreeable, and likely a known drunk. The whole business would have been a nine days’ wonder, and that would have been that.”
Matilda wanted to believe him, wanted to know that Drexel’s betrayal had been deliberate, not a product of rattled nerves.
“How do you know what consequence an earl can or cannot command?” she asked. “Drexel is subject to the law, as is Stephen, even if they are from an influential family.”
Ashton stalked over and leaned close, bracing himself on one arm of the sofa. “Don’t be daft. An earl is a law unto himself, guided only by the limitations of his coin and his conscience. I ought to know, because I am one.”
“You are an earl?”
He smiled, the most startling, diabolical, handsome, frightening smile. “I’m your earl, and that will make all the difference.”
* * *
“Don’t you be piking off now when Mrs. Bryce needs us,” Pippa said, sweeping the crumbs from the kitchen table. “I know that look in your eye, Helen, and unless you want to end up like Sissy, you stay put.”
Pippa had been nobody to cross when she’d been on the stroll, according to Sissy. If a flat got too rough with one of Pippa’s friends, Pippa would climb into the gent’s coach the next time he came around, and she’d be all flirtation and simpering as the footman handed her in.
She’d be just as sweet and pretty when she got out of his coach, but the gent wouldn’t come around after that.
“If Mrs. B and Mr. Fenwick are having an argument,” Helen said around a mouthful of bread and butter, “then I’ll be looking to myself, won’t I? Mrs. B pays my wage, but Mr. Fenwick gives me the work.”
“They’re not arguing,” Pippa said. “That Jonas Samuels was hanging about the market, and I told Mrs. B he’s a thief-taker. She pulled me behind the booth that sells eel pies, and we traded cloaks and bonnets. I led Samuels a merry chase while Mrs. B slipped away. When I was sure Samuels wasn’t on my tail, I met up with Mrs. B and we came home. That bloody bugger rattled her, though.”
“He’s a damned toad. Has his nose up the runners’ arses, thinks he’s better than everybody else.”
“And we know Mrs. B ain’t no thief,” Pippa said, wrapping the day’s loaf in a clean towel. “I purely despise a man who preys on women. I suspect Mr. Fenwick does too.”
“He’s a right proper gent,” Helen said around another mouthful, “and he’s Mrs. B’s gent.”
Pippa took the seat across the table. “What have I told you about eavesdropping, Helen? You’ll hear no good of yourself, and folk don’t like girls who sneak about.”
“I wasn’t sneaking. I heard ’em on the stair, plain as day. They fancy each other. There’s no harm in it.”
There probably wasn’t any future in it either. Mr. Fenwick would leave, as Mrs. B had predicted he would. Didn’t do to get attached, especially not to a man who paid as well as Mr. Fenwick.
“Mr. Fenwick is a match for Samuels,” Pippa said, brushing crumbs to the floor. “He’ll send Samuels away with some blunt, and Mrs. B can get on about her life.”
“That won’t serve,” Helen replied, licking a dab of butter from the butter knife. Nothing in the whole world like fresh butter. “Samuels might go away, but a hundred other thief-takers will stand in his place. Doesn’t matter if Mrs. B is innocent. She’ll look guilty.”
Pippa snatched the butter knife away. “She will. I can’t figure her. She’s a lady, but she doesn’t want anybody to know it. Not my business and not yours.”
“Not Mr. Fenwick’s, then, either, is it?” Helen asked. “He’s supposed to be finding a wife, not courting scandal and ruin. A man can swing for stupidity, Sissy always says.”
Pippa rose and cuffed Helen on the side of the head. “Sissy this and Sissy that. If Sissy’s so smart, why’s she on the game? You’re letting your hair get much too long. Shall I give it a trim, or are you ready to be a girl for a change?”
Helen hadn’t known how to ask, but now that the opportunity to part with her braids had come, she couldn’t bear to do it.
“Thanks, but Mr. Fenwick might need me this afternoon. I’d look like an idiot, one braid chopped, the other still on my head. Maybe tomorrow.”
Assuming Helen still bided with Pippa tomorrow. Thief-takers caused serious trouble, and it might not be Mrs. B old Samuels was after.
* * *
“You are an earl?” Matilda repeated. “You have a title? An estate, a seat in the Lords?” She was dismayed at this disclosure, just as Ashton had been when the title had befallen him.
“No seat in the Lords. I’m a Scottish earl and not inclined to join the delegation. For most of my life I thought I was an illegitimate firstborn, but it turns out, there was a wedding ceremony before I made my appearance.”
Matilda shot to her feet. “You are an earl. I have taken under my roof the worst lodger imaginable. Why am I always so gullible? So stupid? Why didn’t you tell me you have a title? This is a disaster, Ashton Fenwick.”
Her reaction reassured Ashton, in a perverse way. He’d felt exactly the same when Ewan and Alyssa had foisted the title on him, and he still wasn’t entirely happy to be the Earl of Kilkenney.
Though he was less unhappy now than he had been when he’d left Scotland. “If I’d told you I’m an earl, would you have rented a room to me?”
Oh, that was a fine speech to cast at a smitten swain. “Haud yer wheesht, Matilda Bryce, if that’s your name. I know an earl authored your downfall, but an earl can resolve your situation as well.”
She whirled on him, her hair flying about her shoulders. “How? Can you make arrest warrants disappear? Can you make the price disappear from my head? I’m worth fifty pounds to the man who’s managing my entire fortune. He’s an English earl, much liked, and well respected. Even I liked and respected him, and he doubtless has magistrates and runners in his pocket.”
Ashton loved Matilda’s fire, but loathed her fearfulness. “I can make you disappear, because that’s what you meant when you said you planned to die, isn’t it?”
She subsided onto the couch with an unceremonious thump. “If I can remain at liberty for another year, then I can be declared legally dead. I’ve made it this far. I’ll not give up now, Ashton. I’ll spend that year in Italy or France if I have to.”
He took the place beside her. “You don’t mention Scotland.”
“It’s not far enough away.”
Scotland was at a much greater distance than the French coast. “You don’t need to travel by sea to get to Scotland. Don’t you think your brother-in-law has agents watching for you at most of the ports?”
An earl could just as easily have eyes watching the Great North Road and every other turnpike in the realm. Ashton spared Matilda that observation.
Matilda looked away, at the single piece of jagged glass on the windowsill. “They didn’t see me last time.”
“Think, Matilda. We’re no longer at war, such that widow’s weeds would get the same respect they did six years ago. The coastal traders who doubtless smuggled you to and from some rural shore are all but out of business, and in the time you’ve been in hiding, your step-son has grown up. If your brother-in-law isn’t watching the ports, your step-son will be.”
Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) Page 18
