Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  “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?”

  “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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “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 to
e 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?”

  “I’ll take Mr. Derrick,” Sir Archer said, letting out a short whistle. “He and I will have a nice chat about English criminal law, Newgate, and hanging offenses. He’ll look marvelous in chains.”

  Two large, muscular men appeared from the corridor, each one taking Stephen by an arm.

  “Watch out for the girl,” Stephen said. “She’s faster and meaner than she looks.”

  “And don’t you forget it!” Helen delivered a kick to Stephen’s retreating backside. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like a half-pint, trousered governess whose last nerve had been plucked.

  Sir Archer followed the prisoner out, and an odd sense of what the French called déjà vu assailed Hazelton. He and his cousin had completed many an investigation together by bringing a miscreant to justice. It felt good to see Derrick hauled away to face the consequences of his mischief—it felt too damned good.