Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (2 page)

BOOK: Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)
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“If you’d been the legitimate heir, your mama’s English relations would have demanded to keep you in England,” Alyssa said,
“to be raised among the civilized English. They’d plucked her from Ireland at a tender age, and she well recalled the pain of leaving her home.
She wasn’t about to give you up or let you be separated from your sisters.”

“Our father supported her decision,” Ewan said, “If you’d been in line for the title, the old earl would have sent you south
without a qualm.”

The old earl had believed in currying favor with the English, a sensible, if unpopular, approach. A Scottish heir raised among the English would have had
all the advantages of a medieval fostering, from a political perspective.

And might have received abominable treatment, even at the hands of his own relations.

“I came along a few years later,” Ewan went on. “By that time, Papa was in command of his own household and could keep me here in
Scotland. Nonetheless, Uncle took much too long to die, the earlier marriage had not been revealed, and you were being raised as a by-blow, though in our
parents’ household, not among English strangers.”

“Ewan’s legitimacy was unassailable,” Alyssa said, “while yours was shrouded in secrecy and family squabbling. Had I not found your
mother’s diary, we would have pensioned Gunna off to the Midlands and dismissed her maunderings as fancy.”

“Unfind the diary, then.” Ashton loved his brother dearly, but a title sometimes deprived a man of common sense. Marriage records on Rothsay
were likely to fall into the sea before anybody stumbled upon them.

“I’ll not unfind the diary,” Alyssa said, shoving away from her husband’s side. “There’s been enough dissembling and
drama. I won’t have my son’s inheritance questioned when some meddling cousin unearths church records or finds an old diary from the English
side of the family years from now.”

The English were forever causing trouble, that was true enough.  

“I thought you liked being the earl and countess.” Ewan and Alyssa excelled at being titled. They were gracious, generous, handsome, Scottish
when it mattered, and diplomatic when an Englishman was underfoot. “You’ve made the earldom look like no burden a’tall, though I know
that’s not so.”

Being the earl was work, and Ashton suspected being the countess was no less effort. The estate was huge, covering woodlands, pasture, land in cultivation,
crofts, sheep ranges, lochs, streams, three villages, and—thank the generosity of the Almighty—a distillery. The earldom also involved rights
pertaining to fishing, forestry, quarrying, land use, Border regulations, local administration, church functions… the demands were endless.

The English tenants expected all the blessings and perquisites of English law, the Scottish tenants wanted only Scottish traditions and legalities.

And yet, Ewan was popular among all of the local folk and the neighboring titles.

“You’ll make a fine earl,” Ewan said again, though he sounded as if he were reciting a prayer rather than expressing confidence in his
older brother.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” Ashton abandoned the sofa and spared a scowl for the portrait of their father over the mantel.
“You are the earl, Ewan. You can foist the title off on me, but twenty years from now, when not a soul cares which of us is legitimate, you will
still be his lordship, and I will still be ‘the by-blow.’”

“Then you will be the by-blow earl,” Ewan said, rising to slip an arm around Alyssa’s waist. “My wife needs peace and quiet. She
needs freedom from worry and to know that her children will not be tormented with old secrets.
I
need for my wife to be happy, and thus
you
need to be the earl.”

Now there was some miserable logic.

“I need to get drunk, and this discussion is not over.” Ashton strode from the room, intent on making a dramatic exit. The door had slammed
behind him with gratifying finality, when he thought of the most sensible course of all. He’d destroy the diary. How hard could that be?

He turned on his heel, prepared to announce this brilliant solution to his dunderheaded brother, but immediately outside the door, a sound caught his ear.

Sobbing
. Loud, upset, female sobbing, and a man’s quieter, conciliatory tones. Alyssa wasn’t given to dramatics or manipulation, and she was in a
delicate condition.

She was also genuinely miserable and upset, because of him.

Ashton leaned his forehead against the solid oak door. “I don’t want the bloody, fecking, miserable, sodding, bedamned, rubbishing, blighted
title.” He wanted to hike into the village, flirt the tavern maids and old women into good spirits, jest with the village lads, and enjoy an argument
with the blacksmith over a few wee drams.

Alyssa’s unhappiness crested higher, along with a few sharp words. Without warning, the door opened, and there she stood, her face tear-streaked.
Ewan was at her side, his eyes full of pleading and worry.

A brother in trouble and a damsel in distress. Alyssa was also mad as hell, and at Ashton. His brother’s ire, he might have withstood, but
Alyssa’s fury and disappointment were unendurable.

For an interminable moment, Ashton struggled against conscience and against the inevitable. When had being the bastard become so easy and comfortable? So
integral to who he was?

Alyssa glowered at him, her lashes wet with tears.

“I’ll be the earl,” Ashton said, brushing his thumb over her damp cheek, “but I need one thing from the two of you.”

“Anything.” Ewan wrapped his arms about his wife. “We’ll support you in every possible way. You’ve only to tell us, and
we’ll do it.”

That was not an earl talking, that was a besotted husband and a very worried prospective papa.

“You,”—Ashton tapped Alyssa’s nose—“will have sons. You will have nothing but sons, and they will be great, strapping
bairnies whom I will spoil without limit, and one of those boys will be my heir. Understand?”

She nodded, a hint of a smile peeking through her tears.

“We’ll do our best,” Ewan said, cuddling his wife closer. “We’ll do our very best for you, Ashton. My word on it.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Ashton closed the door, because the people he loved most in the whole world had presented such a picture of
marital intimacy as to make a bachelor brother blush.

He took his walk to the village, all the while assuring himself that nothing needed to change. Ewan and Alyssa’s children would inherit the whole
mess, Ewan would manage the earldom, and Ashton would be free to flirt with tavern maids and old women.

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?”

BOOK: Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)
6.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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