Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (31 page)

Helen waved from the top of Ashton’s coach, which now sat directly below the window and in front of Drexel’s vehicle.

“If that’s not enough,” said a soft male voice, “I’ll kill ye where ye stand.”

Ashton Fenwick stood in the doorway in all his Highland finery, save for the fancy sporran. Another sizeable, dark-haired gentleman in court attire stood
with him.

“Basingstoke,” Drexel said, “what manner of establishment are you running that strangers can interrupt confidential discussions
unannounced?”

“My Lord Hazelton.” Basingstoke rose and bowed. “If you would introduce us to your companion?”

“My lady,” Ashton said, “you’re well?”

“I’m furious,” Matilda replied, blowing him a kiss. “I rather liked your first idea better than this small talk. In other regards,
I’m fine.” Matilda was also relieved—vastly, enormously relieved—and pleased. She’d spoken up for herself, and she’d
meant every word.

Let the whole matter come to trial,
let it be over with
. Drexel, Stephen, and the fear they’d traded on, had ruined enough of her life. She
had the resolve to fight them now, and she had an ally who’d never desert her.

“Ashton, Earl of Kilkenney,” Hazelton said, “may I make known to you Myron Basingstoke, whose privilege it is to own this establishment.
He used to be honest. I can’t vouch for his principles now.”

“I can,” Ashton said, “if such as
that
is Basingstoke’s favored client.”
That
being Drexel, whose
complexion was more choleric by the moment. “The best we can say about Mr. Myron Basingstoke is that he’s incompetent and lazy, has no respect
for the law and even less respect for the ladies. He might be a solicitor, but he’s no sort of gentleman, and I’m not much impressed with his
intellect either. Because a lady is present, I’ll not favor you with my opinion of Lord Drexel.”

“Oh, please,” Matilda said. “Favor us.”

Ashton bowed, the gesture painfully courteous, though a rage burned in his eyes that took Matilda aback. He wasn’t merely angry, he was furious, and
holding on to his temper by a thin skein of decency.

“Who the hell are you?” Drexel spat, “and what gives you the right to insult people who know a damned sight more about Matilda
Derrick’s sordid past than you?”

“I am
her ladyship’s
intended, if she’ll have me, and you are, to quote another female I esteem, a lying, crawling, worthless
rotter. Sit down, and I’ll enumerate the reasons why you and your weasel of a nephew are going to jail.”

Drexel apparently wasn’t used to being addressed like a sluggardly boot boy. He took a chair, more falling into it than sitting.

Lord Hazelton locked the door.

A woman was safer when she could bolt at the first opportunity, and that meant Matilda stayed right where she was: on her feet.

Too many times, Ashton had responded with his fists to taunts about his legitimacy. He was a damned fine pugilist, but had perceived even as a young man
that violence was as dangerous for those who relied on it as for those upon whom it was inflicted. Bloodshed could become a drug, as intoxicating as opium,
and as readily available.

Matilda watched him with a steady, trusting gaze, and that alone kept his fists at his sides.

Time to ply sweet reason, then. “Drexel, you will explain how a murder warrant came to be issued for your sister-in-law.”

“She killed my brother, that’s how.”

Hazelton took the chair next to Drexel’s. “Saw it with your own eyes, did you?”

“Of course not. I was in the library across the corridor from the family parlor. My nephew is the one who swore out an affidavit.”

Ashton propped an elbow on Basingstoke’s mantel. “Do tell.”

“Stephen was in the game room, which shares an interior door with the library. He heard Mrs. Derrick—”

“Lady Matilda,” Matilda said with ominous sweetness.

“Matil—Lady Matilda, shouting at my brother, threatening him, vowing to kill him. Stephen burst through the door, fearing for his
father’s life, and found her ladyship abusing poor Althorpe terribly with a wrought-iron poker. Before Stephen could wrest the murder weapon from
her, his father lay on the floor, bludgeoned to death.”

Now for the interesting part.

“So you summoned the magistrate,” Hazelton said, “because all of the evidence supported Stephen’s version of events?”

Drexel jerked down his waistcoat. “It most certainly did.”

Matilda had turned her back to the room and waved, probably to Helen.

“What time of the evening was this?” Ashton asked.

“After supper, about ten,” Drexel said, “and a horrible end to the day, I must say.”

For Matilda. “Ten o’clock is a busy time in most fashionable households. The staff would have been right down the corridor, clearing the dinner
table. The footmen would have been filling the lamps, trimming wicks, replenishing coal buckets. The chambermaids would have ensured fires were lit in the
bedrooms, and at any moment, somebody might have rung for a final pot of tea, meaning the kitchen help was still at their labors. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” Matilda said over her shoulder.

“How many servants did you have the magistrate speak to?” Ashton asked. “Such a great, uncivilized row had to have been overheard by
somebody besides the men who benefitted enormously by accusing her ladyship of a crime she didn’t commit.”

Drexel’s brows twitched. He opened his mouth. He closed it.

“You failed to make any other witnesses available to the authorities,” Ashton said. “Well, no matter. I’m sure the blood all over
the carpet spoke for itself. Perhaps there was even blood on her ladyship’s hems.”

“There was not a drop of blood,” Matilda reported with ferocious good cheer.

“So,” Ashton said, “Mr. Stephen Derrick alleges that Lady Matilda whacked poor Althorpe repeatedly with a cast-iron poker, in a towering
rage, and yet… no blood. No servants recalling her ladyship shouting threats. None.”

“It’s possible,” Hazelton said. “In theory.”

The lawyer squirmed in his comfortable chair.

“Very well, let’s deal in theories,” Ashton said. “Lady Matilda is unhappy in her marriage, and because she’s an utter idiot,
as any who know her will testify, she chooses to dash out her husband’s brains while a house full of servants is bustling about, the man’s son
is in the next room, and his titled brother right across the corridor. Makes perfect sense.”

“She chose her moment with the lack of wisdom common to her gender,” Drexel said, shooting to his feet. “She advanced on him from behind,
and he was all unsuspecting. Althorpe had enjoyed a few glasses of wine, as a man will, and Lady Matilda waited to catch him alone when his powers of
discernment were not at their best.”

Hazelton put a hand on Drexel’s shoulder. “Until Kilkenney gives you leave to rise, you will sit.”

Drexel sat.

“That balderdash simply won’t serve, your lordship,” Ashton said. “Was Althorpe all unsuspecting of the woman supposedly shouting
threats of murder at him? He typically turned his back on irate women who promised to do him violence?”

“He was in his cups, I tell you, and she crept up behind him with malice aforethought and murder in her heart.”

“Yes, yes,” Ashton said, twirling his wrist, “and bludgeoned your paragon of a brother to his final reward with repeated, violent blows
to the head that resulted in no blood being spilled at all. What did the medical examiner have to say about the cause of death?”

“He agreed with me—I mean, he found that Althorpe had been bludgeoned to death, and a charge of murder was laid.”

Hazelton sighed gustily.

“He found Althorpe’s skull had suffered one blow, right about here,” Ashton said, pointing to his own temple. “Meaning that if that
one blow had been rendered with a poker, then Althorpe would have seen it coming. Lady Matilda, what were you wearing the night your husband died?”

Matilda remained with her back to the room, gaze on the street below. She might have been waiting for her coach to be brought around for a trip to the
milliner’s, so calm was she.

“I wore a new dinner gown of embroidered blue silk with six gathered flounces that exposed the ruffled yellow underskirt. Also two trimmed petticoats
of lighter blue, both ruffled at the hem, a chemise, and the usual underlinen. I was also wearing a paisley shawl, because the room was drafty and the fire
less than robust. The money I got for that ensemble fed me for a considerable time, and I still have the pawnbroker’s ticket for it.”

Ashton propped his chin on his hand. “Now that is a puzzle. How does a woman wearing two ruffled petticoats, a ruffled underskirt, a flounced
overskirt, and a shawl move silently? Maybe her shouting hid the susurration of her clothing, but no… that won’t wash either, will it?”

Drexel hunched forward. “What do you want, Kilkenney?”  

“Oh, to kill you, I suppose. Lady Matilda?”

Matilda breathed a soft, ladylike sigh, then shook her head.

“Ah, well, then, no Border justice for your lordship, but your nephew may not be so lucky. The medical examiner’s report said your brother died
of a broken neck, didn’t it?”

Basingstoke cleared his throat.

“Unburden yourself,” Hazelton suggested. “You used to be a decent solicitor.”

“There was no medical examination,” Basingstoke murmured. “An oversight, I’m sure.”

“Astonishing,” Ashton said, “the oversights that follow when bribery is an option. No matter. We can exhume the remains, have a wee look,
and get this poker-bashing nonsense straightened out. Do you contend that Lady Matilda snapped the neck of a man who outweighed her by five stone?”

Matilda opened the window, as if all this belated honesty had turned the air foul.

“I do not.”

“I have a contention,” Ashton said, shoving away from the mantel. “I contend that your brother was a miserable sod who couldn’t
behave decently toward his own wife, and his son was even worse. I contend that you have suborned perjury to get your filthy hands on not one but two
sizeable inheritances, and—this contending business has grown on me—I further contend that Stephen Derrick has the strength, determination, and
stupidity to have killed his own father. He did so in a manner that allowed him to blame his patricide on an innocent young woman and grow rich on his own
lies.”

“That’s very good,” Hazelton said, rising. “Has the advantage of fitting the physical evidence, and lord knows Stephen had motive.
We can find all manner of witnesses to testify that Stephen resented his father, wished the old man into an early grave. Shouldn’t be much trouble at
all.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Drexel retorted.

“He would,” Matilda said, “except I won’t allow him to. Stephen did not kill his father, unless endless disappointment is a cause
of death.”

“All I want,” Ashton replied, “is for a warrant to issue for Stephen’s arrest. Let him take flight and manage as you have, without
a friend in the world, no rest, no safety, nowhere to turn. Might give him some manners—or kill him.”

“He’s my heir, damn it,” Drexel said. “My only legitimate heir. I am a peer of the realm, and I forbid you to have him
arrested.”

Ashton leaned a hip on Basingstoke’s desk. “I’m a peer of the realm too. I’ve learned not to let it bother me. Mr. Damon
Basingstoke, along with a solicitor of Hazelton’s choosing, will review Lady Kitty’s and Lady Maitland’s finances. If so much as a penny
has gone astray, you will provide reparation, with interest.”

“Reasonable interest,” Hazelton said. “Say, ten percent per annum.”

Every last groat Drexel had wasn’t nearly enough for all the misery he’d caused Matilda.

“Where is Stephen?” Ashton asked.

“I have no idea,” Drexel said. “He keeps bachelor quarters and comes around when he wants money. He has a fancy piece by the name of
Marceline in Knightsbridge somewhere. You can make all the allegations you want against my handling of complicated financial affairs, Kilkenney, but unless
you can convince Stephen to recant his sworn testimony, you are harboring an accused murderess. She’ll be taken into custody, there to await
trial.”

Ashton aimed his next words at the solicitor. “If Stephen recants, he’ll be admitting perjury, and what I know of his character suggests
honesty is beyond him. I expect him to pike off with as much money and wherewithal as possible, and I will have charges brought against him.”

Basingstoke rose. He was nowhere near as tall as Damon, but then, the younger solicitor was likely not his son.

“His lordship makes a significant point, Kilkenney. The murder warrant has not been quashed, and any thief-taker would be within his rights to haul
her ladyship before the nearest magistrate. I proffer that Mr. Stephen Derrick might be willing to modify his testimony without entirely recanting it, if
your presuming notions of financial accountability can be set aside.”

Hazelton extended his walking stick across Basingstoke’s left shoulder and exerted pressure until the solicitor resumed his seat.

“You almost had me convinced,” Ashton said, “that Drexel had bullied or blackmailed you too, but now your failure to properly oversee
Lady Kitty’s funds must come to light. Ah, well. Your titled clients will surely forgive a few thousand missing pounds, won’t they?”

Basingstoke glared at Ashton like a chastised dog who dared not rise. “Her ladyship can still be arrested, and I will advise my clients that due
deliberation will be required before any revision of testimony can possibly—”

“You can’t have her arrested,” Ashton said, pointing to the open window Matilda had slipped through moments before. “She did a
bunk, and you will have to kill me to find her. Hazelton, we have a perjurer to catch, by any means necessary.”

“Good day,” Hazelton said, bowing slightly. “I’d pack a few bags if I were you two. A lot of bags, with as much haste as
you’re capable of.”

Ashton got Hazelton by the arm and steered him to the door. “No more helpful advice, your lordship. They’re on their own, as Lady Matilda was
for six years.”