Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (7 page)

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 haunt 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.”

Fenwick muttered something as he scowled at his white glove.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not stupid, Hazelton. I’ll thank you to recall that. Next you’ll be reminding me to keep my coal chute locked. You’re
sure that was a journalist following me?”

“Almost certain. I can promise you, whoever it was doesn’t answer to me. My people would never be that obvious. Have dinner with me at my club
the day after tomorrow. Maggie and her sisters get together for cards—or so they claim—and I’m orphaned for the evening.”

“You’re not orphaned, you’re bachelored. Dinner at the club will do for an opening move. My regards to your countess.”

Benjamin saw his guest to the door and discarded the notion of following Fenwick to his lodgings. Fenwick would likely notice in the first place, and kill
him in the second.

A small boy in a grimy cap walked Fen’s horse up and down before the house. After Fenwick had donned riding gloves and climbed into the saddle, he
stuck out his boot and hauled the child up behind him.

Not the done thing. Doubtless, the talk had already started in the clubs as a result of Fenwick’s dawn charge through the park, and now he’d
trot the length of Mayfair with an urchin riding pillion.  

The Season was off to an interesting start, and Benjamin couldn’t wait to compare notes with his countess.

Fifteen years ago, Ashton would have raced the length of the realm and arrived in London ready to drink, dance, and chase skirts for a week straight.

Five years ago, he would have managed at least a night or two of high spirits.

Three years into being an earl, and a day in London left him craving yet another nap. The fatigue was not entirely of the body. Melancholia threatened to
get its foul hooks into him, hence the dawn gallop in the park. No matter how fast he rode, once he took a countess from among the glittering crop on offer
in Mayfair, his title would have him by the throat.

A soft warmth insinuated itself against Ashton’s side as he drowsed in the afternoon sunshine, followed by gentle pressure tiptoeing across his
chest.

Maybe London wasn’t all bad.

On the heels of that hazy thought, rough dampness scraped across Fenwick’s chin.

“What the devil?”

He opened his eyes to behold a pink nose, whiskers, and two green eyes, belonging to an enormous black and white cat.

“You must be Solomon. Your fame has preceded you.” Helen had much to say about the cat and his mighty exploits in the pantry as well as in the
alley.

Solomon began to knead Ashton’s chest and rumble with contentment.

“I can’t sleep if you’re making that much noise, and I’m sure Mrs. Bryce would rather you minded your post in the kitchen.”

The damned animal had claws, and rotten breath, and yet, Ashton lay for a moment, savoring the pleasure of sharing his bed with even a cat, something no
earl was permitted to do.

“Come along,” Ashton said, sitting up, much to the cat’s disgruntlement. “You’re absent without leave from the kitchen, and I
have matters to attend to.”

He’d come straight back from his morning call on Hazelton, not wanting to deal with Cherbourne’s longsuffering sighs, or the correspondence
doubtless waiting at the Albany. Sleep in the less genteel parts of London was elusive, for even in the dark of night, coaches passed, the night-soil men
trod the alleys, and milkmaids plied their trade.

Without bothering to put on his coat—why get cat hair on that too?—Ashton made his way down the stairs, past the closed door to Mrs.
Bryce’s private chambers, and on to the kitchen. The maid, Pippa, was nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Bryce stood at the counter, chopping apples.

Her movements had a beauty to them, regular, rhythmic, economical. Ashton stood for a moment in the doorway, holding the cat and watching a woman at home
in her own kitchen. Slices went into a bowl, and another apple went under the knife.

A sense of homesickness swamped him, for a kitchen of his own and a wife who made him apple pies. As earl, he could have had apple pies four times a day,
but they’d be the creation of a chef, the recipe calling for nutmeg and God knew what else besides good old cinnamon and love.