Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) Read Online Free PDF

from now, and I’ll show you where I’m stabling my cattle.”
    “How will I know it’s two hours?”
    “You listen to the bells,” Matilda said, for she’d had to figure that out when she’d sold her last watch. “The cathedral
    bells just chimed a quarter past the hour, so you listen for seven more chimes. By the eighth tolling of the bells, you’d best be at my house.”
    Helen counted off on her fingers. “Eight times. Can I take Sissy her cobbler now?”
    May I.
Matilda saved the grammar instruction for another day.
    “Off with you,” Mr. Fenwick said, gently tucking the girl’s braids back up under her cap. “Two hours, or you’ll be sacked
    before you begin.” 
    Helen—miraculous to relate—stood still while Mr. Fenwick fussed with her hair. She then snatched the sack holding the last cobbler and darted
    off.
    “She is quick,” he said. “You were quicker. Why did you stop her?”
    By preventing Helen’s flight, Matilda had left the child open to the risk of incarceration, or worse.
    “Instinct, I suppose. If somebody doesn’t intervene with her, she won’t last much longer. I met her when she tried to break into my house
    last year. A lame, drowned rat would have been less pathetic, and her sister means her no good.”
    Mr. Fenwick rose. “Will we see her again?”
    He was big and fit. Helen must have been desperate to think she could steal from this man with impunity.
    “I honestly don’t know. I hope so. Shall I show you to your lodging?”
    “I’d like that.” He offered his hand, as if Matilda hadn’t been getting up off her own backside unassisted for years.
    “I’m mostly in need of a bath and a nap. If you’ll offer me those, I’ll be your devoted slave for the next two weeks.”
    He wrapped Matilda’s hand around a very muscular arm, as if she were a proper lady. He had a mama, then, or sisters. Possibly a wife.
    The thought shouldn’t bother her.
    “We haven’t far to go,” she said as they emerged from the Goose. “I assume you have baggage?”
    “Aye, and once I have your direction, I’ll see to having a trunk delivered. Can you recommend a decent chophouse in the area?”
    He made pleasant small talk with her for the short walk to Pastry Lane, and Matilda had the first inkling that Ashton Fenwick might be trouble. He was a
    considerate escort, matching his steps to hers, always taking the outside lest some passing coach splash her skirts.
    He tipped his hat to the women who took notice of him.
    He bore a faint fragrance of bayberry shaving soap, and he tossed a coin to the crossing sweeper.
    Any one of these observations would not have alarmed Matilda, but the longer she walked at Mr. Fenwick’s side, the more convinced she became that he
    was a gentleman in truth. Probably a wealthy gentleman, given how circumspect the Scots were when it came to displaying their riches.
    “If I needed to stay on a bit longer than two weeks, could that be arranged?” he asked as Matilda led him up the front steps to her house.
    The last person she ought to accept as a lodger was a wealthy gentleman about whom she knew little and from whom she had no references.
    “Why don’t we see how you like the accommodations?” she replied. “They might not be to your taste.”
    “The accommodations will be entirely acceptable,” he said, pushing the door open and waiting for Matilda to precede him through.
    The manners were a subtle reminder of all she’d run from, all she’d left behind, and yet to him, they were the most casual exercise of
    consideration.
    She showed him the rooms—clean, as she’d said, comfortable, unpretentious. The bed was huge, being an antique from when the house had been a
    grander establishment. The windows overlooked her tiny garden rather than the noisy street.
    “I’ll be more than happy here,” he said, tossing his hat onto the hook above the sideboard. “If you don’t mind, I’ll
    have that nap while I wait for my general factotum to