Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (27 page)

Ashton had heard some of this recitation before. “Clearly, your wife is a woman of discernment.”

Shearing ran a gloved hand through his hair, further disarranging his locks. “She’s a woman of a certain age, if you know what I mean. Poor
lady has more hysterics than a biddy hen when the fox is digging under the fence. I mean for her to be a baroness, my lord, and I’m enlisting your
aid to make it so.”

Ashton liked Shearing, liked his bluntness, his determination, and his devotion to his would-be baroness. If anybody deserved a barony, it was such as he.

“Shearing, I don’t even sit in the Lords. I’ll be lucky to have five minutes of George’s attention.” Lucky being a relative
term. 

“He’ll dodge me entirely,” Shearing said. “George ain’t as stupid as folk want to believe. He’ll have his hand in your
pocket one moment and pretend he’s never met you the next. Fair warning, in case he hasn’t got up to his tricks with you yet.”

“I’ve been spared so far, but I appreciate the admonition. How long will you be in London?”

“Too damned long,” Shearing said. “Place stinks worse than a muck pit in July, and every shopkeeper and footman thinks he’s next in
line to the throne compared to a Yorkshireman’s son. Where’s that young man got off to with my walking stick? It’s my favorite. My oldest
girl gave it to me on my fortieth birthday. Just wanted to ask you to put in a word with George, if the opportunity arises.”

“I’ll see you out,” Ashton said, “and I expect I’ll see you again on Tuesday. Good to know there will be at least one
friendly face amid all the lords and princes.”

“Do I still sound like a dalesman?” Shearing asked as Ashton herded him toward the door. “Been taking lessons, you know. Silliest damned
thing, teaching a grown man how to talk, how to dress. I’m supposed to read books about taking tea and paying calls. This barony will be the death of
me, Kilkenney. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Ashton passed Shearing his hat and a simple carved walking stick that would do fine service as a cudgel.

“What clubs do you belong to, Shearing?”

“Clubs? The Engineers and Surveyors, though they mostly survey the brandy and engineer the whist and piquet. Useless damned lot.”

“If you were invited to join a more prestigious organization, one frequented by some of the titles, would you care to accept?”

Shrewd blue eyes assessed Ashton from beneath bristling white brows. “I’d be a damned fool not to, though I’d rarely set foot on the
premises. I’m not a complete bumpkin. They take my money, and someday, my grandsons might play cards with theirs, provided my family continues to
prosper and theirs persists in trying to live exclusively off the land rents.”

Ashton’s great-uncle had seen the folly of that snobbery decades ago—thank God. “The Lords needs more men like you, Shearing. I wish you
the best of luck with George.”

“The Lords needs a swift boot in the arse,” Shearing said, tapping his hat onto his head. “Pity you ain’t taking a seat.”

“Perhaps in a few years, when my household is better established.”

Shearing smiled, a jocular, charming expression that would have suited a blacksmith or a publican.

“You need a missus. We all do. Makes all the difference, and even Fat George can’t help with that dilemma, young man. Pity my girls are all
married off, eh?”

“My loss, I’m sure,” Ashton said, and a few weeks ago, he’d probably have meant that. “Good day, Shearing.”

“Until Tuesday, Kilkenney. Remember, George is after our groats, and there’s nothing wrong with that, provided he dispenses a bit of favor in
return.”

Shearing went jaunting on his way, the soul of England’s future and, doubtless, the apple of Mrs. Shearing’s eye.

“What an interesting man,” Matilda said, emerging from the porter’s nook. “I liked him.”

“So do I. I also like that we’re alone, and nobody will disturb us for at least the next two hours.”

Damon Basingstoke’s office was more modestly kitted out than Harpster’s. No age-darkened portraits on the walls, but rather, a single painting
of St. Paul’s dome as viewed from the countryside south of the Thames hung over the mantel. Writing implements littered the desk blotter, along with
a sanded sheet of vellum covered with precise, slanting script.

Ashton had to approve of a man who actually worked at his profession.

“My lord,” Basingstoke said, with a short—not quite rude—bow. “And…?”

Matilda hung back, secretary-fashion, a leather satchel in her hand, but she made a credible bow to the attorney.

“Mr. Matthew MacFarland,” Ashton said. “My personal amanuensis. Mr. MacFarland is entirely in my confidence.”

Ashton had been two kisses away from getting Mr. MacFarland into bed when a messenger had arrived with a note saying Basingstoke was free to meet with his
lordship on the hour. Matilda had insisted Ashton keep the appointment; Ashton had insisted she accompany him.

She needed to become comfortable in her disguise, an objective she couldn’t achieve in Ashton’s bed—damn the luck.

“How may I be of assistance to you?” Basingstoke asked, gesturing Ashton to a chair facing the desk.

No tea and crumpets, no blethering about the weather—better and better.

“I’ve sacked Harpster,” Ashton said, taking a seat while Matilda did likewise. “He wasted my time.”

Basingstoke settled into the chair behind the desk. “So that I might avoid the same blunder, I will ask you to be more specific about the services
you seek, my lord.”

If Ashton had to sum up Basingstoke in a single word, he would have been hard-pressed to choose between self-contained and seething. Basingstoke set the
pen in the standish, capped the ink bottle, and poured the sand off into a dustbin. His movements were economical to the point of parsimony, as were his
words.

He gave the appearance of tidying up his desk while casually listening, but Ashton suspected he had Basingstoke’s whole attention. The document in
progress left on display had likely been intentional too.

Shrewd, then. And good-looking, in a broody, Gothic-novel way. Basingstoke’s dark hair even needed a trim.

“I asked Harpster for a list of the properties I am free to sell,” Ashton said. “He couldn’t produce one, despite having copies of
all the letters patent, deeds, and land transactions attached to the earldom and the family’s private holdings.”

Basingstoke folded his correspondence into thirds and set it aside. “Is the earldom in difficulties?”

Harpster would have taken two hours to get to that question. “The earldom thrives. My brother was a conscientious and discerning manager, but land
rents alone are no longer a sensible means of safeguarding a family fortune. If I sell off some property, I’ll have more cash to invest in
non-agricultural projects.”

Basingstoke’s gaze flicked from Ashton to Matilda, who’d produced pencil, paper, and a small lap desk from her satchel. She sat on the edge of
her seat, pencil poised, head down.

“I’ve looked over your records,” Basingstoke said. “The original land grant passed down with the Mulder barony is attached to the
earldom’s title and cannot be sold. Most of the estate added by purchase since then, however, can be liquidated with no encumbrance on the title. The
entail can be broken on other portions, because any transaction your brother made as the earl—such as renewing a voluntary entail—is arguably
invalid.”

Good news—and bad news. “I’ve been the earl for three years,” Ashton said. “Why wouldn’t Harpster bring up the need to
ratify some of my brother’s decisions?”

Basingstoke rose and fetched a lit taper from the mantel behind his desk. He used the flame to light a stick of red sealing wax and dripped a portion onto
the folded vellum.

“I can think of two explanations,” Basingstoke said as one red drop followed another onto the paper. “Harpster might not have realized
that decisions made by your brother could be repudiated by the rightful earl. Your situation is unusual to the point of…” He blew out the wax
candle, smoke rising from the extinguished wick. “Your legal posture is fascinating, my lord. A hundred years from now, law professors and judges
will cite your case in their lectures, as they do the Duke of Atholl’s, whose title at one point went to a second son when the first was declared a
traitor while biding in France.”

Basingstoke had dripped a perfect circle of wet, red wax onto his missive. He used not a ring to press the seal into the wax, but a seal produced from a
desk drawer. Perhaps a bastard son eschewed wearing the family signet, or hadn’t been given one.

“The second explanation for Harpster’s silence?” Ashton asked.

“Harpster doesn’t want anybody examining the transactions completed on your brother’s behalf too closely.”

Sweet Jesus in a boat. Ashton thought back over land purchases, investments, contracts for goods and livestock, dowries negotiated for cousins, and
pensions established for retired servants. An earldom was a vast enterprise, and abruptly, his stood on uncertain ground.

“
You
examine those transactions closely, Basingstoke. Examine them with a quizzing glass, and when you get that itchy feeling in your
lawyer’s mind, examine the transactions more closely still.”

The wax Basingstoke had used was apparently scented, for a frisson of lavender wafted about the office—lavender symbolized distrust, probably
Basingstoke’s notion of a joke.

“You are retaining me, then?” Him, not his firm, and yet the question was the embodiment of diffidence.

“I’m retaining you to research the period from Ewan’s assumption of the title to the present. I’d also like to talk to my English
tenants about selling them their parcels. I’ll happily hold the mortgages, but I’m tired of holding the hands of men whose families have been
farming since the great flood.”

“Any other assignments?”

On the street below, shod hooves clattered against the cobbles, and somebody shouted to make way. Ashton rose and went to the window, because nobody with
any sense should have been driving a coach down such a narrow lane.

“That crest looks familiar,” Ashton said. Not merely a coach, but a coach with bright red wheels, four spanking grays in the traces, and red
livery on the coachman and grooms.

“The Earl of Drexel has arrived to meet with my father,” Basingstoke said, joining Ashton at the window. “His lordship lives half a mile
distant, if that.”

Matilda’s pencil went clattering to the floor.

“He’s not here to meet with you?” Ashton asked as Matilda scurried to retrieve her pencil.

“My lot is usually to deal with impecunious nephews and younger sons,” Basingstoke said. “That you requested my services specifically
caused a gratifying amount of consternation among my older brothers.”

“Happy to oblige,” Ashton said, resuming his seat. Also happy to know Basingstoke was prey to a normal complement of sibling rivalry. “Is
there any reason an earldom’s concerns would exceed your expertise?”

“None, my lord. Drexel manages a great deal of family money, as you do yourself. My father is intimately familiar with the earl’s situation,
and my tendency to interpret the law narrowly would not be a good match with Drexel’s style.”

So Basingstoke was a legal stickler, while Drexel was high-handed at best.

Matilda was bent over her paper, scribbling furiously. Ashton glanced over her shoulder.

Drexel steals from Kitty’s trusts?

“Under what circumstances can a marriage be rendered void?” Ashton asked.

Basingstoke let the curtain fall and resumed his seat. “Are you asking for yourself, my lord?”

“I’m asking a hypothetical question, and I’m paying you to answer it.”

Basingstoke put away the gold seal, in no hurry at all. “Before I
accept
tuppence from you, my lord, please understand that my integrity is
not for sale. If you married some village girl before you came into the title, I’ll not subvert the law to allow you a better match now. If your
brother’s wife wants to dissolve her union with him in order to marry you, then another solicitor will have to—”

“Basingstoke, cut line. I’ve never found a woman willing to have me for the rest of her life, and I couldn’t pry Alyssa and Ewan apart
with a gold-plated crowbar. I hope to marry soon, and the question is general.”

Unless your name happened to be Maitland rather than Matilda.

“Three grounds, generally, give rise to suits for annulment.” Basingstoke folded his hands on the blotter, like a scholar called upon to
recite.

“Annulments are heard by the bishop of the see where the couple dwelled,” he went on. “Incompetence is the first ground, such as one
party being underage and lacking parental consent. Insanity is another form of incompetence. Fraud, of identity or assets, constitutes the second ground,
and the third is inability of the husband to perform the marital act. For the third ground to be actionable, the wife must be demonstrably
untouched.”

“What is fraud of identity?”

“Using the wrong name on the marriage lines, leaving off a title, neglecting to add all the middle names for a man of your station,”
Basingstoke said. “The bishops can deny the request if it’s a matter of a lifelong nickname for some squire’s son, but they can also
grant annulments on the merest pretext when a man whose union has failed to produce an heir is moved to donate to some cathedral’s maintenance fund.
Any other questions?”

Matilda’s pencil was poised over her paper, her posture that of a raptor over a fresh kill.

“If, in my tenure as earl, I’ve mismanaged the assets of a minor of whom I hold guardianship, what are the consequences?”

“I trust this is another hypothetical?”

Hardly.
“One you will keep in confidence.”

“The guardian owes to the minor ward a duty of utmost care and concern,” Basingstoke said, “a fiduciary duty, which requires best efforts
to safeguard the ward’s well-being. All manner of legal repercussions will result if you’ve mishandled some child’s funds, my lord. As
much as I loathe relinquishing responsibility for any aspect of your affairs, my father would be in a better position to advise you further on a matter
such as this.”