Read Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) for Free Online Page A

“Cost you a cobbler.”
    Ashton continued out into the early evening sunshine. “No deal. Mrs. Bryce will hear my bad language herself if the situation arises where I’m
    inspired to express myself colorfully. You will not comment on my behavior before others lest I turn you off without a character.”
    “What’s a character?”
    “A reference. A written testament to your competence and ability.”
    Helen skipped along at his side as he made his way back to the mews, and damned if the child hadn’t the knack of skipping like a boy.
    “Can’t use no written character if nobody can read it. Only nobs and reformers can read. Parsons too, but they’re all reformers. Mrs.
    Bryce can read.”
    “Get Mrs. Bryce to teach you to read, Helen. It’s not that difficult once you learn the letters.”
    “I know my name. H-E-L-E-N. How many letters are there?” 
    “Twenty-six.”
    “Twenty-two to go. That’s a lot. If you teach me one a day for a fortnight, I’ll still have eight left.”
    “You can do sums, but you don’t know your letters?”
    “Sums is money, guv. I know all about sums.”
    The introduction to Dusty—Destrier in formal company—went well. The horse was a good soul, patient, happy to please, and tolerant of barn cats,
    reluctant earls, and stable boys who whistled off-key.
    “He’s big,” Helen said, brushing a hand down the gelding’s long nose. “He’s big as an elephant.”
    “Not quite. I was encouraged to find a more refined mount, but he suits me.” Ewan all but groaned every time Ashton climbed into Dusty’s
    saddle, but the horse was proof that Ashton hadn’t always been the earl, and thus as precious as a holy relic.
    Helen proposed dinner at the Unicorn, based on her scientific comparison of its middens and clientele with those of its competition. Her judgment was
    vindicated by the fare. Hot, hearty, plentiful, and plain—Ashton’s favorite kind of meal.
    He used the dinner hour to acquaint her with the letters
d
, for Destrier, and
b
, for Mrs. Bryce, by drawing with his fork in her gravy.
    The girl could eat like a horse, but had some manners, probably as a result of Mrs. Bryce’s ceaseless efforts.
    “I should take this last bit to Sissy,” Helen said. “She’ll be out and about now. She starts by the theaters in case any of the
    gents want a go before the performances. They usually do, but there’s more business later.”
    Helen’s blasé recitation made Ashton’s dinner sit uneasily in his belly.
    “If any of those gents ever make you feel awkward, you tear off. Don’t be nice, don’t smile, don’t ignore the look they’re
    giving you. Don’t give them any warning you’re getting ready to bolt, Helen. You run like hell and scream bloody murder. Up a drainpipe, down a
    coal chute, but run.”
    Helen licked the last of the butter from her knife. “Sissy says the same thing. I’ve pulled a bunk a time or two. They can’t catch
    me.”
    Not yet, they couldn’t. When Helen was hampered by skirts, they might.
    “Here,” Ashton said, holding out a few coins to Helen. “Buy your Sissy some food, and then it’s back to Mrs. Bryce’s with
    you. A general factotum who’s not at her post isn’t worth her hire.”
    Helen looked at the coins in Ashton’s hand, then up at his face, a question in her eyes.
    “I’m not looking to become one of your sister’s flats. This is a vale, a little extra coin for starting off your job on the right foot.
    Keep up the good work, and you might earn a bit more.”
    The money was gone, and Ashton hadn’t felt Helen’s fingers touch his palm.
    “Good evenin’ to you, guv. I’ll tell Sissy I found the blunt in the street.”
    The child apparently never walked. She skipped, ran, strutted, scampered, and fidgeted, much as Ashton had at her age.
    He’d been the bastard firstborn, perhaps subject to sterner discipline than the heir, but he’d never had to worry about his safety, not as
    Helen had to.
    He was still