Read Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) for Free Online Page B
Authors: Grace Burrowes
pondering that injustice as he neared his temporary lodgings. Pastry Lane was what an Edinburger would call a wynd, more of a courtyard at the
end of a covered passage than a proper lane. The houses on either side hung out over the passage, though they didn’t quite meet. No conveyance would
fit down Pastry Lane, and little sunshine leaked onto the worn cobbles.
Keeping intruders out would be easy, as would keeping an eye on the neighbors. Mrs. Bryce’s abode opened onto the small courtyard where the lane
ended, a space shared with four neighboring houses.
Ashton was across the main thoroughfare one street up from Pastry Lane when he saw a familiar brown cloak and straw hat bobbing along the walkway twenty
yards ahead of him.
Mrs. Bryce, apparently returning from the last shopping errand of the day. She carried a parcel under her arm and made her way briskly in the direction of
home.
Ashton watched for a moment, appreciating the energy in her stride and the good fortune that had put them in each other’s path. Two weeks of hot
porridge, simple meals, and freedom from servants, sycophants, and meddling family would be heaven.
He was about to cross the street and offer the lady his escort when he became aware of another man trailing Mrs. Bryce about thirty feet back. Close enough
to keep her in sight, far enough away to avoid detection.
He wore the uniform of the man of business. Plain brown breeches and jacket, slightly worn, no walking stick or other distinguishing accoutrements, not
even a hat. When Mrs. Bryce stopped to chat with an older woman leading a child by the hand, the man following examined the wares on display at a
potter’s shop.
Mrs. Bryce bid the other woman farewell and went on her way, and the man behind resumed walking as well.
Ashton was across the street in long strides and kept on moving until, as if in an effort to overtake Mrs. Bryce, he bumped the package from her grasp.
He stopped, tipped his hat, and picked up the parcel. “You’re being followed,” he said, beaming to all appearances sheepishly. “Let
me carry your package, and please accept my escort.”
Those fine gray eyes took a casual inventory of the surroundings. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure there’s no damage.”
Ashton winged his arm, and bless the woman for her common sense, she took it and let him lead her away from Pastry Lane.
Chapter Three
If Matilda believed in one eternal verity, one immutable law of nature that would hold true down through the millennia, it was that Men Were Dreadful. Not
all men, not all the time, which meant a woman had to be that much more vigilant to dodge the worst transgressors.
But most men, most of the time, were dreadful. They displayed petty dreadfulness, such as the tenant who was too lazy to carry his dirty dishes downstairs
even on his way out for a morning stroll. He made more work for Pippa, the maid, and wasted her time. Was any disrespect quite as purely rotten as wasting
a busy person’s time?
A tenant who nipped off to France without paying three months’ rent was more dreadful still and left Matilda to wonder if that tenant would have
treated a landlord with the same disregard as a landlady.
No, he would not.
In a league of their own were men who arranged a daughter’s future so she was bound to an ungrateful tyrant, one who held her accountable for matters
even the Church agreed were the exclusive province of the Almighty.
Worse yet were the men whose ungovernable urges meant their wives died in childbed, or suffered regular violence for no reason.
Dreadful, dreadful-er, and dreadful-est, as Helen would have said.
Matilda could have fashioned her own version of the circles of hell based on the transgressions which the male gender considered its casual right, simply
because that gender had more muscles and less sophisticated procreative apparatus.
She was at a complete loss when Mr. Fenwick appeared at her side, her parcel in his hands, and a
end of a covered passage than a proper lane. The houses on either side hung out over the passage, though they didn’t quite meet. No conveyance would
fit down Pastry Lane, and little sunshine leaked onto the worn cobbles.
Keeping intruders out would be easy, as would keeping an eye on the neighbors. Mrs. Bryce’s abode opened onto the small courtyard where the lane
ended, a space shared with four neighboring houses.
Ashton was across the main thoroughfare one street up from Pastry Lane when he saw a familiar brown cloak and straw hat bobbing along the walkway twenty
yards ahead of him.
Mrs. Bryce, apparently returning from the last shopping errand of the day. She carried a parcel under her arm and made her way briskly in the direction of
home.
Ashton watched for a moment, appreciating the energy in her stride and the good fortune that had put them in each other’s path. Two weeks of hot
porridge, simple meals, and freedom from servants, sycophants, and meddling family would be heaven.
He was about to cross the street and offer the lady his escort when he became aware of another man trailing Mrs. Bryce about thirty feet back. Close enough
to keep her in sight, far enough away to avoid detection.
He wore the uniform of the man of business. Plain brown breeches and jacket, slightly worn, no walking stick or other distinguishing accoutrements, not
even a hat. When Mrs. Bryce stopped to chat with an older woman leading a child by the hand, the man following examined the wares on display at a
potter’s shop.
Mrs. Bryce bid the other woman farewell and went on her way, and the man behind resumed walking as well.
Ashton was across the street in long strides and kept on moving until, as if in an effort to overtake Mrs. Bryce, he bumped the package from her grasp.
He stopped, tipped his hat, and picked up the parcel. “You’re being followed,” he said, beaming to all appearances sheepishly. “Let
me carry your package, and please accept my escort.”
Those fine gray eyes took a casual inventory of the surroundings. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure there’s no damage.”
Ashton winged his arm, and bless the woman for her common sense, she took it and let him lead her away from Pastry Lane.
Chapter Three
If Matilda believed in one eternal verity, one immutable law of nature that would hold true down through the millennia, it was that Men Were Dreadful. Not
all men, not all the time, which meant a woman had to be that much more vigilant to dodge the worst transgressors.
But most men, most of the time, were dreadful. They displayed petty dreadfulness, such as the tenant who was too lazy to carry his dirty dishes downstairs
even on his way out for a morning stroll. He made more work for Pippa, the maid, and wasted her time. Was any disrespect quite as purely rotten as wasting
a busy person’s time?
A tenant who nipped off to France without paying three months’ rent was more dreadful still and left Matilda to wonder if that tenant would have
treated a landlord with the same disregard as a landlady.
No, he would not.
In a league of their own were men who arranged a daughter’s future so she was bound to an ungrateful tyrant, one who held her accountable for matters
even the Church agreed were the exclusive province of the Almighty.
Worse yet were the men whose ungovernable urges meant their wives died in childbed, or suffered regular violence for no reason.
Dreadful, dreadful-er, and dreadful-est, as Helen would have said.
Matilda could have fashioned her own version of the circles of hell based on the transgressions which the male gender considered its casual right, simply
because that gender had more muscles and less sophisticated procreative apparatus.
She was at a complete loss when Mr. Fenwick appeared at her side, her parcel in his hands, and a
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