Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grace Burrowes Publishing
Published: 2016-09-19T21:00:00+00:00

“You should sack Basingstoke,” Stephen announced, “or at least have the youngest one kept away from our affairs.”

Drexel made it a point to finish reading the newspaper’s latest tally of who’d arrived in Town before acknowledging his nephew. The hour approached noon, which was early for Stephen to rouse from his slumbers.

“Good morning, Stephen. If you’d like to start the day with a bit of hair of the dog, help yourself to the brandy.”

The sideboard sported so many varieties of libation, it resembled a pipe organ of spirits. Very little of what was on display was good quality, but then, Stephen’s tastes weren’t refined. His dear step-mama might have brought a bit of polish to the boy’s outlook, had circumstances been different.

Stephen helped himself to enough hair of the dog to stuff a sofa cushion, then—in broad daylight, in the very library—wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Better,” he said, leaving his dirty glass on the reading table. “Damon Basingstoke was impertinent to me. I asked him for a report regarding his efforts to locate the family murderess, and he balked.”

Well, no, he hadn’t. Basingstoke had sent a note around confirming disbursement of fifty pounds to Stephen and relating Stephen’s insistence that the search for his missing step-mama be intensified.

“The last course one follows with an impertinent solicitor is let him go, Stephen. Do please have a seat. Your perambulations will make me bilious.”

Stephen cast himself into a chair opposite Drexel’s. Both were positioned by a window, the drapes pulled back to let in sunshine and reveal a view of a tidy back garden. The morning light showed the resemblance between Stephen and his late father that would emerge as the years passed. For now, Stephen was robust, golden-haired, and outgoing, but in another ten years, he’d have his father’s receding hair to go with the already evident receding chin.

Also his father’s devotion to the bottle, alas. That took a toll on a man in many ways.

“One doesn’t tolerate disrespect,” Stephen retorted. “Basingstoke doesn’t know his place.”

“He’s the youngest son, probably the only one doing any real work at his papa’s firm, and his antecedents are irregular. What do you think will happen if I let him go or complain to his elders about him?”

Stephen slouched against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. “We’ll hire somebody who will find the damned woman and put her on a convict ship for the Antipodes. She’s an earl’s daughter and will never survive the voyage. Then I can have my money, you can have Kitty’s money, and we can get the meddling fools from the Chancery court out of our hair.”

Althorpe had despaired of his only son, and Drexel understood why. Stephen was both stupid and arrogant, a dangerous combination, and the very reason much of the rabble had cause to resent the aristocracy. An intelligent man, even if arrogant, would exercise a certain prudence where his self-interest was involved, and a stupid man could be coaxed to follow the guidance of more shrewd mentors if the fellow had a shred of humility.

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