Page 7 of Prince of Scandal

Donning a heavy satin robe, Ashton stepped out from behind the bathing screen and gazed into the mirror above the washstand. Damn, he looked ragged. He needed to remember he was thirty-four, not twenty-four, and needed sleep to function. Not waste hours thinking of young widows who rode like the wind and would start riots if they wore shirt and breeches in the High Street.

“I think a hair trim along with my usual shave. Can’t go to Norwich looking like a highwayman…Franz, I swear if your lips twitch again I will toss you from the ramparts.”

The manservant bowed. “Duly noted.”

Soon Ashton was dressed, his overnight beard carefully removed, and Franz was dampening the ends of his hair in preparation for the trim. If allowed to grow even half an inch too long, his hair had a tendency to curl, so he preferred to keep it in a short military-style. But not even Franz could do anything about the ridiculous auburn color, a throwback to the English great-grandmother who won the heart of his Prussian great-grandfather a century ago. She had been a Latimer, the reason he’d adopted the name for himself here in Brundall.

“You know,” Ashton began, “should you hear anything about Mrs. King, you may tell me.”

“What specifically do you wish to find out?” asked Franz, as he carefully snipped away.

“Where she’s from. Who her husband was. What she’s doing here. That sort of thing. Mrs. King did mention that the Duke of Exton is a close family friend, so perhaps her people do run in upper circles.”

“I shall make enquiries.”

“Discreetly,” said Ashton.

“Is there any other fashion?” replied Franz in a tone loftier and more superior than King Frederick himself.

Ashton grunted, and a quarter hour later, strolled to the dining room for breakfast. A neatly ironed copy of yesterday’s Norwich Post lay next to his cutlery, and he picked up a gold-rimmed plate to select items from the sideboard. Usually, he preferred a light Prussian breakfast of coffee, toasted bread with berry preserves or marmalade, and a small selection of sliced meats and cheeses, but occasionally he indulged in something more substantial. Today certainly required more, especially after such a terrible night’s sleep.

After selecting a hearty omelet made with ham, potato, and onion, Ashton sat down at the dining table and opened the newspaper to read.

It wasn’t by chance they’d settled so close to Norwich. For hundreds of years the city had been a sanctuary for exiles; Dutch and Flemish and others fleeing Catholic persecution, not to mention all the Jacobites. All had been welcomed into the ale houses and churches, admired for their skill with textiles and weaving, and Norwich had become prosperous. It was also a center of learning—many booksellers, both circulation and subscription libraries, a well-established printing press, and several newspapers other than the Post, depending on the reader’s political bent. Franz adored Norwich. However Ashton had chosen the area for a far different reason: proximity to the port of Great Yarmouth. Boats regularly sailed to and from Amsterdam, so news from the continent was always fresh. The only downside: if he received an official royal summons home, the journey to Amsterdam, then overland to Hanover and onto Berlin, wasn’t at all difficult.

Ugh. No. He mustn’t think of his mother’s letter. That and Mrs. King might actually cause his head to explode.

Ashton ate his omelet then poured himself a cup of coffee, never having developed a taste for English tea. Outside the weather was a little overcast, just a gentle breeze rustling through the trees, which would ensure a pleasant seven-mile drive to Norwich.

“Beg pardon, sir. But you wish for…horse and cart?”

He glanced up at the hovering footman. “Yes. I’m away to the city for some timber.”

The footman looked mildly horrified. “But you never go to Norwich. Besides, any of the lads would be pleased to fetch it.”

“I’ve no doubt. However, I require fresh air, and the drive will do me good. So have the cart ready in a quarter hour,” Ashton replied brusquely.

“Of course, sir,” said the footman, in a voice one might use to soothe a feral wolf, before hurrying away.

Ashton’s inner beast wanted to howl. Could a Prussian prince not just take a damned cart to purchase goods without the Spanish Inquisition? He wasn’t a useless London fop.

Even if his feathers had been severely ruffled.

Suppressing his irritation, Ashton leisurely finished his coffee. Then he departed the dining room for the stables. Franz had provided written directions and a detailed, hand-drawn map, and the journey appeared thankfully easy. Tranquil, too, with acres of rich farmland sporadically dotted with thatch-roofed cottages and the odd imposing brick manor house. Unfortunately, though, it would be a far bumpier ride in a horse and cart than in his well-sprung carriage. If he hit too many ruts, his backside would never forgive him.

“Here you go, sir,” said a stableboy as he led a sturdy pair of horses around the side of the building. “They’ll need a firmer hand than Donner, but will get you there in good time. Oh, and the shop next to the timber yard sells hearty meat pasties if you need a bite to eat.”

Ashton nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be home this afternoon—send out a search party if I am not.”

“Will do, sir,” said the stableboy swiftly, looking as troubled as the footman had. “You drive careful, now.”

Christ Almighty. He was fetching timber, not marching off to war.

Smiling politely, Ashton clicked the reins and the heavy cart lurched forward. By some miracle he didn’t lose his seat, and soon they were moving down the driveway. Even more promising, he only glanced in the direction of Rose Cottage three times.

No. He most certainly wouldn’t ponder what Mrs. King might be doing. From what he’d witnessed, it would probably involve troublemaking, and he needed to stay far away from that. Besides, Franz would inform him of any tidbits.

For now, he had a damned cart to drive.