If He's Sinful (10 page)
Authors: Hannah Howell
Tags: #London (England), #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Romance, #Fantasy, #Psychic ability, #Historical, #Fiction, #Love Stories
“I do not think I like your Lady Clarissa,” said his sister Helen, a beautiful young woman of twenty who would undoubtedly be swamped with offers once he could afford to give her a season and a decent dowry. “Are we expected to live with you after you marry this woman?”
The reluctance to do so was clear in Helen’s voice, but before Ashton could reply, the footmen returned with an array of sweets. He ordered them to clear the table of the last remnants of the meal, set the desserts out, and then leave them alone again. They were all capable of serving themselves and he did not want such important family business to be overheard and discussed by his servants.
He looked at his mother as the servants left the room. Lady Mary Radmoor was still a good-looking woman at nearly fifty years of age. There was no gray in her dark red hair and very few lines on her sweet oval face. Considering how poorly his father had treated her, Ashton was surprised that she did not look more careworn or bitter. There was a look of unease in her big blue eyes, however. Those eyes often made people believe Lady Radmoor was sweet but not very intelligent. That was a large mistake on their part. Ashton knew that, even as he watched her, his mother was carefully weighing the importance of every word he said.
“I have heard of the Wherlockes,” announced Lady Sarah the moment the servants were gone again.
Leaning over to serve his mother some stewed apples, Ashton glanced at his aunt and nodded. “I gather they are a large family, especially if one includes the Vaughn branch on the family tree.”
“They are indeed a large clan. They are also eccentric, a little wild, and very reclusive.”
“So I have heard. Well, except for their being wild.”
“Oh, they are wild. I believe it is because they are so gifted.”
Ashton knew she was not referring to a gift in music or art. “Heard that, too, have you?”
Aunt Sarah nodded as she spooned clotted cream over her bread pudding. “When you have lived for three score and a dozen years, as I have, you hear a lot of things. You even hear enough tales about a certain reclusive clan to speak with some authority on them.” She began to eat her pudding.
He wanted to politely wait for her to finish eating, but after only a few moments, he asked, “And?”
“And as I said, they are gifted. Nearly all of that blood are. Gifted or cursed, depending upon one’s views of such matters. ’Tis said they can see the spirits of the departed, even speak with them. They also have visions, dreams that foretell things. I have even heard whispers that, occasionally, one is born who can read a person’s thoughts. That tends to drive the poor soul mad, and who could be surprised by that? The current patriarch of the clan is rumored to be cursed in that way.”
“Do you truly believe that anyone could read someone’s thoughts? ’Tis impossible.”
“I would like to think so,” Aunt Sarah replied in all seriousness. “I have not claimed to believe all that is said about the Wherlockes and the Vaughns, about what gifts or curses they have. Yet it would explain some of the other things I have heard about them. Far too many of their wives or husbands walk away from their marriages and their children, excusing their inexcusable actions with tales of curses and sorcery. Far too many of their ancestors found themselves suffering the harsh, often fatal, punishments meted out for practicing witchcraft. They are intensely private, even reclusive, despite their ancient, honored title and their good looks. Many of the male children are schooled at home, and at both Harrow and Eton, tales linger of strange happenings whenever a Wherlocke or a Vaughn walked the halls there. There must be something there for such tales and rumors to persist for so long.”
“Perhaps it is but envy,” said Belinda, although her eyes sparkled with interest. “If they have more than their fair share of handsome looks, charms, or riches, there could be those who feel compelled to put a stain on such perfection.”
“True, it could be that,” said Lady Mary, but there was a note of doubt in her voice. “And they certainly sound like a family one could discuss for hours, but I must see to it that Pleasance gets some rest.”
“I am not tired,” protested Pleasance.
“No? Then it was simply because your head grew too heavy for your neck that caused you to nearly end up facedown in your pudding, was it?”
Ashton chuckled along with the rest of his family as his mother led a heavy-eyed Pleasance out of the room. The rest of his family dispersed soon after, claiming a need to settle into their rooms. He suspected they all needed a rest. His letter could barely have crossed the threshold before his mother had been demanding they all pack and race to his side.
He retired to his study where, two hours later, his mother tracked him down. There was such a serious look on her face that Ashton poured her some wine. He was not sure if he was about to be interrogated or lectured, but sat back down behind his desk and tried to prepare himself for either one of those eventualities. The way his mother took several minutes to settle herself in the chair facing him and sip at her wine increased his sense of unease.
“How did you meet Lady Penelope Wherlocke?” she asked suddenly.
His mother had obviously spent her time thinking instead of resting, Ashton decided. He was not sure how to answer that question. After thinking it over for a moment, he decided to tell her most of the truth. It hurt to admit it, but after his father’s behavior, his mother would not be shocked by talk of madams or brothels. He had no intention of letting her know how close he came to deflowering the daughter of a marquis, however. He took a deep breath and told her the whole tale with only a few important omissions and softening a few of the hard edges. In his tale, he was never naked and he had believed Penelope immediately. The chance that his mother would ever discuss the event with the boys who had rescued Penelope was slim, but he still sent up a silent prayer that it never happen.
“That poor girl,” his mother said, and Ashton breathed a sigh of relief. She had believed him. His moment as a lust-crazed cad was still a secret, at least from his family.
“You do understand that honor requires you marry her and not Lady Clarissa.”
“
I
did not kidnap the girl,” Ashton said, smothering the spark of interest that rose in him at his mother’s suggestion. “I only helped in the rescue.” He sighed when his mother just continued to stare at him. “Mother, she has no money. All she has is a house in a barely respectable area of the city and ten boys to care for.”
“Ten! She has ten brothers?”
“No. She has two. Two half-brothers. The rest are cousins. They are all bastards, Mother. As I thought on that most strange situation, I realized that, once she had settled her brothers and was seeing to their care so efficiently, all the men in her family saw her as the perfect caretaker for their own illegitimate children. ’Tis most admirable of her to care for ones most men ignore, but it makes it very unlikely that she will ever be accepted by the society she was legitimately born into.
“I loathe saying this, loathe the way it must guide my steps now, but we need money. We also need to remain a full part of society. Not only for Belinda, Helen, and Pleasance, but to find ways to keep our pockets full. Clarissa’s dowry is lush, but it will quickly be diminished once our debts are paid, the dowry of each girl is set aside, and much needed work is done at Radmoor and our other properties. If I do not marry a hefty dowry, then we shall have to begin selling off the unentailed properties. Each one sold means less chance of a living for my brothers and less chance of a decent dower for my sisters. It will also mean less chance of regaining the fortune that was lost to us.”
Lady Mary sighed. “I so wanted all my children to marry well, to marry for reasons of affection. For love. And do not scoff; it does exist. It is what makes a marriage a good one, keeps people together no matter what ill befalls them through the years. Instead, your father’s foolishness has stolen that chance from you.”
“I will be content,” he said, knowing it was a lie.
“Not with that woman. She tricked you into this betrothal, could not or would not take the chance that you might change your mind or look to another woman. She hides her own stepsister away as if the girl is some guilty secret. Tell me, is this Lady Penelope a pretty girl?”
“Yes, but not in the conventional way.”
“Ah, but those are the women who can bestir a man the most. That is undoubtedly one reason she is banished to the attics, well out of sight of the gentlemen who call upon the Lady Clarissa.”
“Perhaps one of the reasons. Lady Penelope believes that house is hers but she will not come into full ownership of it until she turns five and twenty.”
“And still they treat her like some poor, baseborn relation?” Lady Mary shook her head. “Worse and worse. Everything you say about Lady Clarissa makes me dread your marriage to her. Perhaps, well, there are other heiresses?”
“Do you think I did not look hard enough?” Ashton grimaced at the hint of anger in his voice and then sighed. “No, Mother. Despite my title and fine bloodlines, I am not the first choice of protective parents and guardians. My need for funds has become too well known, although I do not know how that happened as we certainly did our best to hide it. The Hutton-Moores seek a connection to a family with a heritage for they have little themselves. A heritage that may give them some power.” Seeing the stubbornness in her expression, one that told him she could become troublesome about his marriage to Clarissa, he decided to tell her the whole truth about just how trapped he was. “Mother, Lord Charles holds Father’s markers.”
“God’s bodikins! The swine! He threatened you when you called them on their base trickery, did he?”
A little stunned to hear his mother curse, Ashton just nodded.
“I know it is wrong to speak ill of the dead, but your father was a selfish man. Bone deep selfish. He never gave a thought to anything but his own pleasures and he beggared us in pursuing them. He ruined our lives with his follies. You must marry that conniving witch, I have a daughter who is three and twenty and another who is twenty and neither have had even one season, Lucas has had to leave school, and we stand at the doors of debtor’s prison. I gave that man my youth, my loyalty, and six children and he betrayed me at every turn.” She took a deep breath and visibly struggled to beat down her anger.
“I am sorry, Mother.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Ashton. I should have done something, anything, to ensure that he did not rob my children of their futures. I failed you all. The only courageous step I ever made was when I slammed shut my bedroom door after I discovered I was carrying Pleasance. And in the end it saved my life. I did little to save all of you, though.”
When he saw the glint of tears in her eyes, Ashton hurried to refill her wineglass. His mother had made only a few angry remarks about his father within Ashton’s hearing, but it was clear that she had a lot of anger and hurt tumbling around inside her. He hated to hear her blame herself for any of the trouble they were in. A few sips of wine began to calm her and the tears in her eyes receded so Ashton retook his seat.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, either, Mother,” he said quietly. “You had no power to stop him. The law makes certain of that, does it not?”
Before his mother could utter any response, there was a rap at the door. Ashton frowned when Marston stepped in at his call to enter, walked up to the desk, and handed him a letter. The strong scent of roses told him whom it was from. His sly betrothed wanted something. Ashton sincerely doubted it was a letter of apology or contrition he held in his hand. He found instead a barely disguised command that he accompany Clarissa to a dinner at the Burnages tonight.
The demand, the whole tone of the short missive, and the fact that Clarissa had given him barely two hours’ notice of the event told Ashton that she knew about Charles’s hold over him. Clarissa felt she had bought herself a husband. The woman obviously wanted a husband who would be hers to command and was not above using his financial troubles as the whip.
Ashton had every intention of refusing her command with a rudeness even less disguised than hers was, but then he recalled just who the Burnages were. Edward Burnage was a baron, his title only a generation older than the Hutton-Moores’, but it was gained for something far more honorable than finding women to warm a king’s bed. Burnage knew business, he knew trade, and he was a genius in both. It tainted the man in some ways but kept his pockets very full. There could be some benefit to be had in spending an evening with a man like that, and his friends. Even better, he thought and nearly smiled, it would sorely vex Clarissa if he talked trade all night.
“Is the messenger still here?” he asked Marston as he scribbled a curt reply on the bottom of the letter.
“Aye, he is, Radmoor,” said a voice too young to be Marston’s.
Ashton looked at the boy now standing next to a scowling Marston. “Hector?”
“You know this boy, m’lord?” asked Marston. “Ah, of course. You must have seen him at Lady Hutton-Moore’s. I apologize for his intrusion. I told him to wait in the hall. He has been ill trained, I fear.”
“Undoubtedly. Come here, Hector.” Ashton bit back a grin at the scowl Hector gave Marston before marching up to Ashton’s desk. “When did you become Lady Clarissa’s page?”
“Yesterday. Pages are fashionable to have amongst the ladies. We could use the coin, too.” He smiled sweetly.
“That is not why you are there.” There was a glint of cunning in the young boy’s amber eyes that told Ashton he was not going to get the truth from Hector no matter how many times he demanded it. Not yet.