IfHe’sSinful Read online

  “What about the men who kidnapped you?” asked Lord Mallam. “Can you tell us anything about them?”

  After looking at the very serious expressions on the faces of the men, Penelope shrugged and described her three assailants. She was not sure how these men could help her, or even why they should bother. Some odd sort of gentlemanly chivalry, or a matter of honor, she supposed. What she was sure of was that they would not believe her suspicions about Clarissa and Charles. The Hutton-Moores might not be accepted by all of society but they were still of the aristocracy. One had to be very careful about accusing such people of crimes, even when one was also of the aristocracy. Nor did she have the proof or the social standing she needed to make anyone even listen to her.

  But I will get that proof, she decided, and turned her full attention back to the men. She could see they were outraged by what had happened to her and intrigued by the mystery of it. If that interest proved more than a passing fancy for them, they might well be of some help, but she would not allow herself to hope for much. In truth, she found herself hoping that their interest waned. If they persisted, she would find herself spending time with Radmoor, and when he married Clarissa, Penelope knew she would suffer all the more for having come to know him.

  Instinct told her that getting to know Radmoor would not cure her of her infatuation. The night at the brothel had already made that light, dream-shrouded sensation into something more solid, deeper. Even worse, instead of her gentle, girlish dreams of sweet words and soft kisses, she now had dreams that left her trembling and aching with need, one far stronger than the mild want she had occasionally woken up with before. Lust had firmly clasped hands with infatuation. The only way to protect her heart was to stay as far away from Radmoor as possible, but as she blithely extended an invitation for the men to call again while she escorted them to the door, Penelope knew she did not have the strength to avoid him.

  “What did they want?”

  Penelope squeaked softly and jumped, startled by Artemis’s silent arrival at her side. “They know exactly who I am,” she replied as she went back into the parlor to collect the dishes.

  “How did they find out?” Artemis moved to help her clean up after their guests. “We were careful.”

  “You were, but Radmoor saw the placard by the door. Then his butler rooted about and gave him a lot of information on our family. Now it seems Radmoor and his friends want to know why I was kidnapped.”

  “You know why.”

  “I do not really know why, but I think I know who. I could be wrong. I doubt it, but I could be letting my ill feelings toward Clarissa and Charles lead me into believing them capable of such a heinous crime.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  Penelope shrugged. “I have no idea. I do not really know anyone else, do I? But I intend to look deep and hard for answers.” She smiled. “So it seems do five titled gentlemen.”

  “And so do your brothers.”

  Artemis spoke in such a hard, cold voice that Penelope almost shivered beneath the chill of it. Her brother was becoming more man than boy. It made her heart pinch with grief over the loss of that sweet little boy she had taken care of for years. It was the memory of that little boy, however, that made her want to lock Artemis in the cellar so that he could not put himself in harm’s way. She was certain that looking for answers as to why she had been kidnapped could prove to be very dangerous.

  “Artemis,” she began.

  “I will find out who did that to you, Pen. Do not try to stop me.”

  She ached to do just that but knew it would be impossible. “Just promise me that you will be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  That was a lie and they both knew it. Wherlockes were rarely careful. As they headed toward the kitchen, Penelope resigned herself to worrying about her boys even more than she usually did. A little voice told her she would also be worrying about Radmoor but she gagged it. Radmoor was a grown man, betrothed to Clarissa. He could worry about himself.

  “Are you serious in your intention to find out why Miss Wherlocke was kidnapped?” asked Cornell as he and the others followed Ashton into his study.

  “Deadly serious,” Ashton replied as he poured himself a brandy and waved the others over to help themselves. “If naught else, she is the daughter of a marquis, and despite what appears to be a very large family of virile males”—he ignored his friends’ laughter—“she has no protector. I believe all those boys would do anything for her, but they are, after all, just boys.” He sat down at his desk and put his feet up on it.

  “So you have decided we must step into that role?”

  Looking at his friends sprawled comfortably in their seats and watching him closely, he nodded. “Mayhap it is because I have sisters, but it chills me to think of what could have happened to her. Even I did not heed what she said and I consider myself a reasonable and fair man. Once my head cleared, I realized it was not just what she said that indicated her innocence and quality. There were many signs I just ignored. Someone ordered that kidnapping and I want to know who.”

  “I want to know why. She has nothing but ten little boys, bastard get of her kinsmen, and a house in a neighborhood but one step away from unsavory,” said Brant and then he frowned. “Thwarted lust?”

  “Whose?” Aside from mine, Ashton thought with a sigh. “It appears she has been kept hidden away in the attics like some mad aunt. And, God rot it, why do the Hutton-Moores treat her so? Was it not her mother who helped pull them up to the precarious position they now hold in society?”

  Cornell suddenly sat up straight. “It was. It was her money, her house, her good name.” He nodded when the other men tensed and frowned. “Why is Miss Wherlocke not a much sought after heiress?”

  “Her mother might not have had the sense to protect all her assets from the late baron’s greed,” Ashton said, but he did not believe strongly in his own words. “Mayhap her father’s death was sudden and no will…” He stopped and shook his head. “Of course there was a will. The moment the man gained his title, what family he had near would have started clamoring for him to make one. I think the Hutton-Moores need a closer look.”

  “As does the late marquis of Salterwood. Mayhap he was as feckless with his money as he was with his seed.”

  “You need not help, any of you. I am the one who nearly dishonored her. None of you wronged her.”

  “The woman cares for ten by-blows simply because they are of her blood,” drawled Brant. “How can I call myself a gentleman if I turn my back on such a woman when she is in need?”

  They all toasted Penelope for her care of those whom many ignored or abandoned and began to discuss what information they needed to hunt down. Ashton could not shake out of his head the idea that his fiancée and her brother were involved. The thought kept whispering in his ear like a seductress. It was past time he looked into the affairs of the Hutton-Moores himself instead of leaving it to others.

  Chapter Six

  A high-pitched sound stabbed into Ashton’s brain, bringing him to a full, reluctant consciousness. He groaned and put his pillow over his head. It did nothing to dim the sound of what had to be an army of excited women and the banging of luggage being brought into his home. He cursed. His family had arrived.

  “M’lord?”

  And so had his valet.

  Ashton cautiously peeked out from beneath his pillow to find his valet Cotton looking down at him. In his hand was a tankard. The man had brought his cure for a night of drinking with friends. Although Ashton’s stomach roiled at the thought of drinking it, he sat up and reached for the tankard. He gulped the potion down as quickly as he could and then sprawled on his back, eyes closed, until his stomach settled down again and the pounding in his head began to ease.

  “M’lord, your family has arrived,” said Cotton.

  “I heard.” Ashton eased his way out of bed, heartily regretting his night of drinking.

  He should have considered the possibili
ty that his family would rush to his side immediately after his letter reached them. His mother would be outraged by the trickery of the Hutton-Moores even as she hoped for the much-needed dowry Lady Clarissa would bring to the marriage. It was going to be difficult to answer her questions without adding to her concerns. Ashton prayed his head would clear enough to calm her worries with his answers instead of stirring up even more questions.

  “I am ready now, Cotton. Let us attempt to make me presentable for”—Ashton glanced at the elegant clock on the mantel—“luncheon with my family.”

  It was time to sit down to the meal when Ashton finally joined his family and he still was not sure he was fit for the ordeal ahead. Everyone except his brother Alexander was there and he suspected Alex would appear before too long. He led his mother to the chair to the right of his. His young brother, Lucas, led the oldest of their aunts, Sarah, to the chair on Ashton’s left. The rest of his family seated themselves. Ashton began to think he would need to inspect his coat for holes after the meal for everyone stared at him so steadily as the footmen served them.

  “I brought the Radmoor emeralds, Ashton,” his mother said once Ashton signaled the footmen to retreat.

  “There was no rush to do so, Mother,” he said.

  Her sigh of distress struck him like a blow. Tradition required he give Clarissa the ring when she accepted his suit, followed by the bracelet when the wedding date was set. The earrings and necklace were to be given the day of the wedding. Ashton had a strong aversion to giving Lady Clarissa any of the jewels and not simply because she had tricked him into the betrothal. He had planned to marry her. But now he did not trust the woman. The moment he had discovered how Lady Clarissa treated her stepsister, the unease he had felt about marrying the woman had hardened into a determination to escape the trap the Hutton-Moores had set in any way that he could. The only thing that kept him from simply walking away from the woman right now was the markers that Charles held.

  “I do not wish to marry Lady Clarissa,” he said. “To put it quite simply, after the trick she and her brother played, I no longer trust her. Or him. I have also discovered that she treats her stepsister, Lady Penelope Wherlocke, most unkindly.”

  “Does she make her sweep up the ashes like Cinder Ella?” asked Pleasance.

  Ashton smiled at his eight-year-old sister. “No, they have a servant to do that. But they make her stay in the attics.” He kept a close eye on the reactions of the others as he spoke to Pleasance. “They never get her pretty gowns or take her to a ball. I do not believe they even give her the old gowns that Lady Clarissa has cast aside. The house Lady Clarissa and her brother live in belonged to Lady Penelope’s mother so you would think they could at least offer her a decent bedchamber, would you not?” Her soft gray eyes wide, Pleasance nodded, her fat blond curls bouncing with the movement. “They keep her away from everyone and do not even let her go visiting or meet with the guests who come to the house.” Aunt Honora looked almost ready to weep. “I must consider what to do about Lady Clarissa’s cruelty to her stepsister.”

  “You certainly must,” said Belinda who, at three and twenty had the most to lose if he did not marry Lady Clarissa. She had not yet had a season and was already considered by many to be on the shelf. “How old was Lady Penelope when she was left in their care?”

  “I am not sure,” replied Ashton. “At a guess, I would say she was Lucas’s age. Fifteen, mayhap younger.”

  And already caring for her brothers, even taking in more children. Ashton realized that, while no more than a child herself, Penelope Wherlocke had taken on the hard chore of caring for the abandoned by-blows of her own faithless father and her kinsmen. She had, without hesitation, found her half-brothers a home when her own mother had turned her back on the boys. And since she had obviously done that so well, her relatives had quickly decided she could care for their unwanted children as well. Ashton suddenly had to fight down a fierce anger over the way Penelope’s relatives had treated her.

  “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 fami
ly 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.