IfHe’sSinful Page 8

  “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.

  “Nay? Why else would I be there, m’lord?” He tugged the letter from Ashton’s hand. “I best get this back to the bi—, beauteous Lady Clarissa. She is the impatient sort and quick with her nails. And her fists,” he muttered and then blushed. “Do not tell Pen that.”

/>   The boy was gone, Marston at his heels, before Ashton could say anything. Clarissa obviously abused her servants. The fact that he was not really surprised by that was yet another reason to escape her clutches. He had ignored far too much and was now paying the price for it.

  “If that boy is new in service to Lady Clarissa, how is it that you know him?” asked his mother.

  “He is one of the boys Lady Penelope cares for,” answered Ashton. And if she discovers Clarissa is hurting the boy, she will retaliate. Of that, Ashton was certain. Just as he was certain it would not be wise for her to do so.

  “Ah.” Lady Mary smiled and nodded.

  “What do you mean—ah?”

  “He is a spy, Ashton. I suspect your friend Lady Penelope realized that, since she cannot always have her ear to the door, it might be wise to have another spying for her. That boy will be taken places she cannot go, either because she does not have the right attire or she fears the Hutton-Moores would find out.”

  “I wonder if she knows what they are about at all. I met some of the boys but briefly yet I would not be surprised to discover they have enacted some devious plan of their own. Lady Penelope obviously knows her stepsiblings far better than I do and I sincerely doubt she would want any of her boys near them.”

  “Probably not.” Lady Mary glanced at the door. “So that was a Wherlocke. A fine-looking boy with unusual but beautiful eyes. Mayhap the rumor that claims the Wherlockes and the Vaughns are overblessed in looks is not just envy speaking.” She looked back at Ashton. “He is definitely not with your fiancée for the coin, although his looks and guile will undoubtedly gain him a pocketful.”

  “I will get the truth out of him soon as I suspect Clarissa will be taking him everywhere with her. She probably thinks it enhances her status—that of a future viscountess.”

  “That letter was a little call for you to heel, was it?”

  “Exactly. This time, however, I will answer it. She wants me to escort her to the Burnages.”

  “Ah, trade. Very successful trade, too. Every son, and even some of the daughters, from the time of the first baron seem to have the Midas touch. Undoubtedly had it before that but society paid little heed.”

  “Let us pray that a little of that rubs off on me. I have been betrothed for little more than a day and I already ache to cut the leash.” He stood up. “If you will excuse me now, I must make myself ready. She expects me to collect her within two hours.”

  The evening was only half over and Ashton already felt as if his head could hold no more advice. Burnage, and many of his companions, knew of his financial troubles and just why he was mired in debt. His embarrassment over that faded quickly, soothed away when it became clear they knew exactly whom to blame for the dire straits he and his family were in. Ashton realized they admired him for trying to find a way out of the mess and not even blinking at the thought of entering into trade, something too many of his ilk believed was beneath them.

  Lord Edward Burnage had the gruff honesty and good nature of a country squire but a keen mind to the making of a profit. Ashton did not know if it was because the man believed no son should suffer from his father’s sins, or the man’s evident dislike of the Hutton-Moores, but Burnage readily took Ashton under his wing. He also did Ashton the honor of believing the younger man understood what he was saying, respecting his intelligence.

  Ashton’s heart beat with the bright rhythm of hope for the first time in far too long. At first, his lack of money to invest in any of the schemes Burnage told him about only darkened his mood. Then Burnage gave him a suggestion that was like a ray of sunshine bursting through the dark clouds. A partnership with a friend or two. Ashton knew just whom to ask. He knew he could not raise the funds to make a decent investment on his own, but he could certainly raise a share of what was needed.

  “Ah, I see that your lady is looking for you,” Burnage said. “Do you know where she bought those clothes for her page? I want to be sure I never take my business there,” he added in a soft voice as Clarissa joined them, dragging Hector along with her.

  Ashton knew he ought to take offense. It was, after all, a slur upon the taste of his future wife. Instead, he grinned. Hector was dressed in a violent blue coat, pale pink lace flowering at his wrists and throat, an elaborately embroidered waistcoat with what appeared to be every bird in England fighting for room on it, and shoes with garishly ornate silver buckles. His thick black hair had been lightly powdered, making it look a dull gray, and his queue was adorned with a fat pale pink bow.

  He met the boy’s gaze and found a dare to laugh glittering in those wide amber eyes. There was also a pinch of pain in the boy’s expression and Ashton looked down at the thin arm Clarissa held. She squeezed Hector so tightly she had to be cutting off all flow of blood to the boy’s fingers and her long sharp nails had to be digging into the boy despite his clothes. He reached out, snatched her hand off Hector’s arm, and placed it on his.

  “Have you come to tell me that you are ready to go home?” he asked.

  “Yes, most assuredly.” She looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear her, Burnage having moved away, and snapped, “I did not realize you had such a love of trade.”

  She was a beautiful woman with her big hazel eyes, fat blond curls, and lush figure, but Ashton could now see that her beauty was shallow. There was no kindness or heart beneath its gloss. Brant had seen that quicker than he had, but now Ashton’s eyes were open. Open wide enough to know he could never spend the rest of his life with this woman. And Burnage, bless his merchant’s heart, had just taught him ways with which he might yet escape that dire fate.

  “Then let us take our leave,” he said as he led her toward their hostess, the widowed Burnage’s sister. He, too, wanted to get home. He had to make note of all he had learned tonight for it could be what gained him his freedom after years of servitude to his father’s excesses.

  Chapter Seven

  “Careful, Paul.”

  Penelope grabbed the young boy before he stepped without thinking into the busy street. For someone already revealing a strong gift for foreseeing things, he could act as blindly as any small child at times. She did not usually take the active boy to the market with her, but today the younger boys were busy with their tutor and Paul had been so restless he had been making it difficult for the others to pay heed to the man. The older boys had simply and mysteriously disappeared. Even Hector had gone off somewhere when he should have been at his lessons. She was going to have to gather all the boys together and give them a stern lecture. They were all too young to run around the dangerous city on their own.

  “What are you going to buy?” Paul asked as he hopped from foot to foot at her side.

  “Something for a stew, I should think. Mrs. Stark’s daughter is still feeling poorly so she only had the time to bring us some bread, ham, and eggs. That will do fine for luncheon today and breakfast on the morrow but I must make you something to eat for your dinner tonight.”

  “Not mutton.”

  “Nay, not mutton. S’truth, I am not sure how to cook it correctly anyway.” She was not sure Mrs. Stark did either for the last one Penelope had tasted had definitely warranted Paul’s aversion to having any more.

  She sighed when Paul raced to the window of a shop that displayed toy soldiers. They were well formed and painted beautifully. The perfect temptation for a little boy. Penelope wished she had the money right now to buy him a few. She could no longer be certain she would have it when she came of age and gained her inheritance. Although she had no proof yet, she was certain Charles and Clarissa were stealing from the legacy her parents had left her, supporting their rather lavish lives with her money. There was a strong chance she would find little or no money left when she finally gained control of her life. Not even enough to buy a little boy some toy soldiers and she found that too sad for words.

  “Paul, we really must be going,” she said as she took him by the hand. “You know it is not wise f
or me to be about too much in the light of day. What if Charles or Clarissa saw me? They might begin to watch me far more closely than they do now. It would be a very long time before I could slip away again.”

  “I forgot. Let us go and get some food then.” He looked up at her as they waited for a wagon loaded with squealing pigs to roll by. “Do not be sad, Penelope. I will have those soldiers someday.”

  She hoped he was right and that he would have them before he was too old to enjoy them. “Now, off to the butcher’s.”

  “Not over there!”

  “We will be quick, Paul. Now, come along,” she said as she tugged his resisting little body closer to the edge of the road.

  Penelope finally saw an opening in the constant filing by of carts and wagons and started to hurry across the street. Paul cried out and started to pull her back again. She turned to look at him, not certain if he was having some premonition or was just being a naughty child, and saw the carriage racing toward her. Toward Paul. Instead of slowing down upon seeing someone in the road, it was gaining speed as it approached her. This was not the way she wished to die.

  Ashton stepped out of the glover’s shop muttering about the high cost of goods. His friends chuckled and Brant buffed him lightly on the shoulder. Ashton’s mood was dark and he knew it, and it was wrong to inflict it upon his friends. He also needed to clear the haze of anger from his mind. They were headed to their club, where he hoped to talk over his plan for an investment with the men he wanted as his partners in it. That required a mind not taken up with thoughts of resentment or self-pity.

  “They were priced too dear,” said Brant, “but they are of the best quality and should last you a very long time.”

  “I hope you are right because, at such a steep price, they will be the last pair of gloves I purchase for a very long time,” said Ashton.