by Desconocido
“Really? Spirits?” Brant grinned. “Fascinating. Do you know what I think?”
“I am afraid to ask.” He was relieved, however, that Brant did not pursue the subject of ghosts.
“I will tell you despite that scorn I hear in your voice. I say, bugger reason, bugger Clarissa and her brother, and go see the little Penelope. Either get her out of your head or groin or wherever she has settled or hold on tight, but you do not have much time to do that before you are married.”
Ashton frowned. “Weddings take months to prepare.”
“And betrothals are usually proceeded by a proposal and a ring. I would never allow myself to be caught alone with the fair Clarissa if you intend to dawdle the usual amount of time before actually standing before the vicar.”
“Damn. Never considered that. If the Hutton-Moores feared I would not even propose, they could be very concerned about whether or not I will balk on the way to the altar. The question is—why? With her beauty and her dowry, Clarissa could easily find another husband. They do not need me. I need them or, rather, that dowry.”
“A very good question. One that definitely needs an answer. Are you very certain Clarissa actually possesses that dowry?”
“I had my man of business check the Hutton-Moores out thoroughly.”
“And there is no chance he was lied to or fooled?”
Ashton opened his mouth to say such a thing was impossible, but the words would not come out. Could Hudson have been gulled? And if he had been, how did one find out the truth? Society saw nothing wrong with the Hutton-Moores except for the few who disdained their title. There were no rumors slipping through the various balls and routs that would cause one to question what they claimed about their finances, and they did not live like a family teetering on the edge of ruin. Such a family would not work so hard, so deviously, to marry a lady of their house to a penniless viscount. A search would be on for a man with a full purse, and he said as much to Brant.
Brant nodded. “That would be logical. Yet why this? Why shove you toward the altar? Do you think Clarissa might truly care for you?”
“No,” Ashton replied, completely confident in his judgment. “She appreciates a viscount, the title, the family history, and all of that. All the things her family has not acquired yet. In a way, I am being bought. I believe she also has a covetous eye set on those even more impressive titles I am in line for.”
“Ah, yes.” Brant helped himself to an apple. “Clarissa hopes to become a duchess. Well, do as you will, but I believe I will begin to take a much closer look at the Hutton-Moores. This trickery disturbs me, especially when there appears to be no reason for it.”
“It begins to disturb me more and more as I think on it.” Ashton stood up, took the paper to the fireplace, and tossed it in. He did not get the sense of satisfaction he had thought he would as he watched it burn. “Yet I cannot break the betrothal without good reason. If nothing else, I will not subject my family to the scandal that would result from it. They have suffered far too many years of scandal already.” Once the paper was ash, Ashton returned to his seat.
“If they have lied, promising you what does not exist, you could easily break the betrothal. Whatever scandal results from it will mark the Hutton-Moores, not you.”
“And then I would have to start all over again. That is not something I look forward to.”
“Better that than to find out that you have been taken for a fool on the day after the marriage is consummated.”
Thus ending up with absolutely nothing, Ashton thought. No money to help his family and a wife he did not care for, trust, or desire. He had soothed his pangs of guilt over wooing a woman for her dowry by promising himself he would be a good husband to her. Yet thinking of marriage to Clarissa sans her promised dowry was chilling. This trickery had been enough to kill what little liking he had for her. He tried telling himself that it could have been her brother who pulled this trick, that she had had no idea of what he was planning, but he could not believe it. Clarissa would have to have been aware of it all if only so she could act accordingly when society came calling to congratulate her as they soon would.
“I had best send a letter to my family to tell them what has happened,” Ashton said and then winced. “I shall have to be at least somewhat truthful or they will be hurt, thinking that I did not care to include them in such a momentous decision. They knew I was courting Clarissa, but they would expect me to have at least warned them that I was about to propose and that I was betrothed before the announcement appeared in the paper. They live close enough to the city that they will hear the news soon.”
“And you must find a ring. I may be able to help you there.”
“You carry betrothal rings around with you?” Ashton teased.
Brant ignored that remark. “A small token I intended to give my last mistress before I caught her abed with her butler.” He smiled faintly when Ashton laughed. “I felt I was gracious by allowing her to remain in the house at my expense for two more months. ‘Twas gift enough. It is a pretty little diamond and sapphire ring.”
“That is very kind of you, but—”
“Ashton, do not waste what little blunt you have on this sly chit. Swallow your damn pride. I have a ring. Take it. Give it back to me later.”
“You do not think I will marry her.”
“I do not want you to, especially after this trickery. But if you do, I know you will eventually give her the Radmoor emerald. If you do not, you will get this back from her. If neither occurs, it is still nothing to worry about. Consider it a gift since the last one I tried to give you did not work out and I got my money back.”
That surprised Ashton. “All of it?” Mrs. Cratchitt did not seem the type of woman to bow to that demand.
“Down to the last hapenny. You were too angry, perhaps, to ask about all I had been doing while you took the lady home.”
“I still think Mrs. Cratchitt ought to be put out of business.”
“She will be. For little Penelope’s sake, the full truth of what happened cannot be told, but little by little, dark rumors will choke off the flow of clients that bitch needs to survive.”
Ashton was a little surprised by the depth of the anger he heard in Brant’s voice. He shared it, but it was all tangled up with the fact that it had been Penelope who had been taken and nearly forced into that life. It had begun to drown out the sinful part of him that wished her rescue had not come until he had satisfied that fierce desire she had stirred in him. The anger had grown stronger over the past two days as he continued to recall the things she had said and all the clues he had previously missed or ignored that indicated she was an innocent. Yet surely some of what she had said could not possibly be true, could it?
“Do you think Penelope was a complete innocent?” he asked Brant.
“You mean do I think you were about to break in a virgin for that old crow?” Brant nodded. “There is a part of me, a large part, that does believe that despite the brief time I was with her. Only the cynic doubts, and not too strongly.” He smiled faintly at Ashton’s look of dismay. “Do not look so appalled. Sad to say, it happens. Not every woman in a brothel came there already taught the hard lesson, shall we say. Nor do they all step into the life willingly.”
“That is what she said. She said, ‘Did you think a woman woke up one day and said I think I shall become a whore.’”
Brant chuckled but quickly grew serious. “I had thought the places such as Mrs. Cratchitt’s were different, that the ones who catered most specifically to the gentry did not indulge in that sort of, er, recruitment. I was wrong. Perhaps even naïve.”
“God rot it, now I begin to fear that everything Penelope said was true. I have not been able to shake her words out of my head. After all, she was an innocent, though I had thought her but new at her work. We know she was kidnapped, and she was drugged. Yet how could she be the daughter of a marquis?” he finished in a distracted mutter.
Brant choked on the coff
ee he was drinking and needed a moment to still his coughing before he asked in a hoarse voice, “She said what?”
“If I recall correctly, at one point she said she was not one of Mrs. Cratchitt’s girls and I rather condescendingly asked her what she was then. She said, ‘What if I told you I was the daughter of a marquis, cruelly kidnapped off the street, and then sold to Mrs. Cratchitt? That I was given a vile potion, dressed in this scandalous attire, and tied to this bed, all against my will?’”
“And you did not believe her?”
“Would you have?”
“No. So, the only question left to answer now is—is she the daughter of a marquis?”
“What would a marquis’s family be doing living in such a house at such an address?”
“Perhaps the man was akin to your father and that is all they can afford. Or they are the man’s little family from a mistress he kept for years. Did you ever discover what her full name was?”
“Wherlocke, I believe. It was the name on a placard by the front door. A strange placard, as it said WHERLOCKE WARREN.”
“That is odd. A family joke perhaps. The name is of the gentry, but that is all I am certain of. It most certainly warrants investigation, but we must do it very carefully, and as discreetly as possible. It could be true. You and I do not know enough of each and every family in society to discard that possibility.” Brant studied the look that settled on Ashton’s face with amusement. “What is that odd expression indicative of?”
“I just realized I may have stood bare-arsed before the virginal daughter of a marquis.” He grimaced and then smiled when Brant laughed. “Let us just hope the man is either dead or not the sort to be easily offended.”
Brant immediately sobered. “Good point.” He sat up straighter when Ashton’s butler entered the breakfast room. “S’truth, we can begin our investigation now.”
“With my butler?”
“Butlers can be a veritable fount of information on the ton. Marston,” Brant said as the tall, slender butler began to remove some of the empty plates from the table, “do you know anything about a family called Wherlocke?”
“I do indeed, m’lord,” Marston replied in his deep, well-modulated voice. “A somewhat eccentric, reclusive family, but a very old one. They and the other branch of the family, the Vaughns, have collected up quite a few impressive titles through advantageous marriages and service to the crown.” Marston frowned slightly at the shocked looks on the faces of the young lords. “Is there a problem, m’lord?” he asked Ashton. “I would have thought you would know of the family for Lady Clarissa’s father married into it. If I recall correctly, the woman was a young, wealthy widow with only one child. I am surprised you have not met that child for she must be living with the Hutton-Moores.”
“I have met no one,” Ashton managed to spit out, a cold, hard knot of dread beginning to form in his stomach.
“How odd, m’lord. The butler at the Hutton-Moore town house was my cousin, although it had a different name when my cousin worked there. He died shortly after the marquis did. I trust in his word that there was a daughter. I do not know the Hutton-Moore butler well enough to confirm that if that is what you seek.”
“But you are certain the marquis’s child was a girl?”
“Most certain, m’lord. My cousin had no reason to lie to me about it. In truth, he always spoke quite fondly of the child.”
“What did you mean when you said the Wherlockes are eccentric?” asked Brant.
As he scraped the leavings from each dish into a bowl, Marston replied, “‘Gifted’ might be a better word. It is what has been claimed about them although I have no knowledge as to the veracity of such claims. My cousin was quite convinced of it, however. It is claimed that the Wherlockes and their kin, the Vaughns, have unusual skills, can see the future, commune with the spirits, and other talents of that ilk. It is why they are a somewhat reclusive family. Needless to say, such, er, gifts gave them a great deal of trouble in the past. You will find ones who know of the family, but not many who know them personally and even fewer who know them well. Of course, my cousin told me of this in confidence.” He glanced at each of the two younger men, who nodded their understanding. “Might I ask why you are interested in the family, m’lord?”
“I think I have met one, although I do not know which part of the family she springs from,” replied Ashton.
“If you wish, m’lord, I can make note of what I know and as much of the lineage as I can and give it to you this afternoon.”
“Yes, if you would be so kind, Marston, I would appreciate it.”
“Allow me to offer you the household’s felicitations upon your betrothal to Lady Hutton-Moore, m’lord.”
“Thank you and thank them for me,” Ashton answered and watched morosely as Marston left with the dirty dishes and a bowl full of scraps he would feed to his beloved cats. “I think I may be in some difficulty,” he said to Brant as soon as Marston closed the door behind him.
“Do not fret over that now. You need to get that ring to your fiancée and make your displeasure known to Clarissa.”
“The woman who may well have hidden her impoverished relative—stepsister, by damn—away like a dirty secret? I cannot help but fear what plans she may have for my poor aunts.”
“She cannot act against them without your approval and acquiescence.”
“But she can make them feel like dirt upon her pretty shoes.”
“Perhaps, my friend, it behooves you to take some time to gain a better knowledge of just what sort of woman your fiancée is. Women are so well trained in the various artifices of society that one cannot always be certain what they are really like. Her dowry may save your family from debtor’s prison, but at what cost?”
That was a question Ashton knew he would have to answer before he stood in front of an altar with Lady Clarissa. Perhaps it was time to survey some of the other heiresses.
By the time Ashton returned home late in the afternoon, his head ached. He was not particularly pleased to see all four of his friends waiting in his study, but he heartily welcomed the brandy Victor had brought along for them to share. It took several deep swallows of the smooth, mellow brew before he felt calm enough to indulge in the conversation his friends so obviously wished to have with him. Ashton decided to succinctly answer all their questions about Clarissa before they asked them.
“My fiancée was not pleased with the ring,” he said. “She had obviously been anticipating the Radmoor emerald. Both she and her brother expressed surprise that I was at all annoyed by the announcement, claiming they had thought that everything had been settled. Even graciously offered to retract the announcement.”
“An offer you politely refused, of course,” said Brant.
“Of course. Mercenary bastard that I am, I need that money. I am barely hanging on as it is.” He grimaced. “Unless some miracle befalls me, I will soon marry Lady Clarissa. I have no choice. Even less choice than I had thought for Lord Charles holds a rather large number of my father’s markers.”
“He threatened you?”
“Not precisely, but then such a thing is rarely done precisely, is it. The information was very delicately inserted into the discussion of the marriage contracts. However, the implication is very clear. Marry Clarissa or find myself facing a demand for immediate payment, something I could never honor, not without plunging my entire family into utter destitution. Part of Clarissa’s dowry is already earmarked for the payment of those markers so I will get even less than I had hoped for.” He shook his head when all four men started to speak. “No. No loans. The debts my father bequeathed me are almost more than I can bear. I will add no more.”
“It would not be a matter of adding, but exchanging,” said Brant, “but we will not argue that now. While we were waiting for you, Marston brought us the information on the Wherlockes as he promised.”
Ashton studied the four very serious faces of his friends. “You are about to give me bad news.”
“No. Spit it out.”
“Well, even though Marston says he is not finished, the lineage he did give us is very impressive. The Wherlockes and the Vaughns are intertwined with many of the most important families in England. At the moment, what most concerns you, us, is one marquis of Salterwood, a Wherlocke, who married one Minerva Wherlocke, a very distant cousin. He bred one child on his wife, a girl, and died ten years almost to the day after his marriage. His widow then married the baron of Haverstile three years later and died within four years of her wedding, along with her husband, in a boating mishap. The baron adopted her child shortly after the marriage, making that child Penelope Wherlocke Hutton-Moore.”
“Hell.”
Chapter Five
“You should have heard her, Artemis,” Penelope said as she kneaded the bread while her brother removed peas from their pods. “She was absolutely furious that Radmoor had given her—how did she put it?—some pathetic, tawdry little ring of sapphires and diamonds and not the Radmoor emerald.” She looked across the kitchen table at her brother. “She truly cares nothing for the man.”
“You suspected that all along,” said Artemis, then opened a pod and rolled the peas inside into his mouth.
“I did, but feared it was my own jealousy making me think such things. After all, Radmoor is very handsome and a viscount, with a strong chance of gaining more titles. Even though his father leapt from scandal to scandal and bed to bed and apparently left little more than debt behind, Lord Ashton is still accepted in society. Except for the previous viscount, the Radmoors have a long and illustrious heritage. Marrying into that family would be quite a coup for the daughter of a baron who gained his title because he procured women for the prince.”
