by Desconocido
“Aye. You have matched yourself to a nasty piece of goods and her brother is one who would gut his own mother for a guinea. I wish Pen never had to go back to that house.”
“Why does she?” Ashton idly wondered why he was having such a serious discussion with a boy of nine and decided it was because all of Penelope’s boys held a maturity and wit far beyond their years.
“’Tis her house. She says she has to stay there to hold her claim to it, that it might be all that is left of her inheritance.”
His mother’s arrival halted Ashton’s questions, even though a dozen more lingered on his tongue. He would have to find out later what the boy had discovered. Tucking his mother’s hand in the crook of his arm, he properly introduced her to Hector this time. Ashton was astonished and somewhat amused by how thoroughly the boy charmed his mother. He then took full advantage of Hector’s presence to save himself from a scene enacted by his angry fiancée. He sent the boy back to Clarissa with word that he had needed to take his mother home and would call on Clarissa soon.
“A lovely child despite those absurd clothes,” said Lady Mary once they were seated in the carriage and headed home. “How could a mother give up such a clever, charming boy?”
“I am not sure why any of the boys were given up,” Ashton said and then frowned. “Ah, that is not quite true. Lady Penelope’s brothers were cast aside by her mother to please her new husband. I am uncertain of the fate of their own mothers, but odds are, they cast them aside as the others were cast aside.”
“I recall that now. I can understand her, in some ways. Her husband was unfaithful. It must have been hard to see the proof of that.”
“Possibly.” Ashton wondered if his father had bred any children outside of his marriage but it was not something he could ask his mother. “I think she said the same was done with one of the other boys. It is not something I question for I suspect it is a painful subject.”
“I think I should like to meet your Lady Penelope.”
“She is not mine, Mother.” He ignored the sharp pang of regret that struck him at admitting that.
“I meant only that she is your friend. Mayhap you could bring her to tea one day.”
Ashton murmured an agreement, but doubted it would happen. It would be unkind in one way, offering Penelope a silent promise he could not keep. A man introduced a lady to his mother only if they met at some social occasion or if he had the intention of seriously courting her. He was already stepping far over the bounds of propriety and good sense by visiting Penelope so often and giving in to the need to kiss her, to hold her in his arms.
The moment he saw his mother safely home, Ashton traveled to Mrs. Cratchitt’s. He was just descending from his coach and wondering what sort of reception he would face when he saw the boys. They rushed forward to tend to the horses, arguing with his coachman over who had the right to hold the team while their owner went into the brothel. Ashton stepped up to Artemis and loudly cleared his throat.
“Oh.” Artemis stepped back from the coach, Stefan and Darius quickly moving to flank him. “’Tis you. Your friends have already had a word with us and gone inside. We do not need watching.”
“I will confess that this guise of yours is quite clever and convincing.” Ashton struggled to be diplomatic for he could see that he had stung the pride of Penelope’s youthful protectors. They were too clever not to realize why he had come to this place. “But why do you think places such as this are always in need of boys to do this work or run errands? Throat cutting is naught but a sport in this part of the city. So is the snatching up of young, fair-faced boys. You would not like where you would be taken should that happen, nor what you would be forced to endure.” All three boys grew a little pale, revealing that they had some idea, and he had to wonder where they were getting such worldly knowledge. “How much longer will you play this dangerous game?”
“It will end soon. We have heard enough already to know that it was Cratchitt who tried to run down Penelope. No hard proof of that, of course, but one should always know who one’s enemies are.”
“Quite true.” Ashton wondered if he should have told the boys the description of the man his friends had gained but decided the boys were putting themselves in enough danger as it was. “And the other matter?”
“That has been more difficult to learn about.”
“Artemis is close to getting an answer, m’lord,” said Darius. “One of the ladies here has a liking for him.”
Ashton grinned when Artemis blushed. “You mean to coax the truth from one of Mrs. Cratchitt’s fillies, do you?”
“What say you?” Brant strode up to them and, grinning widely, looked Artemis up and down. “Ready to spread your wings, are you?”
“Nay, I but seek the truth.” Artemis crossed his arms over his chest. “Pen said someone died in that bed and we mean to find out who, how, and why. Faith, that is the spirit’s name, told Pen that she had been murdered.”
Ignoring how Brant stiffened at the name “Faith,” Ashton asked, “You are willing to risk your lives in this sty because Penelope claims a ghost spoke to her?”
“We are accustomed to people not believing us, but we know the truth. And what if Pen really can speak to the dead? The restless dead. What if this place has done more than ruined innocents? Is it not our responsibility to find out? You may close this place, but you know as well as I do that that witch will just open another brothel. If she has blood on her hands, she needs to be stopped, not just moved away.”
Ashton rubbed his forehead, not sure how to deal with this belief in speaking to spirits. “Let us say, for the moment, that I believe Penelope sees and speaks to spirits. From what I overheard you speak of that night, the spirit said little that was helpful.”
“We think the most important thing Faith said was that she is covered in sin,” said Stefan.
“Aye,” agreed Artemis. “And is this place not filled with sin? We are trying to find out if there is some room or cellar under this building and a way into it.”
It made sense, Ashton thought, if one believed Penelope talked to ghosts. He was about to ask a few more questions when Victor, Cornell, and Whitney exited the brothel at a fast pace. Mrs. Cratchitt and two of her brutish footmen were close on their heels. The boys quickly retreated to the other side of the carriage team.
“What are you doing with those lads?” demanded Mrs. Cratchitt. “’Tis hard enough to keep boys about to do work without you lot cozening them.”
“I was but discussing their fee for caring for my horses,” said Ashton.
“Liar! Ye have been trying to ruin me! I know who is at the root of the slander being spread about me and my business. Well, begone! None of you are welcome here! Go and plague someone else, you bastards! If ye ever come back here, I will make ye sorry for it!”
Since his friends had already climbed into the coach, Ashton sketched a bow to Mrs. Cratchitt and joined them. He hated to leave the boys but knew he would put them in even more danger if the woman suspected he knew them. Confronting Mrs. Cratchitt now would serve no purpose, could even lose him the chance to make her pay for her crimes. He was just not sure those crimes included murder.
“You never said the ghost’s name was Faith,” Brant said as the carriage began to move.
“Faith is a common name,” Ashton said. “I did not wish to scratch at an old wound, especially not on the word of someone who claims a ghost spoke to her.”
“The boys believe it.”
“They also believe that Paul has the ability to see what will happen and that Hector can feel a lie.”
“So you have no intention of helping the lads see if there is something under that hellhole? Not even just to prove them wrong so that they will cease this dangerous game?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Victor.
“Recall what I told you about all I overheard Artemis and Penelope say that night at the brothel.” When Victor nodded, Ashton told him what the boys had said.
“They are now lurking about that place trying to find out if there is something beneath the brothel and how to get down there if there is.”
“Damn me. Think they might be right?”
“That a woman who drags unwilling young women into her brothel and forces them to prostitute themselves might have committed murder?” He sighed when his friends grimaced at his sharp words. “Sorry. It is just that every time I turn a corner, I stumble into a problem and it prods my temper. I need no more. I may not believe that a ghost told Penelope anything, but I do not find it hard to believe that Mrs. Cratchitt would kill someone or hide a body.”
“And if she has murdered someone, or someone was murdered in the brothel, she could not safely toss the body in the river as so many others do,” said Cornell. “Too great a risk of being seen toting a body around through the streets on the way to the river. Not many talk around here but I would suspect that woman is not one the local populace much trusts or admires. She would know it, too, and find another way to be rid of a body.”
“So, bury it in the cellar,” murmured Whitney. “Best place. She serves wine. Must have a place where she stores it. That usually means some room under the ground because it stays most even in temperature.”
Ashton rolled his eyes. His friends were obviously keen on finding out if there really was a body in Mrs. Cratchitt’s cellar, if she even had a cellar. He should have known they would be. They used the brothels but they expected to be serviced by women who knew the game, not ones dragged unwillingly into it by some hard-eyed madam. The thought of some innocent, no matter what her class, dragged from ones who cared for her and thrown into that sad life had outraged them all. It would be as impossible to stop them in whatever they planned to do as it had been the boys. Ashton’s sojourn in London to find a rich wife grew more complicated every day.
The complications had begun the night he had seen Penelope tied to that bed, he thought as his friends discussed and discarded increasingly wild plans to get into the as yet undiscovered cellars of Mrs. Cratchitt’s bordello. Even his growing dissatisfaction with his anticipated marriage had hardened into a cold hard truth. From that moment on, he had lost control of his life. He had been tricked and threatened into a betrothal he did not want, now wondered if the money he needed was even Clarissa’s to give, Penelope drove him mad with an aching need he had never felt before, and a pack of boys kept distracting him with concerns for their safety. All of them acting as if seeing ghosts, foreseeing the future, and sensing lies were normal, and their firm belief in their supposed gifts was starting to weaken his firm resolve to be a man of reason. Toss in the facts that someone wanted to kill Penelope and his entire family hated his fiancée and he found himself lost in the midst of utter chaos.
It was time to take control of his life. His first step toward that goal was a good one. Investments. Ashton knew he needed to move on that as quickly as possible. He would also cease lurking about waiting for proof of the Hutton-Moores’ dishonesty to fall into his hands. It shamed him that young boys were doing more to find out the truth than he was. It was time to thoroughly investigate his fiancée and her sneering brother. It was also time to rid London of Mrs. Cratchitt. Even if she was not a murderer, she was a danger to all women.
“Find out whom she buys her wine from,” he said, breaking into his friends’ discussion.
“Ah, yes, follow the wine,” said Brant. “Excellent. Then what? We are not going to be able to get within a league of that place without one of her thick-necked brutes espying us.”
“No, but the boys can. Someone has to carry the wine into the place. If the boys know when it is coming, they can be there clamoring to help for a coin or two. We may even be able to turn the merchant to our side, allowing one of us to join his crew. In disguise, of course. The boys can certainly aid us in finding the merchant.”
“Agreed,” Cornell said.
One matter taken care of, Ashton thought with satisfaction. “I also want every scrap of information that can be gathered on the Hutton-Moores. My man obviously missed something and our methods thus far have not been serious enough, I believe. I will try to discover who was the solicitor Penelope’s father and mother used. Penelope can help there. If he is corrupt, then all claims by the Hutton-Moores are in doubt.”
“If they are, then the riches they claim may not be theirs. How could they think to continue such a fraud?”
“Having a viscount indebted to you certainly helps,” murmured Vincent.
“Exactly.” Ashton began to see how easily they could use him to hold tight to what was not theirs. “So will making sure that Penelope’s wealth stays in their hands. If they make me complicit in their fraud, that will be even easier. They would think that, if I discovered the truth, I would be anxious to save my own skin, if only from disgrace, and protect them.”
“But surely, if there is an inheritance, it will come to Penelope when she comes of age.”
“If she comes of age.”
“Strike me blind! This situation gets more knotted by the hour.”
“So let us put our minds to unraveling it.”
Chapter Nine
Penelope bit back a pithy curse as Doctor Pryne plucked the stitches out of her head. Some of her hair had been cut away from the wound, much to her dismay. She was not vain but she wanted to kill Mrs. Cratchitt for that alone.
Just thinking of that woman was enough to sour her mood. Nothing had gone right since that night. She was haunted by a ghost named Faith but had not yet been able to do anything to help the sad spirit find peace. The boys were running wild, and far too often, she did not even know where they were, although she had her suspicions. Charles and Clarissa were suddenly far too interested in where she was and what she was doing. A carriage had almost run her down. The worst of it all was that she was almost certain her infatuation with Radmoor had become something much deeper. Penelope had reluctantly faced the fact that she was in love with a man who would soon marry her stepsister, yet that had been but a shadow of what she felt for him now. She did not know whether to cry or to bang her head against the wall until her good sense returned.
For a fortnight Lord Ashton Pendellan Radmoor had invaded her home as often as he invaded her dreams. With each visit his embraces grew warmer, his kisses more demanding. Penelope knew what he wanted. She wanted it, too, much to her shame. Her weakness for the man troubled her so much she had begun to spend more time at her other house, recklessly putting herself under the watchful eyes of her stepsiblings. It was a madness she did not know how to cure. The way Ashton touched her, the way he kissed her, was pure sin and she ached to revel it.
He claimed he was temperate in all things, and she had often sensed his confusion, even his unease, with the passion that flared between them. Yet she could not see him thus. The way he kissed her, the way he could make her feel, and the way he had her aching to break every rule she had ever set for herself made him a sinful temptation in her eyes. And she was failing miserably in resisting that temptation.
“There, lass,” said Doctor Pryne. “As good as new.” He lightly slapped her hand away when she started to reach up to touch the healed wound. “Leave it be. ’Twill itch for a while and”—he patted her on the back—“your hair will grow back in soon enough.”
She thanked the doctor and offered to walk him out, but he jovially refused, warning her to stay out of trouble as he left. The moment the door shut behind him, she raced to the mirror. It took several arrangements of her hair before she was certain no one would see where it had been cut. Suddenly, Penelope laughed. She was vain, at least about her hair. It was only hair, and plain brown hair at that, she sternly reminded herself as she left her room and started down the stairs.
The front door slammed open and Penelope’s heart leapt into her throat. The ridiculously dressed small boy standing there was not immediately recognizable. “Hector?” Was that absurd costume what Clarissa thought a page should wear?
Hector sighed and stomped into t
he house, slamming the door behind him. He walked right past Penelope and into the parlor. A hundred questions pounded in Penelope’s head. She quickly followed him and watched him fling himself onto a settee. She was just about to sit down across from him when she saw the bruises on his face. She leapt to his side, ignoring all his attempts to push her away.
“Clarissa did this to you, did she not?” Penelope rose to go and collect cool water and some cloths. “Wait right here.”
Anger clawed at Penelope as she gathered what she needed to tend to Hector’s poor battered face. When she had first caught wind of the fact that Hector was acting as a page for Clarissa, she had been tempted to yank him back to the safety of the Warren. Then she had thought on how that would bruise his youthful pride, and how he was doing it to try and help her. Instead, she had enlisted the aid of Mrs. Potts to keep an eye on the boy. Now she wished she had given in to her first impulse. She hurried back to his side, cursing her stepsister all the way.
“Why do you think Lady Clarissa did this?” asked Hector as he held a cold cloth against one cheek while Penelope gently cleaned the scrapes on the other side.
“I know what you have been up to, how you have been playing the page for her and spying for me. You have lived here long enough to know that very little can be kept a secret for long.” She smoothed a salve over the scrape. “Any wounds aside from what you have on your face?”
He sighed. “She kicked me, too. In my ribs. I was careful, though. I protected my belly and my man parts just as Artemis taught me to.”
Penelope felt torn between the urge to laugh and the urge to cry. His man parts, indeed. Her anger returned in a rush, hotter than ever, when she stripped the boy to his waist and saw the bruises forming along his ribs.
“She kicked you more than once by the look of it. What happened?” she asked as she inspected the wounds, relieved to find that bruises were all he had suffered.
“I spilled tea on her gown.” He watched Penelope warily as he told her what happened. “She let out a screech loud enough to make your ears bleed and then she hit me. I fell and that was when I got the scrapes on the other side of my face. Then she stood up and kicked me, cursing at me like a sailor. Soon as she went stomping out of the room to go and change her gown, I left.” He frowned. “She has hit me before. And pinched me and the like. But never like this. I think something has gone very wrong for her and I think I know what. Radmoor.”
