If He's Sinful. Hannah Howell

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 coffee 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