If He's Sinful. Hannah Howell

be very ill or very unconscious and very soon.”

      Ashton cursed and heard the youth echo it. “I will get her clothes,” he muttered even as he looked around the room. He spotted them piled on the floor near the door and went to get them. “Put the gun away,” he told Artemis as he set Penelope’s clothes on the bed. “You will need some help getting her dressed.” He sighed when the boy hesitated. “It is a little late to worry about her modesty in front of me. I also have no desire to take a woman who has had to be drugged to share a bed with me.”

      “How late?” demanded Artemis.

      There were very few men Ashton knew who could have put such cold, deadly fury into two small words. “Not that late,” he replied and was relieved when the boy set his pistol aside and moved to help him dress Penelope.

      “But I will be naked,” Penelope protested as her brother and Ashton started to remove the thin gown Mrs. Cratchitt had forced her to wear.

      “You are as good as naked now,” muttered Artemis and then he frowned at her. “You were given some potion?”

      “Mrs. Cratchitt forced it on me. It made me very calm for a while, very accepting of my fate. Now it is making me very dizzy and a little nauseous. How did you find me?”

      “Paul slipped out and followed you for aways. He saw those men grab you, ran back home to us, and told me about it. I had already sensed that something was very wrong and was preparing to set out after you.”

      “I was very frightened.”

      “I know,” he said in a soft, gentle tone and he stroked her hair. “Between that and questioning a few boys here and there, we were able to pick up your trail. Then, well, it was as if a lantern had been lit to lead me straight to this place and this room. I did not have to roam about outside for very long before I knew exactly where you were. The potion, I suppose. It has made things uncomfortable for you?”

      “Quite uncomfortable. This is a very sad place, full of ill feelings and angry spirits. Someone died in this bed,” she added, sorrow weighting her every word. “Poor Faith.”

      “What are you saying?” asked Ashton, eyeing the siblings warily as he finished tugging Penelope’s dress on her increasingly limp body. He did not completely understand the meaning of their words but what little he guessed at made him very uneasy.

      “Oh, you are still naked,” murmured Penelope, unable to stop herself from looking him over very thoroughly. He was so handsome, she thought and sighed.

      “I can finish this unaided now,” said Artemis and he scowled at Ashton. “You can go and get yourself dressed now. Boys, watch him closely.”

      Ashton moved to where his clothes had been set down. He looked at the boys who had been ordered to watch him, caught the direction of the interested gazes of the younger ones, and hurried to get dressed. He understood a young boy’s fascination with that part of a grown man’s body but he was in no mood to be the object of their study. He was embarrassed enough by how matters had turned against him.

      What little he could hear of the conversation between Penelope and her brother made him inwardly shake his head. They seemed to believe they could feel things and see things others could not, could snatch emotions from the air and speak to the dead. She spoke of this specter named Faith as if the vision were not born of the potion Cratchitt had given her, which it certainly must have been. He then wondered if they were part of that group of charlatans who swindled foolish people out of money by claiming they could contact the dead or tell one what the future would bring.

      That would explain their fine speech, that air of gentility, he mused. Unless one went to a gypsy at some fair, most of the charlatans of that ilk dealt with the ladies of society and were as genteel as their customers, or pretended to be. He frowned as he tied his cravat under the intense scrutiny of the boys, wondering uneasily if the game was not over yet. Were they going to try to entrap him in some way? Perhaps even try to claim honor demanded he marry the girl?

      A little voice in his head whispered that it would not be such a hardship if they did and he brutally silenced it. It was his lust talking, nothing more. He could not marry just anyone, especially not some lovely woman whose bloodlines and purity were in question. He had a duty to his title and to the future of his line, as well as to his family. He had to marry a woman of the appropriate bloodlines, and one fully accepted by society. He also had to marry a woman with as large a dowry as possible to help rebuild the family fortunes. It did not please him to admit, even if only to himself, how swiftly he would toss aside the need for good bloodlines if this wide-eyed girl were wealthy. In a way, he had already done that by considering marriage to Clarissa for the barony her brother now held was very new. The family had been very minor gentry before then.

      For a moment he feared he was like his father, a slave to his passions. He pulled on his boots and shook his head, fighting to dislodge that fear from his mind. One moment of madness with one woman did not make him the satyr his father had been. Ashton knew he could never treat a woman as his father had treated his mother. Nor could he ever leave his wife and children nearly destitute just to sate those unbridled passions. He had to stop fearing that he was going to become his father. That fear could easily choke all the life out of him.

      What if I told you that I was the daughter of a marquis?

      He tensed as he heard her say those words again in his mind. That would make her bloodlines more than acceptable. Ashton silently cursed. He was grasping at the air, at any reason he could find not to tie himself in marriage to the beautiful but cold Clarissa. Even if Penelope was what she claimed, she was not the heiress he needed. The gown she now wore proved that. It was pretty enough but not of the finest quality. Neither were the clothes the boys all wore. His curiosity was now piqued, however. Just who were these people?

      “Pen, may we leave now?” asked Delmar. “There is a bad air here.”

      Ashton stared at the boy. He looked a little pale and his wide blue eyes shone with fear. It was not an offensive odor the boy referred to. Ashton frowned at Penelope, who now stood by the bed, her brother’s arm around her waist to steady her. Did the whole family believe they had strange powers?

      “Exactly who are you?” he asked Penelope. “All of you?”

      “That is no concern of yours,” replied Artemis, tightening his grip on Penelope when she started to speak.

      “You can depend upon my discretion.” Ashton grimaced and dragged a hand through his hair. “If naught else, I certainly do not wish my name connected to this debacle.”

      “De—baaa—cle,” Penelope murmured. “A fine word.” She smiled and closed her eyes.

      Artemis staggered when Penelope went limp and started to fall. Ashton lunged forward to grab Penelope before she hit the floor. Four young voices cried out in dismay and Ashton knew he, too, had been frightened by her sudden collapse. The relief that swept over him when she opened her eyes to stare at him was greater than he thought it should be.

      “My legs failed me,” she said and frowned at the faint slurring of her words.

      “The potion was obviously too strong for you,” said Ashton.

      “I can take her now.” Artemis reached for Penelope.

      “To where?” Ashton glanced toward the open window. “Out that way? Carrying her?” He could tell the boy wanted to say he could do it but had enough good sense to know it could prove impossible, even dangerous. “I need to find my friends to help us.”

      “In this place? Do you mean to knock on every door?”

      “I mean for you to go out the window, go up to the door, and ask for Sir Cornell Fincham. Tell the man at the door that the Duke of Burfoot has sent you with an urgent message for his son. They will fetch him or lead you to him. Tell Cornell I need him and the others to come to this room as quickly as they can. And as stealthily as possible.”

      “Which room is this?”

      “Twenty-two,”