If He's Sinful (11 page)

“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 for 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.

“Is that not Lady Penelope?” asked Victor. “Just across the road with that lad who is not as sweet as he looks. Paul, that is the name.”

Ashton looked in the direction Victor pointed, across the road and down several yards to the right. His heart gave an odd little skip when he saw her. She was dressed in a simple blue gown; her hair was in an equally simple style, the sun bringing out the bright touches of blond and red in its depths. She looked like a tender country maid on her way to market, not the sort he would usually stare at, yet he found her beauty to be a balm to his soul. He realized that he had been blindly moving down his side of the road toward her and inwardly grimaced as he slowed to a halt. He was dangerously besotted but was not sure how to cure himself of the affliction. Worse, his grinning friends were right at his heels watching him act besotted.

A sound pulled his attention away from her as she began to cross the road. He did not need Paul’s cry to see the danger bearing down on Penelope. He looked back at her to see her start to run in his direction but he knew she would never make it, especially not trying to drag a terrified little boy. The carriage was still gaining speed. Then she saw him. Ashton began to run toward her but she suddenly stopped, caught Paul up in her arms, and threw him toward Ashton. He had no choice but to halt and catch the boy. Paul was small and light but the force of his landing caused Ashton to stumble back several steps.

“Pe—ne—lo—pe!”

Ashton wanted to echo the boy’s wail for he was certain he was about to see Penelope trampled by the horses heading straight for her. His friends started past him but he doubted they would be able to do anything. Even if Victor and Cornell reached the carriage they ran toward, they could never gain control of it before it had run right over Penelope. She had started running again but it was too late. Ashton pressed the crying boy’s face against his shoulder, knowing that he had done what she had wanted by stopping his rescue of her to catch the boy, but cursing the fact that he could not save her, too.

“Jump!” he yelled but doubted he could be heard over all the others yelling and screaming.

She was fast, he thought a little hysterically, but he did not think she would be fast enough. Then, just as he braced himself to see tragedy unfold before his eyes, she cleared the path of the horses. Ashton had only begun to breathe again when he saw her clipped by the outside edge of the wheel. It hit her hard enough to toss her up off her feet. She would have hit the ground hard if Brant had not leapt out to catch her as she came down. The force of her landing in his arms threw Brant onto his back. Ashton rushed to their side, still clutching Paul in his arms.

“Is she hurt?” he asked Brant as his friend sat up, and fought the strange but violent urge to snatch Penelope out of his friend’s arms. “Are you hurt?”

“I am bruised but hale,” Brant answered, “but Lady Penelope may be hurt seriously. When I fell, I heard her head hit the ground.” He looked down at the limp woman in his arms. “I fear this is not a swoon.”

Ashton set Paul down and crouched by Brant’s side. He felt the back of Penelope’s head and softly cursed when his fingers encountered a gash. Just as he withdrew his bloodied fingers to pull out his handkerchief and press it against her wound, Victor and Cornell arrived.