If He's Sinful by Hannah Howell Page B

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