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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