The Wicked Wyckerly

by Rice, Patricia

  He laughed. “That shows your inexperience, Miss Merriweather.”

  “I know myself fairly well, sir.” She drew her spine straight and glared at him with hauteur. It wasn’t as if she were entirely ignorant. She nodded at a rooster chasing a hen into the bushes. “I am not a silly city miss who is unaware of the inclinations of males of every species.”

  He turned to observe the rooster’s mating behavior. “And here I thought myself more stallion than rooster,” he said mournfully, belying the amusement firmly plastered to his sculpted lips. “I am crushed by your low opinion of me.”

  He didn’t appear crushed. He appeared attractively confident, stirring adolescent desires that she’d thought she’d suppressed by now. Salivating over devilish good looks was a recipe for disaster.

  “I have no more opinion of you than of a male donkey, Mr. Wyckerly. My concern is with your daughter.” Or ought to be. His overly warm gaze and conversation stirred unwelcome thoughts. Why couldn’t the mail coach have dumped a wealthy solicitor instead of a deceitful fribble on her lawn?

  “I tried to apologize with the kitten,” he said defensively.

  “Children need to know that their fathers can be relied on far more than they need kittens or gifts. One cannot buy love, respect, or security. I trust you managed to buy my thread?”

  “I did at that. I left it in the kitchen with the kitten.”

  “And how long will you have the able-bodied men of Chalkwick Abbey working on my strawberry field?”

  He pinned her with a wary glare, finally grasping that she was on to his ploy to avoid physical labor, even if she didn’t know how he’d accomplished it.

  “An hour each,” he said cautiously. “I did not want to be greedy, just useful.”

  “You are a very odd man, Mr. Wyckerly. Tell them to come up to the house for breakfast before they leave.”

  Uncomfortably aware that he was watching her, Abigail attempted to walk away at a sedate, ladylike pace, but she wouldn’t have been female if she hadn’t added just the slightest extra sway to her hips. Just to keep him looking.

  7

  After the laborers had completed their task in the fields, Fitz took Penelope for a walk and watched her race around the pond, quacking like the ducks she was chasing. Rather than ponder the intricacies of fatherhood, he wondered how much an acre of land could earn if planted in strawberries. If he estimated his father’s estates at two hundred acres of arable land—he pulled a number out of the hat since he had no idea—earning ten pounds each a year, he could pay off a few hundred thousand in debt at one percent interest a year in . . .

  He did the math easily. He’d be old, dead, and moldering in his grave, and his heirs would still be paying their way out of the hole. He really ought to take Bibley’s suggestion, fake his death, claim his stallion, hie off to the Americas, and let his wealthy cousin inherit the mess.

  He would need to claim and sell his prize stud if he was to go anywhere. If he told the delectable Miss Merriweather that he was an earl, raising his insect self higher in her all-too-knowing eyes, perhaps he could even borrow fare to Cheltenham, where the stallion was housed. If she didn’t know her own relation was dead, she probably hadn’t heard the sordid tales about the notorious Danecroft earls. She might even think him noble.

  He rather fancied the notion of the lovely pocket Venus gazing at him with the respect due an earl—instead of pelting him with apples and disgust. Perhaps she would even be amenable to a stolen kiss or two. Unfortunately, no matter how delicious stolen kisses sounded, they would be an extremely bad idea, since he hadn’t had a woman in longer than he cared to remember. Unslaked lust was probably the reason he was drawn to a bossy little hen who would prefer to cackle and peck his insect carapace. Cancel any notion of kisses.

  His daughter ran perilously close to the pond’s edge, and he panicked at realizing that she probably couldn’t swim. Neither could he. Loping in her direction and wondering how he would pull her out if she went under, he shouted, “Penny, get away from the pond!”

  Of course, she instantly waded in, muddying her shoes and splashing on the edge, giving him shudders of sheer terror. Would he ever get the hang of this fathering business?

  Probably not, he concluded, striding down to the water after her. There wasn’t any profit in being a father. And if he was to keep Penny from starvation, he had to use his mathematical skills to generate profit during his every waking minute. Instead, he was wasting time wondering why his hostess thought he was a useless scoundrel and a jackass—he hadn’t missed the male donkey reference—when every other woman he knew swooned at his feet.

  Well, maybe not swooned, and maybe not every woman, but enough to convince him that the ladies thought him pretty and worth keeping around. But not Miss Merry. She thought he ought to have substance.

  Squelching through the muddy quagmire, he retrieved his recalcitrant offspring. “Pretend you are a butterfly and flap your wings while I remove these wet shoes.”

  He threw her headfirst over his shoulder and let her scream and flap while he pried off her soaked shoes and stockings.

  Just keeping them both in clean clothing would eat up what few coins he possessed. He was pathetically grateful to Miss Merry for supplying Penelope’s attire now that he realized Mrs. Jones had neglected his daughter’s wardrobe.

  Which meant he had to take the lady’s welfare into consideration as well as his own, dammit all.

  “Butterflies don’t roar,” he reminded his daughter as they approached the quiet, pristine farmhouse.

  At least he’d managed not to be late for what was apparently the highlight of the day—noon dinner. Not accustomed to using a servants’ entrance, he carried Penelope in the front door and noted the elegant settings on the dining table. Silver and crystal sparkled in the sunlight pouring through the broad windows, and a bouquet of lilacs scented the air.

  And he was filthy head to toe from Penny’s kicking feet. “Upstairs and wash, my little duckling. Scrub all over and put on a pretty gown. And petticoat,” he added sternly.

  “Miss Abby doesn’t mind if I’m dirty,” she protested, her rebellious bottom lip emerging.

  “She won’t let a dirty duck sit on her nice chairs,” he warned, nodding at the cream damask cushions.

  He watched her race upstairs before he dashed back outside again. If they were to dine in state instead of the kitchen, he also needed to change. Keeping up appearances in a rural environment was a challenge. In London, he was normally just contemplating meeting the day at this hour.

  Whom was he fooling by playing out here in pastoral splendor? He glanced down the drive. He had enough coin to gamble his way to Cheltenham if he didn’t have to watch over Penny. Perhaps if he left a note explaining that he would return at the quickest possible moment . . . ?

  The elegantly set dining table warned that he would not only crush the lady’s expectations but also cement her disgust of him, and for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t want Miss Merry to think less of him than she already did. He would leave after dinner. Perhaps he would even think of a good explanation for his departure.

  Penny would bite him before listening to his excuses.

  Uncomfortably—and damned inconveniently—aware that he’d just had several responsible thoughts, he had no idea what to make of them.

  Abigail was scratching out another line in her plea to the new Marquess of Belden when she heard Mr. Wyckerly and his daughter enter. She almost smiled at the pounding of bare feet racing up the stairs. She had desperately missed that racket.

  The letter to the marquess wasn’t going well. How did one explain to a stranger that an unmarried, impoverished, rural female could better raise four young children than a wealthy older couple like the Weatherstons?

  She watched out the study window as Mr. Wyckerly strode across the lawn toward the gardener’s cottage. The diversion of setting the formal dining room with her family heirlooms had been more pleasant than her morose thoughts
, but it had been vain of her to want to show off to a London gentleman.

  Of course, she did not think he was a real gentleman, not the wealthy respectable sort, at least. Remembering his complaint about women expecting men to be heroes, she thought perhaps he might be a trifle sensitive about his lack. Unlike most of society, however, she did not care if he was in trade.

  What if . . .?

  She shook her head to knock out that wholly ridiculous speculation, but once the notion lodged in her brain, it grew roots. She had so very few choices. . . .

  What if Mr. Wyckerly was actually respectable enough for the children’s executor to accept him as their foster father?

  Of course, she knew he was no such thing. Men who spoke of devils in bedrooms were far from decent. She capped her inkwell and stood up to prepare for dinner.

  But what if the guardians the executor had chosen did not know how to be parents any better than Mr. Wyckerly? Perhaps they were already looking for any excuse to be rid of her noisy, mischievous brood. Even she must admit, her siblings weren’t the best-behaved children in the world. After her stepmother died giving birth to the twins, her father had allowed them a great deal of freedom.

  That thought was much too wayward. She knew nothing of Mr. Wyckerly except that he was a very bad, extremely awful father. No, far better that she visit the children and confirm for herself that they were safe and happy.

  And if they weren’t? She had so few options that she was grasping at straws.

  In agitation, she glared into her bedroom mirror and attempted to tame her wispy curls. Earlier, she’d foolishly changed from her frumpy morning gown into a high-necked pink muslin that flattered her coloring. She would have to change again if she meant to carry a letter into town. The muslin was much too frail for anything except parlors. As an afterthought, she added a small rope of seed pearls her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

  She felt decidedly overdressed as she stopped to check on Penelope. People in the country did not dress for their midday meal. It was foolish to do so, since there was always work to be done while the sun was up. It seemed equally foolish to dress up for soup and cold meats later. But she so seldom had a chance to wear this gown. . . .

  “I don’t like stockings,” Penelope said defiantly when Abigail entered the nursery. She wore one crumpled white stocking twisted up to her knee. The other dangled from her fingers.

  “Well, we could pretend you are a kitten who doesn’t need shoes and feed you in the stable, but I think you’ll like Cook’s rhubarb tarts better than mice.” Briskly, Abby straightened out the crooked knit stocking, tied the ribbon, then smoothly tugged on the other. “Perhaps you would like them better if the ribbons were pink?”

  “I want to wear boots.” Her lip still stuck out, but she didn’t wiggle away when Abby buckled her into Jennifer’s old shoes.

  “Boots and pantaloons?” Abby suggested, taking the child’s hand to help her jump off the bed. “I tried that once. I looked silly. I think one must be tall with long legs to wear boots.”

  Penelope eyed her disapprovingly. “Girls don’t wear pantaloons.”

  “What if they did?” Abby asked, swinging the child’s hand as they descended the stairs. “What if daddies wore dresses?”

  Penelope was laughing at this fanciful notion as they reached the foyer and her father entered. Wearing a neatly folded—although not starched—neckcloth, bottle green cutaway, and yellow waistcoat over impeccable buff stockinet pantaloons, Mr. Wyckerly appeared as if he’d just stepped from a fashion plate.

  Abby tried not to let her jaw drop in awe.

  The gentleman seemed to be fighting the same inclination as he observed his daughter’s laughter. “What a pretty pair you make,” he declared. “I should like to have a painting of the two of you in your matching gowns and ribbons.”

  Astonishingly, his flattery actually made Abby feel feminine and attractive. She knew his words were mere gallantry, except—even her father had failed to notice that she’d made up these gowns so she and Jennifer would match.

  “You are looking uncommonly elegant yourself,” she admitted with a flirtatious flutter of her lashes. It couldn’t hurt to practice. “This is scarcely a London repast.”

  Mr. Wyckerly’s dragon green eyes fastened on her, and he appeared momentarily taken by her coquetry, but he recovered rapidly. “Thank goodness,” he said, shuddering with comic exaggeration. “City dinners are so banal. I far prefer this more exclusive society.”

  Even though she could have scarcely understood a word, Penelope giggled at her father’s antics. “You look pretty, Papa.”

  “Will you stop hating me if I continue to look pretty?” he asked, widening his eyes hopefully and offering his arms to both of them, although he had to lean over to set Penny’s hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “Maybe,” she agreed with all the solemn grace of a queen.

  Their foolish byplay relieved Abby’s nervousness at encountering the solid, ungiving muscle beneath his coat sleeve. Mr. Wyckerly was considerably taller and much more . . . physically developed . . . than the vicar. “I believe the two of you missed your calling. You should be on the stage.”

  “My little drama queen should be in theater,” he agreed, seating Abby on the right-hand side of the table, “but the only stage I belong on is a coach.” He pulled out a chair across from her for Penny, before taking the place at the head of the table between them.

  Her father’s place. How easily he usurped the position of head of household, even though he was no more than an encroaching guest. An appallingly attractive one whose subtle bay rum scent caused her to surreptitiously study the masculine stubble shadowing his jaw.

  “A stagecoach?” she inquired casually, fearing the reference meant he planned to leave.

  “A topic for another day.” As Cook arrived with the soup tureen, he removed a letter from inside his coat. “A local delivered this as I was walking up to the door.”

  With suddenly shaky hands, Abby took the dirty, wrinkled page. She smiled fondly at the sight of her half brother’s scribbled penmanship. He didn’t dip his ink often enough. It was a wonder anyone could read it.

  Out of politeness, she ought to set it aside, but these letters were far too infrequent and precious for her to eat a bite until she was certain all was well.

  “Go ahead. We will simply eat all this delicious soup while you read.” Mr. Wyckerly gestured grandiosely before catching Penny’s tilting spoon so soup didn’t spill down her front.

  He tucked a napkin into his daughter’s gown while Abigail hastily scanned the scrawled note, then returned to the beginning and tried to read between the few lines. Tommy did not say enough. She needed to know if they ate well, if they had good tutors and were being taught manners. If their guardians were kind to them. So many things she needed to know . . .

  Tears welled up in her eyes as she translated the few brief sentences. How are you? We are well. Cissy ate a bug. Can we come home when I am eleven?

  Such simple words tore at her heart, and she couldn’t prevent great heavy sobs from emerging. She rose hastily from the table and rushed to the front room to blow her nose in a lace-edged handkerchief.

  A moment later, a much larger plain white linen square was held before her, and a solidly reassuring hand grasped her shoulder. “If there’s any way I can help . . . ,” he offered.

  She wanted to crawl into Mr. Wyckerly’s strong arms and pretend this devastatingly handsome man could wield a magic wand and return her world to normal. Instead, she used his linen to wipe her eyes. “It would take lawyers and courts, or a man of great influence, I fear. I am being silly. I’m sure they’re fine. It’s just—” She teared up and couldn’t continue.

  “You miss them,” he said gravely, as if understanding.

  She nodded and dabbed her eyes dry again. “They’re all I have left. I didn’t think I was raising them badly. We aren’t wealthy, I know, but we’ve never gone without. Only—�
��

  “Someone took them away? Why?”

  She took a deep breath, taking strength from his pragmatic question. Pity would have broken her, but Mr. Wyckerly seemed as bewildered as she had been.

  “Because I’m not a man. Tommy will inherit my father’s small estate. Mr. Greyson, the family lawyer who is in charge of the estate, thought it better if a childless couple raised them. He seemed to think he was doing me a favor, even though I have protested vehemently. Now he thinks I want Tommy’s money!”

  “Most generally, the child’s executor must provide an allowance for the upkeep of the children. Is there some chance he wishes to keep those funds for himself?” he asked sensibly.

  Returning Mr. Wyckerly’s handkerchief, taking strength from knowing he did not agree with Mr. Greyson, Abby marched back to the dining room. Penny watched anxiously from the doorway, and Abby caught her hand, forcing a smile as she returned her to the table. “I am just missing my little brothers and sisters,” she told the child. “Hop back in your chair before Cook’s dumplings get cold.”

  She sank into the chair Mr. Wyckerly held for her. She couldn’t eat a bite, but his masculine presence reassured her in ways she could not explain. She would dearly love a strong shoulder to cry on, but she wasn’t one to indulge in fantasy. Knowing his shoulder was available was a kindness she hadn’t expected, and it weakened her will.

  “I have no reason to believe that Mr. Greyson means to do more than see the children suitably placed. My father wasn’t a wealthy man. His income came from his father’s trust. He made a few shrewd investments, and they provided us with some luxuries. The children’s mother had a small dowry, nothing extravagant. We would have fared fine. But I am not a man,” she repeated bitterly.