The Wicked Wyckerly

by Rice, Patricia

  It seemed Rhubarb Girl had problems as grim as his own and with equally little chance of solving them, because she was right, Fitz concluded glumly after seeing Penny in bed for her nap. Miss Merry was all feminine delicacy, and no right-minded male would believe her capable of raising four young children on her own. They wouldn’t even believe she would want to. He certainly couldn’t, not after one pint-sized hellion had given him multiple gray hairs in a few short days.

  The superb strawberry-rhubarb pie he’d savored for dessert still tingled his tongue with sweet and tart as he returned downstairs, pondering solutions to their mutual dilemmas.

  He wanted his daughter to be strong like the woman waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He knew Miss Merriweather was as worried as he was, but she wore competence around her like a cloak of invulnerability, while he groveled in ignorance.

  His father and older brother had viewed book learning with distaste. They had believed riding the fields and talking to tenants provided sufficient knowledge of estate management, but as a younger son, Fitz had been left out of their activities and denied further instruction. He despised his lack of useful education.

  “I want to show you my gratitude but don’t know how,” he said. He offered his arm and led her back to the table, where the maid had set out cups and saucers for tea. His hostess’s head barely met his chin, and she glided so lightly beside him, he thought she must be made of air.

  He was almost glad Miss Merry didn’t wear the distractingly low bodices of the city, except the formless bit of cloth she covered herself with didn’t do justice to what appeared to be an extravagant figure. One he shouldn’t be admiring.

  “You owe me nothing.” She briefly squeezed his arm before he seated her at the table. “Your daughter has given me a welcome distraction, and you have provided information that might be of use. I think I will sell all the strawberries this year instead of preserving them so I might take a coach to Surrey to visit the children. Once I am assured they’re well, everything will look better.”

  She was letting him off too easily—because she expected a man without the funds to properly care for his daughter to be nothing more than a bankrupt scoundrel. Fitz gritted his teeth against any protest. It wasn’t as if she were wrong.

  “Regardless of how it looks, I can help,” he insisted. “I have friends in London. I could even borrow a private coach-and-four to take you to Surrey once I’ve solved my quandary of how to travel with my unruly daughter. Which I’ll do shortly.”

  She looked up from her teacup with amusement. “Of course you will, as soon as you tame Penelope.”

  “Is that like saying as soon as I prove the moon is green cheese?” he asked in disgruntlement.

  Her eyes danced, and Fitz almost made the mistake of falling into their cerulean depths. He had to remind himself that he did not have time for women unless they came accompanied by boundless wealth—and immense stupidity. Miss Merry did not qualify on either count.

  Seeing no choice, he opted for bluntness. “I need to fetch a stallion in Cheltenham. I simply had not realized how perilous it would be to travel with Penny.”

  “Leaving her with an unqualified nanny was equally perilous,” she pointed out. “But you are right. You have a lot to learn about children before you’ll be able to travel safely with a child as strong-willed as your daughter.”

  “We’re not known as a biddable family,” he said gloomily.

  Rhubarb Girl looked adorable considering his predicament when she had so many of her own problems to solve. She had a lusciously red, moist mouth that invited tasting as much as the strawberries she grew. The idea of kissing strawberry-flavored lips aroused him in unacceptable ways. The idea of her kissing him back . . .

  It screamed of wedding bells and vows he couldn’t make. There were reasons men and women shouldn’t dine alone together, even with servants trotting in and out.

  He discreetly adjusted his breeches and turned his gaze back to his tea.

  “I don’t suppose you count among your friends any powerful solicitor who might persuade the children’s executor to return them to me?” she asked, her train of thought so far from his that it caught him by surprise.

  “I know solicitors,” he agreed warily. He was fairly certain the estate’s solicitors would be biddable should he find the funds to pay them. The prestige of having an earl for a client inevitably influenced even the thorniest of lawyers into forgiveness. “I have friends who could give me the names of the best one.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. He could almost hear the gears of her mind spinning. That wasn’t feminine interest behind her lovely blue stare, much as he would like to think it. He might long to run his hands through the enticing fluff of her strawberry curls, but he was starting to learn that countrywomen hid spiky spines of steel. Or this one did, at any rate.

  Accustomed to the simpering ladies of the ton, he was uncomfortable with the knowledge—and intrigued. He waited with anticipation to see what conclusion she reached.

  “If I agree to take care of Penny while you take care of your business in Cheltenham, is there some way I can legally bind you to find a good solicitor for me in return?”

  He almost snorted out his tea. “Legally bind? As in an IOU for a solicitor?”

  She studied him the same way he studied her—warily. “I would probably need documents declaring you intend to return for her and any other assurances that might be useful should you unexpectedly . . . not return. I would not wish the authorities to believe I’ve kidnapped her.”

  “No, of course not.” He could barely swallow the lump in his throat. She regarded him as a termite so low that she thought he would abandon his daughter.

  She was absolutely right to doubt him. It merely grated that this bit of fluff recognized the depths to which he’d burrowed. “I dislike leaving her,” he said, honestly enough. “She doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  “I agree that she needs to know she won’t be abandoned, so you would have to return quickly. Once you’ve established that you will always return, she will eventually accept that you must occasionally leave on business.”

  He nodded, not reassured yet seeing no other choice. He couldn’t believe he was discussing his uncouth behavior with a lady of obvious gentility. A woman who was little more than a stranger to him. How could he think of leaving his daughter with a near stranger?

  Yet he’d left her with Mrs. Jones for years, and they didn’t come any stranger than that.

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, he reached for his tea to wash down his doubts. “I will write any document you specify, Miss Merriweather, with the understanding that I will crucify you should anything happen to Penny.”

  Her smile brightened the room better than a dozen chandeliers.

  8

  “Penelope, no! Not the pigsty!” The morning after her uneasy accord with Mr. Wyckerly, Abigail dropped the chicken feed she was distributing to chase after her new charge. Penny was following the kitten into the hog enclosure. “It’s dirty!”

  As if Penny cared. The child tumbled over the fence and hit the filth on the other side, then valiantly picked herself up and stalked the wicked kitten, ignoring the unholy stench.

  Abby gave the child credit for resilience and hoped Mr. Wyckerly had half as much. Obviously out of his depths with child rearing, he must learn to be both adaptable and firm to handle his daughter all by himself.

  At Abigail’s cry, Mr. Wyckerly dropped the basket of strawberries he was carrying in from the field. In a few long strides, he reached the sty and stared in dismay at his filthy offspring. “I think she’s found her element,” he said with exasperation.

  Watching Penny fall to her knees and wallow in the mud with the animals, he yanked out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. “Come to think of it, she may just be reverting to her family origins.”

  Abigail laughed, then glanced mischievously at the snow-white cravat he’d persuaded Annie to scrub, starch, and pres
s for him that morning. Earlier, Mr. Wyckerly had ascertained the mail coach schedule, and he was now dressed for his departure. He plainly enjoyed clean clothes and high fashion—neither of which was practical in rural abodes.

  “Pigs are extremely intelligent creatures,” she told him. “They know mud packs are good for their complexions. But our hog does not have a pleasant disposition. We need to pry Penelope out of there before he becomes territorial.” She glanced expectantly at Mr. Wyckerly.

  He glared back. “At what point does she become your duty?”

  “When you leave,” she arbitrarily decided. “This is my best morning gown. I can’t go out there.”

  “Penelope!” he roared, in apparent optimism that his daughter would listen. “Get your skinny posterior out of there before a hog eats you.”

  “He’ll eat Kitty!” she called back, intent on her pursuit.

  “Well, at least she answered.” Abigail added a positive note to his scowling curse.

  Muttering, Mr. Wyckerly leaned against the fence to tug off his polished boots. Abigail watched in horrified fascination as he peeled off his stockings next, revealing long white feet, and . . . she gulped. Hairy, well-shaped calves.

  He rolled up his pantaloons to his knees, cast off his coat and waistcoat, and then, with a look of regret, neatly untied his neckcloth, laying it carefully over the other garments on the grass, well out of reach of the filthy pigsty.

  Abigail thought she may have stopped breathing. If she’d ever seen a man stripped to naught but short breeches and shirt, she couldn’t remember it. And she would have remembered had the man looked as superb as this one did.

  Smelling of strawberries and woodsy shaving soap, without benefit of his elegant attire, Mr. Wyckerly was all raw male. His open shirt revealed a curl of manly hair on a wide, muscled chest. His shoulders bulged at the seams of his patched cotton shirt. Powerful arm and thigh muscles surged as he climbed the fence and reluctantly lowered his bare feet into the filth.

  Abby was in a state of captivation over her guest’s well-shaped posterior when the clatter of carriage wheels and squeak of harness rattled up the drive, startling her back to the real world.

  The last time a carriage had arrived at the house, it had been the Weatherstons to pick up the children.

  The racket jarred the half-asleep hog into waking. “Watch out, Mr. Wyckerly!” she shouted before abandoning him to his fate.

  In heart-thumping excitement, she picked up her skirt and raced for a glimpse of the vehicle rolling around to the front. She doubted anyone in all Oxfordshire, short of the Duke of Marlborough, owned a polished berlin and matching carriage horses. Someone must be bringing the children to visit, thank all the heavens!

  The elegant berlin drew up to the front steps. The gold crest on its door caused her to stumble, but the thought of seeing the children again overcame her trepidation. Let London society scorn her lack of sophistication. No one could love the children more than she did.

  “Penelope!” At the wild male cry of fear and fury emanating from behind her, Abigail skidded to a halt. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Mr. Wyckerly grab for his daughter and the kitten just as the hog charged.

  “Oh, botheration!” Switching directions, she ran back to the fence, and caught Penelope and her kitten as Mr. Wyckerly swung the pair over. With his hands free, her guest scrambled onto the rails just as the hog butted the back of his knees.

  With a shout of surprise, he fell sideways into the muck.

  Penelope wiggled, and Abigail set her smelly charge on her feet, while clinging to her hand so she could not escape again. She held her breath until Mr. Wyckerly stood up. As he vaulted the fence in a powerful surge of muscle, she sighed in relief. He was dripping filth, smelling of hog feces, and scowling at his daughter as if he’d heave Penny back into the sty when a melodic feminine voice called from the drive.

  “How very bucolic, Danecroft. I see you have finally found your proper milieu.”

  Danecroft?

  In startlement, Abigail swung to confront the new arrival.

  Wiping his face with one of the cleaner patches of his filthy shirt, mentally grinding the hog’s snout into sausage and calculating the price per pound for pork, Fitz regarded the Marchioness of Belden with frustration. He’d almost got clean away. It was his cursed bad luck that society should come calling before he could escape.

  He didn’t know Lady Belden well, but he knew not to count on the dowager to leave him with any secrets. Discovering an earl in a pigsty was simply too juicy a bit of gossip. Once she notified all London of his whereabouts, he was a doomed man. Apprehensively, he glanced behind her just to be certain she hadn’t led bailiffs and half his London creditors to him.

  No bailiffs, but Miss Merriweather had frozen in place, still clutching Penelope’s hand.

  “It appears one of your letters to the late marquess has been answered,” he muttered, standing at a discreet distance, since he reeked of pig filth.

  His normally tart-tongued hostess fell speechless as the slender marchioness advanced across the lawn in a cloud of expensive French perfume, trailing delicate, pleated muslin skirts of blue gray, and wearing a ridiculously useless navy velvet spencer that matched the ribbons of her bonnet. The lady had obviously tired of wearing heavy mourning and was amusing herself by skirting propriety.

  “My lady,” he replied, offering a muddy bow that would have graced the best parlors—except for his bare knees and lack of proper attire.

  Abigail dipped a curtsy beside him. He’d never seen Rhubarb Girl forget her manners, but she didn’t smooth over the awkward scene with explanations as would most females of his acquaintance. Was he now in her black books, too? He’d thought he’d behaved cleverly and responsibly by fishing his daughter from danger. He’d expected to be lavished with praise, but both women were ignoring him.

  “Introductions, Danecroft,” the marchioness demanded.

  With a heavy sigh of regret, Fitz whispered in his daughter’s ear, “Take the kitten back to Cook and tell her she has guests who will appreciate her rhubarb tarts. Tell her I said you could have one, too, even if you are a nasty little pig.”

  Penelope slipped from Miss Merry’s hold, and raced for the house before Fitz was forced to introduce her as well. He didn’t expect the approaching confrontation to be pleasant, and the child may as well be out of it.

  “Lady Belden, may I present the estimable Miss Abigail Merriweather, my hostess. Miss Merriweather, I believe I mentioned the dowager marchioness to you.”

  Abigail made another stiff curtsy but said nothing.

  “Very prettily done, my lord,” the dowager said with obvious sarcasm. “You do realize all of London believes you dead?”

  It was his turn to be shocked into silence. Dead? What the devil had Bibley done? Fitz had specifically told the old man not to play the fraud. He wanted to be a responsible Wyckerly, not a wicked one. He glared at the blasted woman for dashing his few fragile hopes of escaping to retrieve his stallion and turned to a very pale Miss Merry, who seemed about to faint.

  “I can explain,” he hastily told her. “Not about the dead part, but the rest.” He caught her elbow but she shook him off. Bad sign. He turned back to the Machiavellian marchioness, who was gloating over the gossip fodder he was providing. “Since I am very much alive and intend to stay that way, why would anyone think I’m dead?”

  “Because your gun and clothing were found on the bank of the Thames where it runs through your estate.” Isabell displayed all her dainty teeth in a broad smile. “Your heir has gone into hiding and your friends are devastated.”

  “The fools think I killed myself? They think so little of me?” He didn’t have to ask why anyone would set up a scene of suicide, since Bibley had already proposed it as a means of escaping his creditors and wasn’t always scrupulous about following orders. And if Geoff had any idea of the estate’s condition, he couldn’t blame his cousin for hiding. But he couldn’t believe h
is friends hadn’t beaten the river looking for him, knowing he would never be so henhearted as to take the easy way out.

  “Well, now that you are found”—she glanced at the pigsty—“in all your glory, I’m sure you can correct their error. What interests me is why you would be dallying with my husband’s little cousin.”

  Miss Merriweather paled even further, if that was possible. He could see the freckles across the bridge of her nose despite the shadow of her bonnet. Where before she had laughed and treated him as a friend, now she eased away from him. Rejecting her rejection, Fitz firmly placed Abigail’s chilled fingers on his shirtsleeve, and started toward the house. Only then did he remember his sleeve was filth-caked—but she continued to cling to it anyway. For once, the damned woman was acting as fragile as she looked. He didn’t think he liked it.

  “Miss Merriweather has been generous enough to offer me her guest cottage while I recover from the shock of George’s death,” he said blithely to the marchioness, who had wisely taken her footman’s arm and preceded them, upwind from his stench. Fitz’s mind raced fast and furiously. He didn’t want to compromise the generous farm girl who had given him hope when he’d despaired, but he wasn’t at all certain that explaining Miss Merriweather merely cared for Penelope was the best decision either. He stalled for time.

  “I regret that it took me so long to respond to your plea, dear, but Fitz is not a solution. He is up a tree with nary a feather to fly with,” the marchioness politely informed her cousin. “There are bailiffs on his doorstep. You can do much better than him.”

  “The children?” Abigail finally whispered, watching her aristocratic guest with hope.

  Fitz bit back his amusement at her immediate dismissal of his embarrassing situation. Naturally, she focused on her main concern. Unlike most of society, she knew children were more important than philandering no-accounts.

  “I’m sure your young relations are fine. I’ve sent my man of business to check on them. I apologize for taking so long to settle my late husband’s estate, but his death was sudden, and I wasn’t prepared.”