The Wicked Wyckerly

by Rice, Patricia

  Rich chestnut hair upswept and adorned with a string of shimmering gems, Lady Belden straightened her slender figure into an aristocratic pose and glared. “You’ll have no children to run rampant if you insist on being particular.”

  Even though she knew the dowager was right, Abigail refused to be intimidated. “Surely there are men out there who speak firmly.” Men like the earl, although she preferred it when he teased Penelope into behaving. If one such man existed, there had to be others.

  “Of course there are, but the more specific the qualities you seek, the more difficult the competition. Most men prefer young misses fresh out of the nursery. You cannot be too choosy if you insist on pursuing the return of your siblings.” Her voice softened as she observed Abigail stand up and shake out her new ball gown. “Well, perhaps you can be a little choosy. You are a veritable Cinderella.”

  Abigail felt like a Cinderella. Instead of her usual lumpy woolens, she wore whisper-soft amber silk that floated over a scandalously translucent chemise. A froth of gauzy sarcenet trailed over the skirt and into floor-length ruffles around her feet, which were encased in delicately embroidered silk slippers—not glass, but close enough.

  Her bodice—Abigail gulped and tried not to peer too long in the marchioness’s rather terrifying cheval glass. Imported from France, the mirror tilted to reveal Abigail from head to toe. Since she’d never owned more than a wall mirror, she’d never given her full figure much notice. Now—she could see that the thin silk band of her bodice was scarcely wider than her hand, revealing far more of her bosom than she’d ever exposed. And the silk scandalously draped over curves that she hadn’t known she possessed.

  She almost looked as if she belonged in London.

  Rather than acknowledge her embarrassment at the ripe figure she saw in the glass, Abigail watched the ribbons dance from her curls as she shook her head. Her throat felt exposed without a chemisette to conceal it. “My seed pearls?” she suggested, touching the hollow at the base.

  “Nonsense. We are presenting you as an heiress. Lily, the amber and rubies, please.” Garbed in dove gray shot with blue, the marchioness had added a stunning set of diamonds to her ears, throat, and wrist. She shimmered like an evening goddess.

  With her petite size and sheared curls, Abby could never aspire to her hostess’s dramatic elegance or sophistication, but the necklace the maid drew from the jewel box made her gasp.

  “Excellent,” the lady said in satisfaction, admiring the result as the maid fastened the five-strand bib necklace around Abby’s throat. “You will be no insipid miss, blending in with all the other ingenues. You will stand out as a lady in your own right. Never let a man think you are any less than his equal. You must command respect.”

  Command respect? She would be fortunate enough to find the strength to swallow.

  Suffering seven degrees of trepidation, Abigail trailed after the marchioness to the waiting carriage. As the vehicle traversed busy streets and waited in line for footmen to help them disembark, she listened dutifully to the lady’s list of instructions, people she must meet, dances she mustn’t dance, men she must avoid.

  She wasn’t entirely certain city dances were the same as country ones. And she had most certainly mixed up the names of the desirable men with the undesirable ones. Names were meaningless without faces. Faces were meaningless unless she saw them with the children. She really did not have a mind trained for society.

  Still, even with her head whirling with instructions, Abby did her best to smile pleasantly and not gape as they climbed stairs crowded with laughing ladies flirting with elegant gentlemen. The mob pushed them up, past a glittering chandelier, until they came to stand in the entrance of the third-story ballroom, waiting to be announced by a servant in livery that put her father’s best Sunday suit to shame.

  The ballroom sparkled with what had to be a thousand wax tapers. Smoke curled around a ceiling painted to look like a midnight sky. Fragile white silk fluttered over open French doors on a distant balcony. Matching white silk festooned the blue walls, draped and caught up in ribbons and red roses. The perfume of a stifling crowd in an enclosed space overpowered any scent from the roses.

  Abigail’s stomach churned, and she considered fleeing, but the mob behind her was too thick and shoved her forward. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t have a thing to say.

  Only gradually did she emerge from her own selfish fears to realize that, unlike Lady Belden, most of the ladies here had escorts. Perhaps . . . could the lady need Abigail as an excuse to appear in public for the first time since her husband’s death?

  The possibility that she might be useful to her hostess in some small way gave her the courage to move forward, but she still thought Cinderella had been smart to arrive late, after the crowd had thinned out.

  She wished she could hope for a handsome prince somewhere in this vast ballroom, but if the gentlemen she’d met last night at the theater were any indication, they were no different from Billy or Harry at home, just better dressed and inclined toward giving themselves airs.

  Using his size to advantage, Lord Quentin shoved through the crush to appear at Lady Belden’s side. “You should have told me you were coming,” he said with disapproval. “If I am the only family you have here, it is my duty to escort you.”

  “Family!” The lady trilled with laughter and tapped him with her fan. “You can scarcely consider yourself my family. You are two removes from Edward’s!”

  Determined to learn from her hostess, Abigail observed the byplay with curiosity. She didn’t think Lord Quentin liked being laughed at, but if he was the insufferable sort who preferred to have things his way, he deserved taking down a notch, as Lady Anne had said.

  “Nevertheless, you are a Hoyt,” he insisted. “Never let it be said that my family treats you in any way less than is proper.”

  “I still intend to spend my fortune before I die,” Lady Belden said merrily as the servant announced their names. “There is no need for you to do me up brown.”

  Abby had thought Lord Quentin had been kind and considerate in his generous offer, not managing or insufferable, but from the lady’s response, she thought otherwise. Abby thought she’d never grasp the nuances.

  “Truthfully, you did not think I would attend, did you?” he asked.

  Lady Bell flicked her fan and glanced around the ballroom. “That’s hardly my concern. You are the son of a marquess now. No matter where you attained your wealth, society can scarcely ignore you any longer. Where are your sisters?”

  Ah, now she understood some of the stiffness between these two. Society did not deem Lord Quentin a gentleman because he was in trade. Abby didn’t understand why that must be so, but she knew that’s how it worked.

  “Sally is with my aunt. Margaret isn’t properly out yet, but Sally has danced once with Fitz.” He turned and belatedly acknowledged Abigail. “Miss Merriweather, if you will allow me the pleasure of the cotillion, I would be most honored.”

  She offered her dance card and allowed Lord Quentin to scrawl his name for one of the first dances. She understood he had no need of her dowry, and his attention was only a maneuver to attract notice for her so she might find a husband. She, at least, was grateful for his consideration.

  “Most of Danecroft’s friends are here,” Lady Belden murmured in Abby’s ear as a footman announced their entrance. “They all have pockets to let, but unlike Fitz’s, their families are influential. I’ll introduce you to Lady Atherton, our hostess. Her youngest son, Nicholas, is a worse fribble than Danecroft, but his mother will do anything to see him settled. His father has the wealth to hire all the solicitors and barristers your little heart can desire.”

  Abby was pretty certain she didn’t want an idle fribble. She’d hoped to find someone with a little work ethic. But she had to admit—glancing around at the awe-inspiring decor—a family with this much wealth and prestige could command kings.

  Lord Quentin broke through the throng to reach th
eir hostess, who nodded approvingly at Abby as the introductions were made. “I heard you meant to look after some of Edward’s relations, Isabell,” said Lady Atherton. “That is most generous of you. I hope you will enjoy your evening, Miss Merriweather.”

  Enjoy? She supposed she might if she didn’t think her entire future and that of the children rested upon this frivolous fantasy. She would prefer to spend the evening admiring the beautiful gowns swirling past her, or observing the fascinating mating dance of the ton. If the hubbub of voices didn’t nearly drown it out, she’d love to sit on the sidelines and simply enjoy the music. But her lot tonight was to enter the jungle and hope she didn’t become prey for the animals.

  She was too short to see past the gentlemen crowding around the marchioness. Wealthy and beautiful, the lady was the honey who drew every eligible bachelor in the room. Abby wished she could see Lord Danecroft, just so she knew one person who liked her for herself, but she smiled politely and extended her hand and accepted introductions to men whose eyes were only on her benefactor.

  When it became apparent that Lady Belden would not dance and that the only way the gentlemen could please her was to dance with her protégée, Abby began her test of endurance.

  “What a wuvahly pin, my lord!” the charming chit in white simpered, staring at Fitz’s chest even though she loomed an inch over his head.

  How daunting to have an eighteen-year-old top him, although he must admit, her height would have given him a much better glimpse of her bosom had she possessed one. With a sigh, Fitz added another qualification to his list of necessary wifely virtues—short and round. He hadn’t decided about the lisp yet. For ten thousand pounds a year, he might endure a lisp.

  He led the child back to her mother and moved on to the next name on his card, striving hard to remember who she was and why he’d asked for a dance. His usually good memory must be afflicted by his concern over leaving Penelope alone with only a nanny for protection. He’d used more of his loan money to have new bolts and locks installed. He’d ordered the nanny to keep Penny away from windows. But it grated that he couldn’t provide a household of bullies to discourage a repetition of last night’s brick throwing.

  He spotted Quentin leading a lady with short red gold hair off the dance floor and approved of Miss Merriweather’s choice of partner, even though the pain of envy stabbed him. They would make an excellent couple. He would have realized that Quent was ideal for Miss Merry’s purposes had he not been so wrapped up in his own selfish concerns.

  When he saw Quentin leading the lady toward the balcony door, Fitz growled and started after them. He caught himself just as the pair reached Nick, and it became apparent that Quentin was merely making introductions.

  Matchmaking.

  Golden Nick wouldn’t suit Rhubarb Girl at all. Nick didn’t have a sensible thought in his head beyond which beautiful courtesan he’d bed next. The idea of Nick even falling out of bed in time to see Abby’s strawberry field in daylight was too absurd to consider. Hoyt needed to be smacked for matchmaking without an inkling of common sense.

  “Lord Danecroft?” A lofty—peeved—male voice intruded on his reverie.

  He glanced around and saw Viscount Pemberley bearing down on him. Fitz winced. Right. He was supposed to be escorting the darling of the family onto the floor right now.

  “Pemberley!” he said happily, extending his hand. “Where have you hidden that beautiful daughter of yours? I believe I’ve been promised this dance.”

  The viscount’s thunderous look eased. “Thought you’d forgotten. She’s been looking forward to it all evening.”

  Now Fitz remembered who she was. Sir Barton had been trapped by Pemberley’s arm-twisting into agreeing to dance with the wallflower daughter. Barton had turned around and bribed Fitz to dance with the reticent miss in exchange for ripping up some of the debts the estate owed him. When approached, Pemberley had been delighted to substitute an earl for a mere baronet on his daughter’s card.

  The wallflower’s dowry wasn’t as large as that of the towering chit without breasts, but once Fitz had Miss Pemberley on the dance floor, she didn’t twitter, at least. And she was a nice height. And there seemed to be some indication of breasts, although one could never be certain, since her bodice was poufed out in ruffles and was too high to reveal anything interesting. Since she blotchily blushed at his downward glance, he returned to smiling into her eyes.

  She had a blemish on her nose. A large, almost purplish one, which warned him that his thirty years were no doubt nearly twice her age, which would make him a cradle robber as well as a scoundrel and an insect. In another ten years, this could be Penelope dancing with a worm like him. And Pemberley had pushed the poor puss in his jaded direction? The man should be horsewhipped.

  Despite all Fitz’s smiling attempts to beguile, the girl appeared to be looking anywhere except at him. Hell, if he couldn’t sweep a nursery miss off her feet, he was in more trouble than he’d thought. He’d hoped to pick a wealthy female tonight, propose tomorrow, and have the special license in hand before the end of next week. He couldn’t neglect the estate much longer than that.

  He followed the direction of the child’s wistful glance and saw Miss Merry bobbing a lively curtsy and swinging on the arm of her dance partner. Fitz’s eyeballs nearly rolled from his head at the entrancing image. The elegant redhead sparkling in jewels and sweeping down the dance formation wasn’t a rhubarb of any sort. There was nothing remotely rural about the manner in which Miss Merry tilted her head and smiled flirtatiously, as if she pranced in aristocratic company every day. The ribbons dangling from her crown drew his gaze to the slender turn of her neck, and the glitter of gold at her throat. . . . What the devil had Isabell dressed her in? A night shift? He would have to strangle the man drinking in the luscious view of firm curves. . . .

  Barton! The gall of the cockroach. The man hadn’t a ha’penny to his name beyond some rocky fields in the north. His family was nothing and no one. A mere baronet couldn’t possibly help Abby get her family back. Knowing the man, Fitz was sure he wouldn’t even try. Barton had tailor bills greater than any dowry Abby might have inherited.

  If mild-mannered Barton was the man Pemberley’s daughter was drooling over, they belonged together. At least Barton wouldn’t terrify the child as Fitz obviously did.

  Setting his mouth grimly, he danced his wistful miss to the end of the line, and broke in beside Abby and Barton. “There you are, m’dear,” he said cheerfully. “We’ve been trying to catch your attention all evening.”

  Sacrificing whatever debts Barton would have torn up, delighting Miss Pemberley, who looked as if she would expire of pleasure, Fitz caught Abby in a whirl of music and carried her off, leaving the baronet stuck with the wealthy wallflower.

  18

  “Is exchanging partners proper in London?” Abigail asked, not at all comprehending how she had suddenly traded a polite baronet for a glowering earl. It was no wonder his partner had looked relieved to be traded if Danecroft had glared at the child as he glared at Abby now.

  “It’s perfectly proper when you’re wasting time on penniless fools.” Now that he had what he wanted, the earl seemed oddly preoccupied. He glanced from her to the people around them as he led her through the remaining steps of the dance.

  Why had he switched partners if he merely wanted to study the crowd? There for a little while she had foolishly thought she was succeeding at attracting noble suitors. She had hoped Danecroft had noticed, but she was coming to understand that he survived by scheming, so she must be part of some devious plan of his. It was unfair that he looked so handsome and artless while gulling others.

  “I scarcely had time to judge Sir Barton as a fool,” she said tartly. “And only penniless suitors are likely to be interested in me.” Danecroft might be a toplofty earl, but he was the only person in this ballroom she had seen wallowing, half-dressed, in pig slop. Somehow, that made it easier to be herself with him.

  “I can
not believe you’re relying on Hoyt to choose your partners.” His green eyes flashed as he finally focused on her. “He has about as much understanding of human nature as your rhubarb.”

  Abby laughed at his ill humor. “That may be so, but Lord Quentin speaks well, and he knows everyone, so he might be a little more useful than rhubarb in this matter.”

  “No, he isn’t. If I planted him in a field, he’d no doubt produce a crop of little Hoyts, but he wouldn’t produce a respectable suitor for you.”

  The music ended, and he swung her to the edge of the dance floor. Ignoring Lady Belden bearing down on them, the earl hustled Abby toward a crowded anteroom where tables of delicacies awaited hungry guests. He ordered punch for both of them, and expertly guided her toward a corner hidden by a massive armoire, while still not looking at her. She might think she’d developed warts and a rash from the way he avoided her resplendent appearance. This was not how the Cinderella story was supposed to go.

  “This is rude,” she objected. “I have promised the next dance to Mr. Atherton. Lady Belden will be exceedingly upset if I am disrespectful of our hostess’s son.”

  “I know Nick. He’s no doubt with his latest conquest at the moment. His mother would have to find him first, grab his ear, and drag him onto the floor. I’m saving both of you from the humiliation of a scene. If Quent set you up with him, it only emphasizes my point. He doesn’t understand people.”

  “And you do?” she asked politely, trying to fathom his sudden interest in her dance partners. Or why he observed the room while he talked with her.

  “Exactly. Let me see your dance card.”

  Out of curiosity, she offered it to him. Danecroft looked so serious and concerned that she suffered an inappropriate thrill at his interest. It was almost a relief to hand the card to someone she’d like to consider a friend.

  “No, no, and no!” He shook his head in disbelief, and the recalcitrant strand of golden brown hair fell across his brow. “They’ve collected a fine set of family names, admittedly, but none of these fellows will suit. I can’t imagine one of them helping you win back your siblings.”