The Wicked Wyckerly

by Rice, Patricia

  “No, which worries me as much as if they complained. And Lady Belden insists I need more ball gowns, and I fear all my inheritance will be spent in finding a husband, when what I really want is a solicitor.”

  He could push her now, tell her he could hire solicitors, but his Abby knew it would be at her own expense. Still, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to show her a little of what he could do. “Shall I help you pry your funds from Lady Bell’s hands so you may begin the process of interviewing solicitors?”

  She shot him a dubious look. Fitz set Penelope on her feet, ignoring Abby’s doubt. He chose to believe that she was more concerned about his method of persuading the dowager than his ability to do so. And he was pleased that he had found a woman in whom he could place that much confidence.

  “Lady Belden is immune to charm,” she said, confirming his belief. “I believe she is bored and keeping me here for her own entertainment.”

  Rather than acknowledge that insight, Fitz halted to pull his daughter from the filth of the street where she’d collapsed. “Penelope, if you wake up and stop grumbling before we reach Gunter’s, we can take Miss Abby for an ice. Otherwise, I must take you home to Nanny.”

  She sent him a disgruntled look but clung to his hand and rubbed her eyes and quit complaining. Oddly, Fitz did not consider his daughter a nuisance but felt pride that he was learning how to deal with her. And that she actually listened to him.

  When he glanced to Abby, she was beaming with delight. All in all, this might be the very best day of his miserable life, and all because two females approved of him. And now he was heading into dangerously foolish territory again, believing women could be the answer to his prayers.

  But today he was a grasshopper, out to enjoy a summer’s day with no concern for approaching winter. “Well, then, we must find some means of entertaining the lady that will accomplish what we want,” he said. “Come along, we will have our ices, then descend upon Belden House with all our cannon primed and loaded.”

  By the time they rambled through the crowded streets from Gunter’s Tea Shop at Berkeley Square to the dowager’s mansion in a quieter residential area near Hyde Park, Penny had tired of their excursion.

  “Let me carry her to the nursery, and then I’ll return to help you confront whatever lion stands between you and your inheritance,” Fitz promised, stopping at the mansion’s doorstep.

  “Lady Belden will simply declare that you are after my money. I don’t know if she has the power to take it away, and I don’t wish to insult her. She’s been very kind.” Abigail wrung her hands in indecision. It had been a lovely morning, and she hated to see Fitz leave, but she feared taking control of her inheritance was a problem she must tackle on her own.

  “I will be back,” he said firmly. “If you are to handle your own affairs, you must learn how to deal with the bullies who would deny you.”

  That was true. She knew where she stood in the village, knew the people, and how to work with them. In London, she was out of her element, and frightened as a result. Not to mention confused, uncertain, and entirely unlike her usual self. She needed a guide to teach her this new milieu, and she could think of no one better than Fitz.

  “Very well,” she said gratefully. “I will let you know what I have found out when you return.”

  “Wanna stay with Miss Abby,” Penny warned, attempting to tug her hand free from her father’s grip.

  “You can’t swat spiders here,” Abby told her, biting back a grin.

  “Can, too.” She placed her free hand on her hip and stuck out her lower lip.

  “But we have much bigger, squishier spiders at home.” Fitz tipped his hat in farewell as a servant opened the door to allow Abby in. “And I think Nanny meant to buy a new broom with which to squash them.” He led Penny down the stairs, discussing more instruments of insect torture to hold his daughter’s interest.

  Abby wiped a silly tear in the corner of her eye as she listened to Penelope’s clear voice, pitched high enough to hear even as they turned a corner.

  Lord Danecroft would make a wonderful father. It was unfair that the world expected him to shoulder the costly burdens generated by decades of his ancestors’ abuse.

  But life was seldom fair and seemed to be more about making warm quilts out of the ragged scraps one was given. And so she would do, once she had an idea of what scraps were hers. She handed her bonnet and parasol to the footman who held the door, and decided her first step was to confront the marchioness’s assistant, Maynard.

  She found the scrawny retainer bent over account books in the dowager’s business office. “Maynard, I should like to see the accounts of my inheritance and expenditures,” she said when he did not even look up at her entrance.

  “I’ve not seen them yet,” he replied, his quill scribbling rapidly across the book he was working on. “The solicitors are slow to send me the documents.”

  “Then give me the name of the firm so I may go there and see them for myself.”

  He cast her an appalled glance. “Ladies never travel within the City walls!”

  “I am not a lady. I’m a country girl, and I’m accustomed to looking after my own accounts.” She said it as firmly as she dared, since the notion of finding transportation into the center of the business district terrified her.

  “I will send word to the firm and ask them to bring the accounts here.” He returned to his work without a further glance, effectively dismissing her.

  “If you will write the note now, I will hand it to a footman to deliver,” she insisted.

  She saw the pen hesitate, as if he debated ignoring her. She had been pleasant and patient long enough. Fitz was right. She should not allow bullies to deny her what was rightfully hers. She stepped forward and placed her hand across his ledger. “Now, please, Maynard. I would very much like to speak with the solicitors.”

  With a scowl, he produced a clean sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the inkstand, and scrawled a note that Abigail inspected before he folded and sealed it.

  “Lady Belden will not approve,” he warned.

  “Then I will not approve of Lady Belden,” she retorted, swinging on her heel and returning to the hall to find a footman to run her errand.

  Perhaps Fitz was right. Perhaps learning to deal with society was just a matter of asserting herself and not caring if people thought her provincial.

  The dowager had returned from her morning calls by the time the clerk from the solicitor and Fitz arrived, but the lady disappeared into the upper stories without interfering in the business office. Abigail directed the gentlemen into the study and nervously hoped the marchioness stayed otherwise occupied. She truly didn’t like scenes, and she suspected Lady Belden was capable of creating dramatic ones.

  Introductions were exchanged, and Mr. Wisdom, the solicitor’s clerk, seemed sufficiently awed by the company of an earl to explain the details in the documents he produced.

  “Barbara?” Fitz asked, scanning her inheritance papers. “Your name is Barbara Abigail?”

  Abby snatched the paper from his grip and sat down at the library table to struggle with the legal verbiage. “I was named after my mother. I don’t use it.”

  “Rhubarbara,” he whispered in her ear as he picked up the ledger the clerk had carried in.

  The nonsense name tickled all the way down her spine, making her grin foolishly. Losing himself in account books, unaware of his effect on her, Fitz strolled about the room, flipping through columns of numbers. He whistled a time or two, laughed once, and spun the book on his finger before returning it to the table.

  Abigail looked up from the ponderous document she was perusing to glare at him. This was her future he dismissed so casually. The sums involved might be minuscule compared with an earl’s estate, but they staggered her and seemed very serious business, indeed.

  “Your fortune will keep you in frocks for years to come, my dear,” Fitz said, sliding the book across to her. “And it will even keep food on the table if
you invest it for more than the paltry one percent you are now earning.”

  Abby opened the ledger, but the numbers trailing down the page meant little to her. She glanced at the neat labels for each entry and nearly choked at the horrendous millinery bill. “I cannot imagine any amount of income paying for expenses like these!”

  Fitz chuckled, leaning over her shoulder, and she nearly stopped thinking entirely as the scent of bay rum filled her senses, and his hard, masculine chest brushed her back. She stared dumbly as his long finger swept down the page, past all the neat numbers to the bottom, then flipped to the next sheet and tapped the untotaled column.

  Those long fingers had slid through her hair not so long ago. If she’d accepted his proposal, they would touch her even more intimately. Her breasts ached at the notion, and she blushed. As if he followed her thoughts, he propped one hand on her shoulder and circled a surreptitious finger at her nape while he scribbled a few numbers into the columns with Mr. Wisdom’s pen. The ink stained a callus she hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “There is the total of your current expenses to date.” He tapped the astounding, breathtaking sum of over one hundred pounds. “And here’s your income to date.” He tapped a smaller sum. “You will see that you are currently spending more than you are earning.”

  “Of course, my lord. There are always initial expenses.” Mr. Wisdom hurried to explain. “And I was given to understand that the lady means to marry. The marchioness assured me Miss Merriweather did not need to worry about enjoying herself while she can.”

  While she could? Of course, all these great sums would go to her husband when she married. She knew that. She was simply gasping at how quickly Fitz had totaled them—and from his breath tickling the hairs at her nape, and his hand squeezing her shoulder as he stepped back.

  “Of course,” Fitz said. “Miss Merriweather should always enjoy herself. But she could do so without touching the principal if the funds were invested more wisely.”

  Abigail stared at the ledger while Fitz argued with the solicitor about risk and cent per cents and things she’d never had any reason to understand. Mr. Wisdom complained about gambling on stocks. She understood that much. Fitz’s argument about rates of return flew well beyond her understanding.

  How had he added those columns so swiftly?

  She wasn’t given the opportunity to ask. Apparently made aware of her guests, the dowager sailed into the library without warning, and Abby’s heart sank to her stomach.

  “Danecroft!” Lady Belden thundered. “I don’t believe I invited you.”

  Mr. Wisdom rose hastily and made an awkward bow, which the lady ignored.

  “And so you didn’t, my dearest lady.” One leg in front of the other, Fitz made a grand flourish with his arm and bowed deeply, as if to a queen. When he straightened, he ruined the effect with his mocking smile. “I shall correct that instantly by removing myself and Miss Merriweather to another location.”

  He tucked the ledger and file under his arm and held out his hand to Abigail. She glanced warily at her hostess as she accepted it.

  “You will not escape that easily!” Lady Belden warned. “Sally told me about this morning’s adventures at her brother’s house. Quentin is naught but a mischief-maker.”

  “There we agree, my lady,” Fitz said, tucking Abigail’s hand into the crook of the arm not occupied holding the ledger. “But since I owe him a great deal of blunt, he is looking after his own interests as well as mine, so I must concur with his goals, if not his means.”

  The dowager tugged the ledger from beneath Fitz’s arm and flung it to the table. “Abigail must be offered choices. You cannot claim her fortune simply because you met her first. You are not suitable marriage material.”

  “Abigail is a grown woman with a mind of her own,” Abby said quietly. She disliked argument, but she especially disliked being disregarded as if she had no say in her future. Picking up the ledger, she tucked it under her own arm. “And I do not appreciate being fought over like a bone between growling mastiffs. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d like to study these on my own.”

  With as much dignity as she could muster in her confusion, she left the library and stalked toward the front of the house. Taking charge of her fortune wasn’t much of a declaration of independence, but it would have to do. Behind her, she could hear Fitz offering teasing farewells and the marchioness buzzing like an angry bee.

  She desperately feared her heart was telling her to trust Fitz while her head was shouting all the reasons why she shouldn’t. And logic was failing. How could a professed wastrel sum those columns so rapidly when even the solicitor had not yet had time to total them?

  An urgent knock startled her into halting before she climbed the stairs. A footman in formal knee breeches and black frock coat opened the door. She caught only a few hasty words before the servant accepted a folded note, shut the door on the caller, and turned to her. “Miss, I believe this is for you. The messenger is awaiting your reply.”

  She set the papers on the stairs and opened the note. All the blood rushed from her face as she scanned the handwriting, reading it twice to be certain she hadn’t misunderstood.

  The children have disappeared. We demand to know if they are in your possession.

  It was signed by Mr. Weatherston, the children’s guardian.

  24

  Closing the library door on the dragon lady, Fitz hurried down the hall after his valiant Rhubarbara. He was proud of her for standing up to the dowager, but not so proud of himself for putting Abby in a position where she must argue with her benefactor.

  Seeing her in the front foyer, he increased his pace, prepared to apologize for being an overbearing scoundrel, when he heard her gasp and saw her catch the banister to steady herself. What could cause his steel-spined Abby to feel faint?

  Covering the distance in two strides, he snatched up the note she was holding, and firmly caught her in his embrace. She sagged against him without protest, warning the problem was dire.

  Scanning the missive, Fitz growled an expletive, released Abby to the tender care of the banister, and threw open the door. “Who are you?” he demanded of the lad still standing on the doorstep.

  “Just the messenger, my lord,” he said in terror of Fitz’s fury. “I took the coach up all by myself. The mistress is beside herself, and everyone’s running about shouting and crying, and they said I was to get Mr. Greyson the executor to search your house if I must.”

  “Good luck with that. Tell your employers the children are not here, that they could not possibly have made their way here alone, and that we will be on the road shortly to tear the countryside apart in search of them. If this is some type of jest, someone will pay, and they will pay dearly.”

  He handed the terrified lad a coin, slammed the door, and turned to Abby, who was already tying on a bonnet with shaking fingers.

  “You need to stay, in case they find their way here,” he told her, rubbing his hand through his hair and thinking fast. What would he do if it were Penny who went missing? “I assume this is the address the children will seek, is it not?”

  “They have this address, and it’s closer than Chalkwick Abbey, but I cannot believe they would be so foolish as to attempt coming to London alone. I invited the Weatherstons to bring them here for the twins’ birthday. Could someone have stolen them?”

  “I’ll interrogate the servants when I get there. If my own youthful experience is of any use, children tend to run away when circumstances frustrate them. Has Tommy ever run away?”

  She threw him a look of curiosity, but now was not the time for him to explain his wayward youth. At least the color was returning to her cheeks.

  “He did once, after his mother died. My father was incoherent with grief and yelled at him for some trivial error. We were all terribly distraught, so it was perfectly understandable, and he did not go far. But he was only seven.”

  And now he was ten. In little over three years, the children had l
ost both parents and been removed from their sister, the only remaining source of stability in their short lives. Having had his own boots yanked out from under him a time or three, Fitz thought he might have some understanding of their insecurity.

  “I assume they did not take horses, so they should be easy to trace,” he said with a confidence that hid his knowledge of all the dreadful things that could happen to four very young children along ten miles of a busy thoroughfare. “Quentin’s closest. I’ll stop there first and have him notify all the men of our acquaintance. We’ll cover every road between London and Surrey.”

  The footman had stood stiffly at attention some distance from their conversation, but finally he could not resist adding his admonition, “It’s threatening to rain, my lord. The road south floods and forms a mud pit if the rain lasts long.”

  Fitz bit back his curses.

  Abby took up her reticule. “Please tell Lady Belden I have gone in search of the children, and beg her to look after them for me if they return here before I do.”

  She might dither over her own choices, but she was not slow to make up her mind when it came to her siblings. Fitz didn’t think he could argue with her after telling her she must learn to face up to bullies. She was likely to slap him silly.

  The footman somberly retrieved her umbrella and pelisse from the cloakroom beneath the stairs. “Yes, miss.”

  “I mean to borrow a horse and ride hard,” Fitz said, not letting Abby past him, attempting to force her to think. “You will slow me down.”

  “You will leave me with Lord Quentin and his sisters, then, so I may help him write notes to your friends. And then I will borrow a gig and driver and follow you.”

  She poked his boot with her umbrella point until he cursed a little louder and yanked open the door. “You heard what he said about mud pits,” he warned. “You will be caught in some seamy inn, and I won’t be there to look after you. Don’t give me more to worry about.”