Wicked Wyckerly (3 page)

Sensing she’d shocked a genuine reaction from him, Penelope wailed louder. “You hate me, you hate me. I hate you, I hate you—”

“If you will give her time to calm down . . . ,” the increasingly impatient voice intruded.

He didn’t listen to the rest of her admonition. “Do the theatrics usually work with Mrs. Jones?” he asked the child, deciding on a nonchalant approach that generally shocked furious women into momentary silence.

At his unruffled response to her tantrum, Penelope fell quiet and stared, taken aback. Fitz crooked an eyebrow at her.

“While this is all very entertaining,” the little hen behind him clucked, “you are preventing Cook from preparing dinner.”

He winced at the reminder of the utter cake he was making of himself instead of impressing the household with his usual currency of sophistication and charm. Having been abandoned by the mail coach, they had nowhere else to go. Cheltenham and his prize stallion were still over a day’s hard journey to the west.

The hen ducked down until Fitz was suddenly blinking into delectable blueberry-colored eyes rimmed with lush ginger lashes. A halo of strawberry curls framed dainty peach-and-cream cheeks. Whoa, why had she hidden such lusciousness beneath that ghastly bonnet? His gaze dropped to her ripe, cherry lips, and he nearly salivated as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and apples. He must be hungrier than he’d thought.

Ignoring him, she looked pointedly at Penelope and barked like a field sergeant instead of in the syrupy voice he’d anticipated. “Young lady, if you will refrain from caterwauling like an undisciplined hound, you may wash your hands and take a seat at the table.”

Apparently expecting to be obeyed, the pint-sized Venus stood up, and her unfashionable but sensible ankle boots stalked away. Fitz stared back at his daughter. Over their heads, he could hear the exquisite little lady commanding her troops.

“Cook, I believe we will need your burn salve. And, sir”—she kicked his bootheel just in case he didn’t realize he was the only man in the room—“if you will step outside for a moment, we will have a little talk while the salve is prepared.”

“Just keep remembering, she eats sweets, not people,” he whispered to Penelope before backing out to face his punishment.

3

After the way the elegant gentleman had stared at her as if she were a Christmas pudding and he a starving man, Abigail was too shaky to meet his eyes again. Perhaps her loneliness had simply conjured that look. It had felt entirely too good to be
seen
by a man for a change.

She threaded her fingers together against her apron and set her glare on the pearl pin with which he had fastened the folds of his neckcloth. He seemed even more dashing than the prince’s friend the infamous Beau Brummell. And she had kicked his boots and admired his posterior!

She wanted to sink through the kitchen step, but she would not allow her insecurity to get the best of her. She had inherited her magistrate father’s keen sense of duty but must work hard to find the courage to carry it through, especially now. A vaporish spinster would have no chance of reclaiming and properly raising four rambunctious children.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said stiffly. “I am Abigail Merriweather, and this is my home.” She had discarded her bonnet upon entering the kitchen, but now she wished she’d left it on. She’d had her unruly locks shorn when she’d lost patience with taming the frizz, assuming no one cared how she looked anyway. She feared the bonnet had left her curls squashed flat.

“My sincerest apologies for the behavior of myself and my daughter,” the stranger responded in a mellow baritone that could melt her bones in the same way good organ music elevated her spirits. “As you may be able to tell, I am not accustomed to dealing with her.”

The gentleman hesitated long enough for Abigail to wonder why and dare a glance upward. He was slicking his unruly forelock back from his high brow, and his sculpted features frowned as if he was as agitated as she. Or at least aware of the awkwardness. The gesture almost melted her resistance as well as her bones.

But instead of offering an honest admission of failure, he donned a deceptive smile of assurance designed, she was certain, to charm susceptible females. “I am called Jack Wyckerly, and my daughter is Penelope. I have just removed her from an unsuitable situation, and she is justifiably outraged at being taken from the only home she’s ever known.”

Abigail was having a hard time thinking straight while his green eyes lingered admiringly upon her. Men did not often look at her, much less with appreciation, so she did not believe his charm for an instant.

His plummy accents and stylish garb did not deceive her either. True aristocrats did not ride in mail coaches. Nor did they escort children about without nannies. Or leave them in
unsuitable situations.
Jack Wyckerly was a fraud, not a nobleman. At best, he might be an impoverished gentleman or a tradesman, which made him much easier for her to deal with.

Besides, his incompetent attempts to deal with the little girl invoked her protective instincts. She could not refuse her aid. “Children tire easily. She needs to be fed and put down for a nap.”

“She does?” He blinked in astonishment. “She isn’t a babe.”

Oh, dear. The way his intelligent eyes lit with interest created an abnormally warm sensation in her breast. She focused on the unshaven whiskers shadowing his high-boned cheeks to remind herself of his deceit.

“Age matters only in the hours of sleep needed. Babies may slumber most of the day. Young children require as much as twelve hours or more each night. If you’ve been traveling, I wager she’s not slept at all.”

Fitz drove his hand through his hair, resisted admiring Miss Merriweather’s bounteous bosom, and absorbed the interesting bit of knowledge she offered. “You mean, maybe Penelope doesn’t hate me? She’s just tired?” Oddly, for the first time in his selfish life, his daughter’s opinion mattered. Losing his immediate family must have skewered his usual detachment.

“Oh, she may hate you,” the adorable little hen said with equanimity. “I can’t answer to that, not knowing what you have done to make her suffer. But children are very adaptable. They respond well to love and trust and security.”

She spoke with the voice of experience, although he saw no evidence of any children about. Fitz desperately wanted to believe her, though. He needed a brief respite to order his thoughts and work out his next step. Aid with his hellion offspring would be appreciated.

He hated lying on general principle, and he was supposed to be learning responsibility, but he couldn’t in all good conscience declare his true identity, not with bailiffs on his heels, and not until he’d worked out some financial solution that didn’t involve Newgate.

“I seem to be in a bit of a pickle here.”

Miss Merriweather’s cheeks pinkened delightfully as she waited for him to express himself. He was always a sap for a pretty face, and the farmer miss was exceptionally adorable, especially when she tried to force her plump lips into a scowl. But he never preyed on the innocent, so he knew not to look at her as any more than a convenient reprieve from his difficulties.

“I have no experience in raising a child and wasn’t prepared to take on Penelope just yet. My investments are currently . . . tied up.” Well, he assumed the prize stallion waiting for him in Cheltenham had to be tied to a post occasionally, so that wasn’t too much of a stretch. “I need some time to learn to deal with a child before we continue our journey.”

And even though he’d only reached Oxfordshire, this remote farm looked like the end of the world to a city man like him, an excellent place to hide from creditors. He had traveled with Penny from Reading, not far from his ancestral ruins in Berkshire, and he’d already realized that even another day in a coach with his daughter would be a hair-raising, death-defying experience. Besides, he couldn’t carry her on the stallion from far western England back to his estate southwest of London, even should he dare set foot there again without pockets full of gold.

He needed a place to leave Penelope while he retrieved his horse and sold it. He scarcely dared hope that providence had supplied such a miracle. He would study the situation instead of making another impulsive decision.

Miss Merriweather hesitated, as she had every good reason to do. Fitz wondered if there were any males about that he could speak with man to man, but even as vulnerable as the lady seemed, she didn’t appear to answer to anyone. He was barely aware that such freedom for women existed, but that’s what came of spending his life in the rarefied atmosphere of the city’s upper echelons—the familiar society that he most strenuously wished to return to, if he could figure out how.

“I don’t suppose you could put us up for a few days until Penelope learns to mind me?” he continued, forcing her decision.

“It would be very improper for you to stay in the house with me,” she said, indirectly answering his question about men. “Even though we have a nursery that isn’t currently in use.”

Fitz tried to puzzle out the sadness that caused her pretty lips to droop, but he didn’t want to distract her with too many questions. “Perhaps you have some chores that require a man’s hand?” he asked, even though he knew his hand was skilled only with cards and women. “If Penelope could use the nursery, I could stay in your stable and earn my keep.”

She looked skeptical. “I can’t ask a gentleman to sleep in a stable. Don’t be absurd. Do you know anything of estate management?”

How galling of her to nail his most damaging failing in a single stroke. Fitz cleared his throat and, under her impatient gaze, tried to look wise and knowledgeable. “I mostly leave management to others more qualified than I, but I would be happy to be of assistance.”

“You would take orders from a woman?”

Fitz tugged at his neckcloth. He took orders from no one. Gritting his teeth, thinking of Penelope and turning new leaves, he did his best to look lofty. “I’m certain you know your grounds better than I do.”

Had he just heard a feminine snort of disbelief? Quirking an eyebrow, he gazed down on her halo of sunset curls. How did a rural nonentity acquire the latest London hairstyle? At least she had returned to staring at his linen instead of giving him the evil eye.

“I’m certain I know my land better, too, since I have lived here all my life. For your daughter’s sake, and against my better judgment, I will let you use the gardener’s cottage behind the stable. It is only one room and not in good repair. There is little point in installing a bed for Penny just for a few days, so she may stay in the house. Everyone knows I’ve been searching for a head gardener, except they will not believe you are he while wearing those clothes.”

He glanced down at his second-best frock coat, the one he’d hoped would impress his daughter with his importance. He’d looked quite the dandy when he’d set out yesterday. Penelope had promptly smeared meat-pie grease on his sleeve. And tea now stained the once pristine cuff of his good shirt. His scalded wrist still stung, but not so badly as his pride. He would have to retrieve his baggage from the roadway.

“I fear I have only my city coats with me,” he admitted. Over the years, after paying the meager stipend for his daughter’s upkeep, he’d invested his winnings on clothes and women and keeping a roof over his head. Appearance and family name were his entrée to the wealthy society from which he earned his upkeep, since the Danecroft estate had never provided an allowance for its spare heir.

“I’ll see if I can alter a few of my father’s clothes to fit,” Miss Merriweather said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Some garments were too old to give away to charity.”

Lovely. Fitz tried not to roll his eyes at the thought of any other earl wearing a country bumpkin’s discarded rags. He obviously hadn’t achieved nobility yet.

“You will not regret your generosity, Miss Merriweather.” And that was not a lie either. He had no good way of repaying her, but he had connections. He would think of something.

“That remains to be seen, Mr. Wyckerly. Come along, Cook should have that salve ready. I’ll have someone show you to your quarters. Dinner is served at noon, supper at six. If Penelope does not object, I’ll give her a bite to eat and show her to the nursery.”

She marched off like a soldier to war. Fitz tried not to wonder what he was getting himself into, but the proper earl he must be still struggled with the predicament brought on by his former louselike existence.

“My little sister Jennifer likes this bed.” After their meal, Abigail had led Penelope upstairs to the nursery, where she patted the quilted cover of a child’s bed. She’d personally appliquéd the flowers and rabbits from Jennie’s favorite old dresses. Penelope seemed to be studying them favorably.

“I’m not tired,” the child said, hugging her ragged doll.

“Of course you’re not. But if you hide up here with some picture books, your papa won’t know where you are unless I tell him.”

“Picture books?” Her gaze slid to the shelves stacked with slender volumes beneath the window seat.

Abigail opened a wardrobe, pretending not to watch the girl’s every expression. She had been studying how children’s minds worked since she was fifteen. At first, it had been only to keep her privacy from being invaded. But as she’d come to accept her stepmother, she’d gradually learned to love the joy and energy her half-siblings added to her father’s household.

She swallowed her tears at the ache of their absence. In the past three years both her beloved father and stepmother had died. She could not—would not—accept any more losses.

“I think Jennie outgrew this frock. You might want to try it on later.” She carefully laid out the pink and green sprigged muslin. “If that fits, I’m sure we can find others.”

Standing on the braided rug in the middle of the room, Penelope looked torn between the books, the bed, and the pretty frock. Good. They would keep her occupied for a little while. Not expecting a reply from a distraught, tired little girl, Abigail reached for the door handle.

“Thank you,” a small voice whispered.

Abigail smiled in relief that the child wasn’t totally untutored. “You’re welcome, Penelope. Have a nice rest.”

She walked out—smack into a worn twill shirt and open waistcoat that she recognized as her father’s. Except her father didn’t have muscles so hard that she nearly bounced off them.

Flustered by her encounter with such overt masculinity, she stepped sideways while pulling the nursery door closed. “She should be asleep within minutes.”

“Are you a professional nanny?” Mr. Wyckerly asked. He hadn’t bothered fastening the worn leather waistcoat, as if he’d hurried to watch how she dealt with his daughter.

She would have smiled at his question had she not been so skittish at having a tall gentleman standing so close. “Four younger siblings,” she murmured, trying to think of a polite way of maneuvering around his intimidating figure to reach the stairs. She could take the back steps to the kitchen, she supposed.

“When will they be coming home?”

A perfectly normal question, although his tone hinted at an unusual level of consternation that Abigail chose to ignore, just as she brushed off a reply that would only make her weep. “They’re with their guardian now. Come along, the strawberry bed needs tending, and my tenant needs help with hoeing. I’ll introduce you around.”

She bustled down the hall, expecting him to follow.

He seemed to hesitate, but his long strides broke the silence of the upper hall as he hurried after her.

She wondered if Mr. Wyckerly might know any wealthy, unmarried solicitors who wouldn’t mind acquiring an instant family.