Wicked Wyckerly (11 page)

His heir had been ominously silent since Fitz’s arrival had squelched the suicide rumors. An expression of delight that the head of the family had returned from the dead would have been polite, but Fitz supposed that would be too much to ask from a man to whom he seldom spoke. He’d asked the family solicitor to send a note round to Geoff, asking for a word, but he’d not heard back.

Penny dragged Miss Merriweather from her seat to investigate a large floor globe that had once adorned the late marquess’s study. Fitz wondered at its placement in this feminine room and, without conscious decision, rose to investigate it as well.

“It is good of you to bring Penny to see me, my lord,” his Rhubarb Girl said stiffly at his approach. “She tells me her nanny snores, and she has swatted two thousand million spiders.”

There was the clever little hen he knew. He couldn’t wait to hear her opinion of the
ton.
“I have promoted Penny to chief bug swatter and awarded her the copper badge of courage.”

Penny proudly peeled back her spencer to reveal the silly ha’penny pin he’d found in the gutter. “See? It says I’m a big girl.”

“Big and strong,” Miss Abby agreed solemnly. “As chief bug swatter, you must instruct your papa to sprinkle the corners with pennyroyal after you have swept out all the cobwebs.”

“Pennyroyal?” they both asked at once. Fitz was rewarded by the light of laughter in Miss Merry’s eyes.

“Like father, like daughter,” she said with what almost sounded like approval. “You really make a bad earl. You should be appalled at my suggestion. You should be over there scheming with the marchioness, choosing the perfect plum to pick from the wealthy orchard of society.”

“I prefer tart rhubarb with my sweets. You have ruined me for all time.” Fitz immediately bit his tongue. After all the years of practice, flattery came naturally to him, but he had no right to encourage her to think of him as any more than a tool to be used, just as he would use her.

Unfooled by his glib phrases, she eyed him with a trace of that tartness he so admired. “As I understand, you were ruined long before I came along.”

She handed Penny a snow globe containing an elaborate miniature of Hyde Park, then stepped toward the window seat, where the clatter of traffic outside would hide her speech. “Is the house really that bad that she must swat spiders?”

“Worse,” he admitted grimly. Miss Merry had seen him flailing in a pigsty and could see through his affectations of charm with her eagle eye, and still, she did not reject his shallowness. She might be the one person on earth to whom he could speak honestly. “It’s been uninhabited for a decade or more, but staying there saves me the cost of rent. Will the pennyroyal work?”

“After every room is thoroughly cleaned, perhaps. The stench of lye will drive out most creatures. I don’t suppose the nanny is of any use in sweeping and scrubbing?”

“I can’t ask it of her. She’s had a few too many years of eating nursery bonbons. She’s good with Penny, but if she got down on her knees, she couldn’t get up again.”

Abby shook her head in disapproval of his careless insult, while watching over Penny and the glass globe. “You mentioned you had servants elsewhere. Would they come to London?”

“Not unless I paid them. Their homes and families are in Wycombe.”

“Lady Belden is spending the better part of my inheritance on clothes so I may
experience the world.
I dislike wasting my funds when I’ll need them for the children,” she whispered, darting a look to the two women cozing over tea. “Maybe we could help each other.”

Fitz waited, puzzled, unable to follow her thoughts. He would like nothing better than to feel useful instead of like a frivolous fribble, but he couldn’t see how he could help her.

She looked embarrassed and folded her fingers into her skirts. “The marchioness has not given me access to my inheritance. The bills are sent to the solicitor for payment. I thought . . . if I send back an occasional ribbon or bonnet to the shops, I could ask for a refund in coin.”

“Clever,” he said admiringly. “It’s not normally done, but if the bills are promptly paid, a little persuasion might do it. If it’s funds for a carriage to take you to see the children that you need, you don’t need to resort to trickery. I can get you there.”

“Thank you,” she said in relief. “I had hoped you would say that.”

Fitz thought he might buy her carriages and fling roses in her path if it meant basking in the glory of her respect again. Respect wasn’t a sentiment to which he was accustomed. Nor did it fit comfortably, yet he was averse to giving it up.

“If I have coins to pay you,” she continued, “then you could pay your servants, and Penny won’t have to be chief bug swatter for long.”

“You may have just outmaneuvered the two generals,” he said in disgruntlement at realizing he had become a charity case instead of a conquering hero. “I can borrow a carriage without any expense to you. I owe you that much.”

Penny attempted to roll the snow globe across the carpet.

“We’ll talk later.” Abigail dashed to rescue the globe and lead his daughter to another enticing object.

Fitz scowled and felt more than ever like a worthless fribble.

12

“You need to find a better neighborhood, Atherton. I nearly had to cosh a rather insistent babblingruffian who accosted me on the corner.” Fitz threw down his ace to win the round of
vingt-et-un
and removed the stack of coins in the table center to his side.

“Your pretty phiz attracts them like magnets. Or your debt collectors grow bolder.” Unconcerned, golden-haired Nicholas Atherton lounged in an easy chair, one long leg flung across the arm. He had led the sheltered life of aristocracy, rural estates, Eton, all those time-honored traditions that had bypassed Fitz, but like other younger sons, Nick had no occupation beyond seeking amusement.

“Your tact surpasses your concern,” Fitz said drily as Nick dealt a new hand. “On a completely different note, where does one buy pennyroyal, Montague?”

With an odd streak of silver accenting the black of his thick hair, Blake Montague was a lethal combination of dangerous intensity and steadfast loyalty. Fitz had gravitated toward the baron’s son when he’d first come to town simply because Blake was willing to impart his vast array of knowledge. Montague could have been a professor, but he had an athlete’s need to beat his competition into the ground, which didn’t suit the ivied halls of education. Fitz refused to go up against him in the ring on the days Montague was spoiling for a fight, but he’d happily race curricles against him when they could borrow the rigs.

They’d become friends the day Blake had laid his older brother flat in an altercation on Bond Street. Fitz had spirited Montague from the scene and bought him a round of ale without questioning. Fitz had often wished to punch his own brother in the snout and admired Blake’s willingness to physically express his ire with the Montague heir. They shared a common bond of frustration with a feudal system that left them idle and penniless.

“A penny royal?” Montague said with a sniff. “No such creature. If the expenditures on our royals amounted to mere pennies, England would have sufficient wealth left in our coffers to raise ten armies.” He shuffled the cards before passing them on.

“I think pennyroyal is some form of herb,” Nick informed them, ignoring his friend’s punnish sarcasm. “At some point, I had a nanny who indulged in pennyroyal tea.”

“Pennyroyal, a class of perennial mint with small, aromatic leaves said to repel mosquitoes, ants, and other insects.” Having proved he’d known the definition all along, Montague threw his wager into the pot. “Why do you ask?”

“One ought to know more than the servants one hires,” Fitz said vaguely, wondering if he was one of the insects the mint would repel. “Do you still have access to that cabriolet? I’ll wager all I’ve won against the use of it. Here’s your chance to win back your losses.”

Even though he was only a younger son, Nick had an allowance sufficient to keep him in linen neckcloths and finance his entertainment, but he had no head for sums. Nick borrowed from Fitz as often as Fitz won Nick’s allowance, so Fitz felt no qualms in occasionally relieving his wealthier friend of a few coins by way of cards.

Montague, however, had an allowance so minuscule he couldn’t save enough to enter the military as an officer, although he’d threatened to join the navy as a seaman until his father had warned he’d cut off even his small allowance should he do so. Fitz preferred making use of Blake’s family’s resources and picking his brains instead of his pockets. In return, Fitz did his best to tame Blake’s more reckless behavior.

Montague grunted. “I accept. Courting a wealthy Cit who wishes a spin around the park, are we? Or hitting Almack’s since you’ve acquired the title?”

“He’s accepted an invitation to my mother’s ball. My sisters are all atwitter,” Nick declared, throwing his hand in with disgust.

Rather, Lady Sally had accepted for him. Fitz sure the hell wouldn’t have done so. Nick’s sisters twittered—constantly. Atherton’s languid, oblivious attitude had apparently developed as a means of childhood survival. Fitz decided that if he had to marry birdbrains to pay for his family debt—faking his death might not be such a blow to his pride after all.

“Ever find out how the rumors of your death got started?” Montague asked, undoubtedly following the path of Fitz’s desperate thoughts, since he had also been encouraged to court the aforesaid twittering sisters.

Fitz shrugged. “Servants at the estate found the clothes and pistol and notified my father’s man of business. Haven’t gone out there to question anyone yet.”

“No chance your cousin contrived the scheme?” Montague asked offhandedly.

“Any reason to suspect he did?” Fitz drew another card.

“Last week when we still thought you dead, my father overheard him at the club inquiring as to the best man for painting crests on carriages. He didn’t appear to be mourning your demise.”

“M’sisters say he’s angling for Lady Anne Montfort.” With disgust, Nick threw down the king he’d just drawn, and Fitz once more won the round.

“Lady Anne? A duke’s daughter? I hadn’t thought Geoff ran as mad as the rest of the family.” Fitz raked in his winnings. “His mother is a Cit, and His Grace would choke a Cit’s son before letting one near Lady Anne.”

“Your mother was a duke’s daughter.
You
could court Lady Anne,” Montague pointed out. “She’s nearly on the shelf. With your charm, you could have her compromised and her dowry in your pocket within a month.”

“She’s nearly on the shelf because she has more sense than to notice termites like me, and wealthy enough not to care about marrying.” Fitz contemplated his memory of the tall, commanding Lady Anne. She owned a stable that would benefit from his stud. She would spend all her time at the racetrack or riding to the hounds. He could stay in London—doing what? Gambling for the rest of his life? Living off her wealth?

He needed to start considering what he wanted of a wife before he fell for the machinations of the well-meaning Hoyts. He pocketed Nick’s coins and gestured at a disgruntled Montague. “I’ll send word around when I need the carriage.”

Pockets jingling with blunt enough for another day, hoping the Atherton ball would have a decent gaming room, Fitz left Nick’s rooms after supper. Penny would be tucked into the bed Quent’s loan had bought. Her nanny would be snoring. He smiled to himself at how quickly Miss Merriweather had learned the details of his daughter’s life. He doubted Lady Anne could do that.

The idea of bedding the duke’s horse-mad daughter to beget an heir was daunting enough without wondering if she would keep the children in leading strings until they were housebroken. Geoff was welcome to her.

“Fitz, wait up,” Montague called, taking the stairs to the street two at a time.

Lingering, Fitz heard an unintelligible shout, followed by a brick exploding—just where his head would have been had Montague not called out. Instinctively, he dropped into a crouch that tumbled his expensive beaver hat into the gutter. A round stone rolled across the paver at his feet.
What the devil?

Accompanied by more furious shouts, another shot hit the paver, splintering into pieces of baked clay. A
marble?
Someone was trying to kill him with a clay
marble?

“Back inside!” Montague shouted, gesturing for him to return to Nick’s apartment.

There was nothing for him to hide behind if someone meant to try another shot. Catapulting marbles could put a man’s eye out! Fitz snatched up his hat and hit the stairs running.

Opening the door to let him in, Montague peered around the doorjamb, searching the street for activity. “It looked like he had a
sling,
” he said in disgust. “What kind of man uses a child’s toy?”

“A drunken one. Could you hear what he was shouting?” Disgruntled, Fitz checked his hat for damage.

“His brogue was too thick, although ‘
You owe me’
is a possible translation.”

“Creditors can’t collect if I’m dead,” Fitz objected. Slinging marbles at his head to catch his attention was not logical and bordered on being murderous. Surely his cousin couldn’t have . . . No, he’d rather believe a creditor had grown frustrated.

Nick sauntered down to join them in the foyer. “What the devil is going on?”

“I warned you this was a rough neighborhood,” Fitz complained, although even he knew that street ruffians did not normally shoot catapults.

“Someone slung marbles at Fitz,” Montague explained. “If they had hit his temple, they could have killed him. I’ll go out the back and sneak around for a better look.”

“That’s absurd,” Nick protested, leading the way to the back hall and the servants’ exit to the mews. “Slings and marbles are children’s toys.”

Which might have made Fitz’s death look accidental.

Blake, chess player and master problem solver, had already leaped to the conclusion that Fitz was trying to avoid. There wasn’t much point in stating their theory to Nick, who thought all the world revolved around pleasure. Fitz left his costly hat with the intention of retrieving it later. Shrugging off Montague’s staying hand, he slipped past a still-protesting Nick into the kitchen garden.

“I won’t believe my heir is insane enough to want my worthless title,” Fitz argued with Blake’s unexpressed thoughts. The back gate creaked in the otherwise silent night.

“It’s not unheard of,” Blake murmured. “Your brief demise could have made him realize how close he was to being a member of the Lords and winning the right to Lady Anne’s hand. You’re risking your life needlessly by providing him a target.”

“For a sling?” Fitz asked in incredulity. “You want me to run from marbles?”

“Or exploding bricks.” Undaunted, Montague entered the filthy alley, leaving Nick watching from the doorway.

Following, Fitz grimaced at the smelly spurt of a horse pile beneath his boot sole. He needed a lantern.

“You can’t cross the street without being seen,” Montague argued. “I hope you left a will if you try.”

Penny.
He needed to ask someone to take Penny should he depart this mortal coil. He’d do that in the morning, right after he strangled whoever had tried to take a piece of his head.

Wondering whom he could ask to look after his daughter kept him occupied until they’d taken the alley to the corner and crossed the intersection without incident.

“He had to have been behind those columns,” Montague whispered, leaning one shoulder against the wall of the corner house and peering down the street. “There’s nowhere else to hide.”

“If I admit that the shot was deliberate, I’d have to admit that he followed me to Atherton’s and hid behind those columns all evening,” Fitz complained. “I’m thinking it’s far more likely some child was playing with a new toy.”

“Then we should have seen him running away. He’s probably gone by now, but let me take a look first.”

“You can play spy. I just want to teach the brat a lesson.” Disregarding caution, Fitz strode down the quiet residential street, swinging his walking stick. To shoot again, anyone hiding behind the column would have to step out where he would be easily seen. Fitz assumed his reflexes were good enough to drop to the ground if that happened.

He’d seldom been angry enough to engage in street-level fisticuffs, but the possibility that the blackguard could have left Penny fatherless enraged him beyond measure. He hoped his assailant was full grown, because he
needed
to hit someone. Unfortunately, there was no one about to hit.

“He ran,” Montague said, examining the narrow ground behind the columned gateway. “One shot might have been accidental, but two was deliberate. He’ll target your rooms next.”

Fitz still considered the attack ludicrous, but for Penny’s sake, he had to be cautious. How many people knew he’d moved into the family tomb? His invitations still went to his old bachelor flat. He’d told no one of his new direction except Miss Merriweather and Lady Bell. If even his best friend hadn’t heard the rumor, then chances were good the ladies had been silent. Perhaps he should keep quiet about his place of residence for as long as possible, as a precaution.

“I’ll talk to my cuz, see if he’s up to mischief,” Fitz said, slapping his friend on the back. “Thanks for shouting at me. Saved me a nasty headache.”

“I suggest you take an armed guard with you if you visit Geoff,” Montague said drily, heading across to Atherton’s to let Nick know all was well. “Desperate men commit desperate acts.”

As Fitz well knew. “I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, why did you call out to me?”

Montague shrugged uncomfortably. “Just wanted to ask if you’ll be taking your seat in the Lords. I’m seeking a position in the War Office and thought you could put in a word for me. They’re all complacently waiting for Napoleon to own the world, and someone needs to make them sit up and take notice.”

More concerned with his own survival than that of the Continent, Fitz shook his head in dismay at this new responsibility. “Devil take it, that bunch of stuffed shirts is my lot now, ain’t it? Although I daresay faces would freeze should a Danecroft darken their exalted assembly.”

“You could make a difference, Fitz,” Montague argued.

He snorted. “Not very likely. The family ermine is too moth-eaten. But should I rub shoulders with any dukes, I’ll put in a word for you. Your father dead set against politics, too?”

Montague rubbed the silver streak at his temple. “My mother wants me to be a vicar and take over the local parish, and my father takes orders only from her. You know how it is.”

“Actually I don’t, old boy.” With their farewells said to Nick, they stopped at the corner. “Can’t remember ever seeing my mother,” Fitz admitted, “and my father never did anything he didn’t want to do. I need to take up studying how marriage works if I’m to take a wife.”

Montague laughed. “From what I’ve seen, you just wed them, bed them, pay their bills, and go back to your usual routine.”

“In my case, they’d have to pay
my
bills first.” Rather than see the other man’s pity, Fitz waved farewell and, swinging his walking stick, strolled down a main thoroughfare filled with carriages and pedestrians hurrying home from the theater and other entertainments.