Wicked Wyckerly (18 page)

“I will stop liking you shortly,” Fitz warned. “I might not have your education, but I know people and I know how to win at cards. I make do with what I can. I can’t blame you if you don’t trust me for another loan, but you know damned well I’m not a fool. If I want to court Miss Merriweather, that’s my business and none of yours.”

“Isabell will have your head on a platter,” Quentin said bluntly. “She won’t allow it. If you must marry quickly, you need to look elsewhere.”

There were no doubt ten thousand reasons why he should look elsewhere, starting with lust not being a good basis for marriage and ending with Abby being a rural farm girl who would despise the unwholesome life he led. And there was all that business about creditors and children he couldn’t afford and didn’t know how to manage and run-down estates in between.

And he still stubbornly clung to his instincts. “I don’t believe Isabell has any say in the matter. Will you help me find an estate manager or not?”

Quentin sipped his drink and eyed Fitz as if he were a snake who might strike. Fitz felt wild enough to bite, but his shield of civilization was too thick.

“Did you ever find out who set up your suicide scene?” Quentin asked unexpectedly.

Fitz took a swallow of the brandy. There were some subjects he’d rather not discuss. “My heir is on his way to Yorkshire, so I can’t ask him about it.”

“How do you know if it is even safe to return to your estate? Could there be someone there who wishes you dead?”

“What the devil is this all about?” Diverted by the change of subject, Fitz studied his friend. “I don’t appreciate being questioned like a truant.”

Quentin produced a folded, dirty sheet of paper from his pocket. “This arrived via my window last night.”

Fitz’s heart sank as he shook open the note.

WIKERLY IS TAYVENG SKAHNDRL—HEV HIMSEF MAYT ME TO BE GAYVENG BAK WUTZ NOT HEZ ER AYLS.

“Tayveng?”
Fitz said in incredulity. “What is this, Russian illiteracy?”

“I have Irishmen working at the dock who talk like that.
Thieving scoundrel,
I believe, is the translation,” Quentin said, watching Fitz carefully.

“Have himself meet me to be giving back what’s not his or else?”
Fitz interpreted. “Well, it looks as if my admirer is not only Irish but spells about as well as I do,” he continued cheerfully, crumpling the Tattersall’s poster it was written on and throwing it at the empty fireplace. “I’ll be heading home now. I have some more windows to board up.”

And an illiterate Irishman to hunt down and strangle before the villain started flinging bricks at Abby or any more of his friends. He didn’t know any Irishmen!
Tattersall’s
was hardly a clue. He didn’t have the kind of blunt needed for horse-trading. He’d send Nick around to take a look for a lunatic Irishman. Nick knew the men over there better than Fitz ever would.

If Irishmen worked in Quent’s shipping trade, might they not also work for Geoff’s woolen trade?

Minutes later, Lady Isabell slipped into the smoking room and located Lord Quentin puffing on a cigar and looking smug. “She will not have a gambler,” she declared in satisfaction. “I will see to that.” She waited happily for him to frown at his impending loss of their wager.

Instead, Quentin blew a smoke ring, undisturbed. “Wyckerlys are notorious for good reason, my dear,” he said, politely setting the cigar aside and viewing her with the superior attitude of a man who knew everything. “They always do what they’re told not to do, come hell or high water. Your heiress doesn’t stand a chance. I’m happy to see that you and my sister get along so splendidly. She will enjoy your company next season.”

Narrowing her eyes, Lady Isabell did not deign to express her disapproval. She merely swept from the room, leaving him to contemplate the wallpaper.

20

Leaving the salon, her assistant at her side carrying still another bouquet from one of her admirers, Lady Belden halted at the arrival of a footman with a calling card. She read the card, sniffed, and glanced over her shoulder at Abigail. “It is your gambling friend. Shall I have him turned away?”

Abigail had stayed awake all night, tossing and turning and feeling feverish, reliving Fitz’s impulsive proposal. Just knowing how far her thoughts had traveled down the path of marriage beds brought a blush to her cheeks. She distinctly remembered the day he’d said he preferred to be compared to a stallion than a rooster. She would go to hell for considering the image that raised.

“Lord Danecroft is my friend,” she said quietly. No matter what else was between them, she had to believe that much.

“You have never seen men win and lose fortunes at a gaming table, have you?” the marchioness asked, not unsympathetically. “They become obsessed to the exclusion of all else. He could lose your farm and everything on it. Perhaps we should hold an evening of cards so you can judge for yourself.” When Abigail’s expression of determination didn’t waver, she conceded. “Very well, have him in. I’ll send a maid to chaperone.”

“That isn’t necessary, my lady,” Abigail protested.

“Balderdash. He’s a fortune hunter. I applaud his good taste, but I’ll not see you wasted on his cause.”

Abigail closed her eyes and reined in her temper. She had too many crises on her hands and did not need to add an argument with her hostess to the collection. She owed the lady too much. “I understand. Thank you, my lady.”

She might lack the courage to stand up to the dowager in person, but she did not have the temperament for subservience. Instead of waiting for the chaperone, Abigail grabbed a shawl and met the earl in the foyer. She led him through the house and out the back to the kitchen garden. An upper housemaid would never follow her into the territory of a mere kitchen servant, so she assumed they could avoid any chaperone here.

Amusement twisted Danecroft’s lips as he regarded the carefully tended beds glistening in the fine mist of a gloomy day. “Ah, is this what a garden should look like? How very . . . tidy.”

Abigail strode a graveled path past the herb beds to the more private cutting gardens to the rear. “The lady likes fresh flowers,” she stated curtly, not knowing how to deal with the vast array of emotions the earl’s presence engendered. She was unaccustomed to being assaulted by conflicting desires.

How did one speak to a gentleman she had tried to envision naked? One who had crushed her breasts against his chest and invaded her mouth with his tongue? She rather thought such intimacies required a proposal. But she wasn’t certain they required her acceptance. And that was only the beginning of her confusion.

“You are out of sorts.” He spread his handkerchief on a damp bench and gestured for her to have a seat. “And you have led me out here to avoid the dragon lady. What is wrong?”

She wanted to weep over his perceptiveness. He still wore respectable mourning for his brother, although he obviously disdained full black. She did not like the dark gray with his coloring, but the tailored fit emphasized his formidable masculinity. Was she so shallow that she was simply falling for a dashing, handsome man?

Abby suspected the earl was well aware of how his appearance affected the fairer sex. He had a solid streak of pride and vanity, deservedly so. But he had revealed too much of his vulnerability last night, and her heart ached at the possibility that she might truly wound him.

“You always know the right thing to do and say,” she said, taking the seat he’d offered. “I wish I had that gift.”

“It isn’t a gift but a lesson learned of necessity.” He broke off a perfect pink rosebud and handed it to her. “Be glad that you grew up in a household where honesty was respected.”

He must have ripped another hole in his soul to reveal that to her. Abby’s eyes teared up at the image of this proud man growing up in scorn and neglect. She bent over the rose to prevent his seeing how much she really didn’t want to tell him no. “We grew up in very different ways, did we not?” she murmured.

He’d been prowling the gravel path, examining the topiary. He swung on his heel at her tone and took the seat beside her. She could feel the heat and size of him without looking up.

“Don’t let our differences be the excuse to turn me down,” he said urgently. “I have done nothing these past hours but examine all the arguments you can possibly make, and none of them can overcome the fact that we suit each other better than anyone else we can meet.”

She couldn’t resist lifting her head, and his impassioned gaze nearly ripped her heart out. “You don’t regret your hasty proposal? You know I will not force you to honor it.” It would make her life infinitely easier if he backed out now, but believing that he thought well enough of her to propose filled her with wonder. Of course, he was also being extremely impractical, which showed how well they would not suit.

He grabbed her hand. His was gloved, but hers was not. Her fingers lingered in his warmth, even though she knew she must pull away.

“I have never had anyone to rely on but myself,” he said earnestly. “I know that is not much of a recommendation, but I have learned to trust my instincts, and I know we will suit. Will you marry me, Abby? Be my helpmate, mother of my children, and my better half? I practiced my speech all night, but the pretty words fled as soon as I touched your hand.”

She knew what he meant. She’d practiced speeches, too, but his hand clasped around hers was so certain and strong. . . . She desperately wanted to change her mind. She wanted his strength, his friendship. She wanted
him
. And for the sake of the children, she couldn’t be so selfish. She gently freed her fingers.

“There,” she whispered. “We can think clearly again. We cannot be like a pair of mindless poultry. We have others to think of besides ourselves.”

“You are classifying me as a rutting rooster?” he asked in amusement. “I think I deserve better than that. I behaved in almost perfect circumspection when we were alone. It wasn’t until the madness of last night that I realized I would be a fool to deny what your kisses tell me.”

“I wish I could rely on instinct as you do,” she said wistfully. “But I cannot. I hope someday you will forgive me enough to still be my friend. Perhaps then you might tell me what drove you to believe an inarticulate spinster with no accomplishments and little dowry could be your countess. It is a leap of judgment I cannot make.”

He gripped the bench with his hands as if to keep them from straying. Abby wished she could find some equal means of preventing her gaze from wandering to the magnificent man she was sacrificing. She had to remember that appearance wasn’t everything.

Yet he was so much more. . . . Or so he seemed. She truly did not know him well.

“You think you cannot be a countess?” he asked. His voice expressed his incredulity. “Would you like it better if I were a farmer?”

His shock raised her confidence, making her smile through her tears. He was a very smart man, and she knew she was right to force him to look for a more suitable match. “You were born to be a noble, my lord. You could sway all Parliament with your silver tongue if you chose to do so. It would be a waste for you to hoe fields.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so, but hoeing would be far more productive to my current concerns than swaying a bunch of pigheaded aristocrats to vote for more laws we don’t need. So if it’s not my incipient roosterhood or my worthless title that puts you off, can you give me some hint of the obstacles in my way?”

“Do you ever get angry, my lord?” she asked when he summarily swept away all her excuses and waited patiently for the truth.

“Oh, yes, I’ve been towering with rage several times lately, but mostly temper results in bruised knuckles and not much else. And no, I won’t tell you why I’ve been angry until you tell me why you’re about to turn down my very respectable proposal. Come along, my Abby, speak up.”

She wanted to weep against his shoulder for being so understanding, but then she would never be able to say the words. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she threaded her fingers together and asked, “Do you gamble, my lord?”

He sat so still that she knew the answer was yes.

She stood and walked to the end of the garden path, feeling her chest crushing so badly she could scarcely breathe. That had been her one hope—that the marchioness was wrong. But she knew it had been a slim one. Gambling was the most popular sport in England.

It had brought entire families to ruin, as it had undoubtedly ruined his.

She felt Danecroft standing behind her. She could not bear his proximity, could not bear that she would never feel his arms around her again. That she might never feel
any
man’s arms, because she could not imagine anyone but him holding her. Tears leaked past her lids.

“I make my living gambling,” he said carefully. “I’m good at it, and it puts clothes on my back. I can hope one day that I’ll return the estate to profitability so there is no longer any necessity for me to spend time at the gaming tables.”

“Until then, though, that would mean you must spend your time in town, just as you do now,” she said gently. “And instead of needing small winnings to support yourself, you would need higher and higher stakes to support a wife and children and tenants. You are unlikely to turn your estates around if you are not there, but far more likely to do so if you married someone like Lady Mary, with a dowry far greater than mine and a family able to loan you what you need.”

Steeling herself, Abby turned to observe Fitz’s expression. It was dark and forbidding, not at all the insouciance of the laughing gallant she had thrown apples at. Here was the indomitable man who had fought to survive and succeeded. Should he ever show this side to an insipid young miss like Lady Mary, she would run screaming into the street. But Abigail saw his strength and determination, and wept that she could not have him.

“I do not want Lady Mary,” was all he said.

“And there is the difference between us, my lord,” she said in anguish. “You risk nothing by going after what you want. I risk the future of four young children who have no power over what becomes of them. I must think of them first. I cannot gamble with what little security they have.”

He clenched his fists, and from the way his cheek muscles worked, she thought he might be clenching his teeth as well. She would give everything she had to see him smile again, but she refused to believe she had shattered his hopes. In reality, he destroyed
her
just by letting her think she could be the only woman for him, when she knew that was not true. An earl had an entire world of choices. He’d simply fastened on the easiest, fastest one.

“You do not trust me to do what is best for you or the children,” he stated flatly. “That is understandable. I give you good day, Miss Merriweather.”

He bowed and strode off, keeping his pride intact but leaving her grieving over the impossibility of dreams. She buried her face in her hands and smothered her sobs.