Wicked Wyckerly (4 page)

4

“And this is the rhubarb bed,” Miss Merriweather announced.

Bored, and uncomfortable in his uncouth attire, Fitz gazed at rows of thick, wrinkled leaves and tried to link them with his hostess’s tone of admiration. “You grow weeds on purpose?” he asked, just to produce a reaction from the placid female. He’d offered smiles and charm and flattery during this tour of duty, and she’d yet to flap a flirtatious lash in his direction. Must be the clothes.

How daunting to think women admired him only for his dashing attire.

“Weeds?” Finally, she looked at him, but not with delight. “Have you never had rhubarb jelly? Or strawberry-rhubarb tarts? Or rhubarb relish? Or—”

He hastily interrupted the list of atrocious delicacies. “My pardon. I jested. I promise not to do that again.”

She narrowed her eyes, possibly aware that he was having fun at her expense.

“Did you know that you have twelve freckles across your nose?” he asked, to distract her. “If you acquired a new one every two years, I could guess your age.” They were adorable freckles, and if he were a true scoundrel, he’d wonder how many more he could count if he removed a few articles of her clothing. But he tried not to reveal that lascivious interest.

She covered her nose with her hand as if he might steal her freckles, then gave a huff of exasperation as she recognized his ploy. “I will leave you to tend the strawberry bed.” She nodded at the neat rows of healthy plants on the far side of the fence. “I must walk into town, but Cook and the maids will keep an eye on your daughter.”

He would rather walk to town than hoe a field. Fitz fiendishly sought any excuse to exchange tasks. “Is there a stationery shop? I have correspondence to keep up. I could walk into town after I’m done hoeing and save you a trip,” he declared blithely, as if he weren’t aware the shops would close before he could perform such feats of magic as hoe a field.

She glanced at what appeared to him to be pristine rows, then threaded her fingers in the nervous manner-ism he’d noted earlier. She seemed to have two modes of speech—bossy or tongue-tied. She was an intriguing combination of conflicting traits that he would enjoy unraveling. A pity she was the rural sort. And not wealthy.

“It
is
late,” she finally answered. “The shops will close shortly. Would you mind going now and delivering my letter to the inn while you are there? And pick up a packet of thread so I may take in the seams of some shirts for you.”

He was a right, proper villain, but he’d wear even more of these disgusting garments if he could avoid revealing his incompetence at farming. “I would be delighted. And perhaps I could finish the field after supper.”

The darkling look she bestowed upon him said he had not yet charmed her into believing his plumpers, which disgruntled him more. If he weren’t currently dealing with the results of a prior error in judgment—namely, his daughter—he’d employ his considerable charm to win the little lady’s heartfelt smiles. Unfortunately, wooing a farmer was not among the options a responsible earl could choose among.

“Give me a moment to freshen up, and I will be delighted to run your errands,” he agreed with all sincerity.

Finding her guest waiting at the front door, looking more distinguished than her father had looked while wearing that tweed coat, Abigail handed Mr. Wyckerly a shilling for the thread and another letter addressed to her father’s distant, aristocratic relation. Perhaps the first two letters had gone astray.

Perhaps a marquess could convince Mr. Greyson, the executor, that the children would be far better off in the home they knew than with distant cousins. Although she was none too certain a marquess would listen either. Her father really should have overseen the writing of his will himself instead of allowing a stiff-necked solicitor to do it, but admittedly, her father had not counted on dying so soon after his wife. He’d been too grief-stricken to consider the effect his death would have on a motherless household.

So, as usual, the consequences of her father’s carelessness were now in her inadequate hands.

Mr. Wyckerly had rakishly tilted his borrowed leather cap, which added boyish appeal to match the twinkle in his eye. But the crinkles at the corners of those same eyes belied the boyishness, and he carried himself with the superiority of someone years older and more sophisticated than herself. At supper, she would have to question him more thoroughly.

“Do not forget that supper is at six,” she said abruptly, then bit her tongue. She had no right to treat him with the familiarity of a family member.

He looked amused and a dash condescending—until he noted the address on her letter and his eyebrows disappeared under his hat. “The Marquess of Belden?”

She drew herself up as tall as she was able. “My father’s second cousin on his grandmother’s side.” She owed him no explanation, but she did not like to give herself airs, pretending she frequented exalted circles.

When she did not say more, he looked dubious. “You realize the new marquess lives in Scotland, don’t you?”

“The
new
marquess?” Her voice faltered.

“Old Chucklebottom died a few months back. Apoplexy, I heard. He had no immediate heir, so some distant branch inherited.” He offered the letter back to her. “The dowager is still in London, if you would care to redirect it?”

“Chucklebottom?” she asked faintly. With plummeting hope and growing despair, she accepted the return of the epistle.

“Forgive the shallow humor. He was a dour old man. Shall I wait?”

Mr. Wyckerly knew London aristocrats well enough to use their nicknames! Somehow, that was not very reassuring.

Abigail crumpled the precious letter in her grip and shook her head. A woman, dowager marchioness or not, would not have the influence with Mr. Greyson to convince him to remove the children from their new guardian and return them to her. Whatever would she do now? “No, please, go on. I must compose a letter of consolation for his widow.”

“I doubt the dowager mourns his passing. He left her in charge of his fortune, a source of much amazement at the time.” He was laughing at her again, although he tried to hide it.

It must be exceedingly pleasant to be left a fortune. Perhaps the new widow had been too busy or grief-stricken to answer her earlier letters. Abigail was immensely grateful that the farm had been part of her mother’s dowry so that she would always have a home, but the estate of a marquess would be a great burden.

“London gossip is far more entertaining than that of my small village,” she said quietly. “Thank you for bringing me up to date.”

He tipped his cap, winked audaciously, and sauntered down the drive, a self-confident man in command of his corner of the world. Abigail wished she possessed that kind of assurance.

She carried the crumpled letter back to the study. She refused to let her lack of boldness hold her back. Closing the door, she rubbed fiercely at the tears in her eyes, while scanning the shelves for her father’s family genealogy. She didn’t know the name of his cousin’s heir, but if she could find it, perhaps the new marquess would help her.

Did it matter that he lived in Scotland? Surely a marquess wielded influence no matter where he lived. Although—would he even know of her tiny branch of the family? At least her father had personally known his London cousin.

For the first time since the older couple the executor had appointed as guardians had arrived to take the children away, Abigail faced the possibility that her siblings might never return. Tears poured down her cheeks as she found the book she sought.

She would never give up trying to bring them home. Unfolding Tommy’s last unhappy letter as incentive, she sat down with the list of family connections.

Hurrying into the village, Fitz brushed off the image of Rhubarb Girl’s sad countenance. He was scarcely in a position to help himself, much less anyone else.

That he actually
desired
to help the prickly lady was incredible. Perhaps a tankard of ale would squelch that inclination.

But he was a man of his word, and he owed the lady labor in her field, even if he had no intention of doing it himself. Flipping the shilling she’d given him, he entered the rural tavern and perused the inhabitants, looking for a likely mark. The golden-haired young farmer with brawny shoulders should do.

Picking up his ale at the counter, Fitz took a seat not far from the young man and spread his small array of coins across the table. Parlor tricks were child’s play. He reserved his true genius for relieving the rich of their heavy pockets, but the wealthy were few and far between out here. His rural opponents would merely pay the price of entertainment.

He slid the coins about, rearranging the coppers and frowning as if in hopes that a different pattern would produce a greater sum. When he knew he had the farmer’s attention, Fitz palmed a ha’penny and replaced it with the shilling in a sleight of hand he’d practiced since childhood. Chortling at his new wealth, he signaled the barkeep for more ale.

Looking around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time, Fitz smiled congenially and pointed at the farmer’s empty mug. “And fill a round for the lad here. I’m feeling lucky today.”

The barkeep shrugged and filled both mugs. “You didn’t come in on the mail coach.”

“We’re visiting with Miss Merriweather,” he said with a careless wave, as if he had a sister or wife accompanying him. “She has some need of assistance.” Her idea to pass him off as a gardener wasn’t credible, but if she had a marquess in the family, he could be a distant relation. He scattered the coppers across the table again and began rearranging them.

“Now that the young’uns are gone, she ought to marry up. Right fine land she has out there.” The barkeep threw a knowing look at the blond farmer.

A crude giant and dainty Miss Rhubarb Girl? Had these people no eyes in their heads? Fitz hid his disapproval and pondered the reference to “young’uns.” There was a mystery there. Had she been married and lost her children? No wonder she looked so sad!

“She’s a tartar, that one,” one of the older patrons commented, coming to stand beside the table to observe the moving coins. “She’d have a body working sunup to sundown.”

“You’ll remember you speak of my hostess,” Fitz admonished genially, while shuddering at the thought of physical labor. “Anyone willing to wager I can turn copper to silver?”

“Don’t take him up on it,” the young farmer warned. “I just saw him do it.”

The older man cuffed the younger. “Ain’t possible to turn copper to silver, no more than you can turn wood to stone.”

Fitz had arranged his coins in a circle with a large penny in the center. “Petrified wood becomes stone. Anything is possible.” He gestured at the circle. “You just have to find the right combination of ingredients.”

As his sleeve swept back to his tankard, the penny became a shilling again. The older man leaned over and tested the coin against the table, frowning.

“Betcha can’t turn two of them,” the farmer said cynically.

Fitz raised his eyebrows. He usually judged his marks well, but rural charm held hidden depths. “A challenge, excellent! That might take a few more coins, but we’ll see what happens. Care to throw some in to speed the process?”

The lad added two ha’pennies, and the older man added three. An audience began to gather.

Fitz wanted to inquire more about his hostess, but if he meant to pass himself off as part of the family, he had to be more circumspect. “What’s our wager, gentlemen? Miss Merry could use some help in her strawberry field. An hour of your time if I produce two silver coins? And a shilling to each of you if I don’t?”

“Aye, that’s fair,” both men agreed.

Fitz calculated the minutes he’d have to spend playing games in return for the hours he could avoid spending in the fields and deemed the odds very fair, indeed.

“Papa forgot me,” Penelope said, carrying her doll to the kitchen table, where Abigail helped her into a chair.

Abby feared Mr. Wyckerly might have more than forgotten the child. She feared he had absconded altogether. It took half an hour to walk into town, and it was now after six. He’d been gone half the afternoon.

“No, he forgot supper,” she told the child, tying a towel around Penelope’s neck to protect the pretty frock. “He will be very sorry when he goes to bed hungry.”

The child regarded her through eyes far older than her years. “Papa forgot me forever. It is what papas do, Trudy says.”

Oh, dear. Oh, double dear. She wanted to beat Mr. Wyckerly about the ears for his criminal neglect, but she was not naive. Gentleman of the
ton
expected armies of servants to care for their children, so perhaps instead of being a tradesman, he aspired to the fringes of the aristocracy. She’d met a few of the penniless young men at Oxford who had learned to pass themselves off as their betters.

She gulped and hoped her half-siblings’ new guardians did not aspire to the
ton.
The children required the attention of more than servants. She had only Mr. Greyson’s promises and one stilted meeting with the Weatherstons to reassure her that they would be respectable parents.

Perhaps if the strawberry crop was very good, she could earn a sufficient sum to take a coach to Surrey and visit. Tommy’s letters of woe with Jennifer’s scrawled addenda had been plaintive, but that did not mean they were being mistreated so much as they were homesick. She hoped.

“Fathers are often busy earning money to buy their daughters pretty frocks and sweets,” Abigail replied matter-of-factly, scooping fresh spring peas onto the child’s plate. “And sometimes it costs a great deal for the roof over our heads and good nannies.”

“Not my papa.” Penelope looked askance at the peas. “Mrs. Jones says I’m a bloody bastard and my papa is ’shamed of me.”

Behind them, Cook and the scullery maid froze. Abigail removed the bowl of mashed potatoes from the maid and added a spoonful to the child’s plate. “I believe you may have misunderstood. I’m sure she said he was ashamed of himself. Have you ever made a ship of your potatoes and populated it with little green people?”