Wicked Wyckerly (19 page)

21

She
turned him down
. Rhubarb Girl had turned
him
down. Rejected. Crushed like a cockroach.

Still simmering with hurt the next evening, Fitz turned his back on the simpering misses at still another grandiose ball. At least his hostess had the sense to provide a decent gaming room. He flipped a card on the table and took another, carelessly arranging his hand while the other inept players struggled over their decisions. The stack of coins in front of him tonight shimmered in gold instead of silver. He was feeling furious enough to risk higher stakes.

He didn’t think winning would change Abby’s mind. He was supposed to be out on the dance floor, wooing a wife. Quent was likely to grab him by the scruff of his neck and haul him out of the gaming room and back to courting, should he discover Fitz’s whereabouts.

To hell with Quent. Fitz knew whom he wanted.

He wanted Abigail for mother of his daughter as well as for his own desires. He
wasn’t
selfish. Maybe, just a little bit. He supposed there might be other women out there who would be good with children. He just had no way of knowing, and he didn’t have time to find out.

He scowled and lost count of the cards when he looked up to see Blake Montague walking past with Miss Merriweather on his arm, the two of them chatting like old friends. He would kill the bastard.

He lost the damned round. Glaring in dismay as half his winnings disappeared into the pockets of a wealthy viscount, Fitz gathered up what he had left and rose from the table.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but my mind is elsewhere this evening. Perhaps another time.”

He walked off with more than he’d had going in, but not with as much as he’d hoped. If Quent wouldn’t loan him the blunt to hire an estate manager, then he must earn it with cards.

Pursuing Montague, Fitz shoved a hand into his pocket and pretended to saunter around the edges of the ballroom until he located the bounder, who was still talking earnestly with Abigail. Treading a toe or two to remove the obstacles in his path, Fitz tapped his old friend on the shoulder.

“Still considering that position in the War Office, old chap?” he asked with a threatening growl.

Not easily deterred, Montague narrowed his dark eyes. “Haven’t seen you wearing your silver balls yet,
my lord.
”

If the Danecrofts had ever owned a ceremonial coronet with an earl’s eight silver balls, Fitz didn’t know where the hell they kept it, and he certainly wasn’t paying to have one made. But that wasn’t what Montague meant.

“You don’t really think the Lords would appreciate my arriving in their holy chambers trailing bailiffs, do you? There’s one sitting on my front step as we speak.” Fitz turned to Abby, who was following this discussion, eyes wide with sympathy. He didn’t want her damned pity. “Penelope asks after you constantly. Perhaps we could arrange a visit in the park someday?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she stuttered. “I should like that.”

He smiled blandly. “Beware of Montague unless you have a desire to be a widow, Miss Merriweather. His goal in life is to get himself killed in battle.” He bowed and walked off before Blake could cause a scandal by planting him a facer in the middle of the ballroom.

Lady Belden observed the meeting of her protégée and the bankrupt earl with satisfaction. “She will not have him, sir. She is far too astute.”

Lord Quentin rocked back on his heels and studied the expressions of his two friends. “If you think Montague a better choice, you are seriously mistaken, my lady.”

“Anyone would be a better choice than a gambler.”

“You are damning Fitz for the faults of your father,” he warned. “Fitz is not obsessed by the game.”

Isabell waved a hand in angry dismissal. “It makes no difference.
You
gamble on ships and trade. Men like risks. Women do not. I will see that my protégées have security.”

Lord Quentin grunted noncommittally. “And are
you
happier for having chosen security?”

She refused to reply to his implied insult to her late husband. Edward had been a decent man and deserved respect. Their private life was of no concern to anyone else. “If I could arrange to have the children returned to her without need of marriage, I would recommend that, certainly. But Abigail and I have both applied personally to the executor, and he still refuses to accept that a woman can be a single parent. So far, I’ve not had much luck in finding a lawyer with the good sense to agree with us either. So marriage it must be, but only to a man who will not waste her inheritance.”

“
Your
inheritance,” he corrected with intolerable arrogance. “By providing funds with stipulations, you are pulling her purse strings. You are inexcusably manipulative, madam.”

“She is a naive country girl, sir. I am merely looking after her best interests.”

Quentin shot Isabell a smoldering look that woke something she hadn’t felt in years.
Heat.

“Which leaves me to look after mine,” he said. “Fitz owes me a great deal of blunt, and I am determined to have it back with interest. If he has his mind set on your country girl, then the country girl he shall have. As I understand it, her dowry is more than sufficient for Fitz to repay me.”

“I will not allow you to obtain my husband’s money through the back door, Quentin Hoyt. Abby’s marriage to Fitz is completely out of the question.” She glared at him in disapproval. “You would do far better to encourage him to court Lady Mary or Lady Anne. Your loan would be repaid and Fitz would have more than enough to begin restoring his estates.”

“Will you deny the chit the promised inheritance if she chooses Fitz?”

“She won’t. She has already rejected him,” she said in satisfaction. “Your friends simply must learn to live without my fortune, because I fully intend to give it away to deserving females.”

“Fitz won’t have to live without it.” He smiled slowly, studying her ire with amusement. “I rather like the idea that he will get ahead living on your blunt instead of mine. And if he will not suit, I have plenty of other friends I can help by matching them with your
heiresses
. Enjoy your evening, my lady.”

He walked off, leaving Isabell fuming—and feeling alive for the first time in a decade or more. She needed a battle of wits to remember she no longer had to cater to a peevish husband. She was free to do more than nod and smile and chat now. Doing so with an annoyingly smug tradesman simply added a little spice to the challenge.

She would win his wager—Hoyt’s idle friends would not benefit from the money she provided. She had been a tiny bit naive in thinking just money would give the heiresses the choices she had been denied. Her father’s destitution was a subject she preferred to erase as ancient history, but the results were engraved in her memory.

Fortunately, she was in a position to see that her protégées had not only money but also experience and knowledge, so they would not fall prey to desperate circumstances and could make more informed choices than she had made.

“Miss Merriweather, if I might have a moment of your time?”

Leaving the retiring room, Abigail started with surprise at Lord Quentin’s hand on her shoulder. “Yes, of course, my lord. What can I do for you?”

“I believe Lady Belden mentioned you have some knowledge of estate management?”

Women climbing up and down the stairs to the retiring room cast them curious glances, but Abby didn’t know any of them well enough to speak to. It was daunting to realize how incredibly alone she was in this strange society. Oddly, she hadn’t felt so alone until she’d turned Fitz away.

She continued on down the stairs to a hallway teeming with guests leaving for other entertainments. “I don’t think my small acreage constitutes an estate, my lord,” she said quietly.

“But you do know the difference between a rutabaga and rhubarb?” he asked with what sounded like amusement, although she didn’t think the busy Lord Quentin was a man who would tease.

“Of course. I even have one tenant. That scarcely makes me an expert.”

“But it makes you more of an expert than Danecroft, doesn’t it?”

She almost stumbled over the last step. Lord Quentin caught her elbow and gently steered her down the hall, past the throng flowing toward the door.

“He tells me he wishes to hire an estate manager to oversee his estate,” Lord Quentin continued, “but I fear he will hire an incompetent scoundrel instead of the knowledgeable man he needs. I would like him to have the expertise of a second opinion.”

These past weeks had been like a journey to the moon. Abby was starting to believe anything and everything was possible if the
ton
declared it so. She cast Lord Quentin a look of incredulity. “And you have no opinion on estates and managers, my lord?”

“Me?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Hardly. I’m a businessman, Miss Merriweather. Ask me about coal mines and shipping, and I will gladly give you my opinion. Do not ask me of sheep and turnips.”

“And there is no other man in all of London who can recommend a manager?”

“That is not the point, Miss Merriweather. Of course I will ask about for recommendations. The point is that Fitz needs to interview these men, and he will not accept that he requires aid in choosing one. I disagree.”

“You want
me
to help him interview estate managers? Pardon my bluntness, but have you run mad, my lord?”

He chuckled. “Not entirely. You do not dissemble at all, do you?”

“I see no reason to do so. Once I leave London, I will never see you again, so your opinion is of little concern to me. You cannot be affected by my sentiments, so I see no harm in stating them.”

“I would not be so certain that you will never see society again, Miss Merriweather, but that’s neither here nor there. I agree that you owe me nothing, but if I arrange for Danecroft to interview managers in my home, with my sisters present, will you come?”

“If Lord Danecroft wishes me to be there,” she stated firmly. “I will be delighted to visit with your sisters. I would like to see Penelope, also, if that’s possible.”

“That is easily arranged, although the brat is likely to singe my sisters’ delicate ears, so I would thank you to keep her in hand.”

Feeling oddly buoyant at knowing she would see Penelope and Fitz again in safe surroundings that would not involve exchanging dangerous kisses, Abigail allowed Lord Quentin to return her to the ballroom. “Let me know when and where, my lord, and I will do what I can.”

He bowed over her hand. “I see why Fitz is so taken with you, Miss Merriweather. It was a mistake to think he would be happy with anyone with less sense than he.”

“I cannot believe a gambler displays an incredible amount of sense, sir,” she protested, before hastening toward Lady Belden, who was impatiently tapping her toe while speaking with Abby’s next dance partner. She hoped the lady’s glare was for Lord Quentin and not herself, but she was too happy to care.

She told herself it was because she would see Penelope again, but she knew she was lying. She was hoping she could find some way of being Fitz’s friend again.

Blake Montague was supposed to be Fitz’s friend, but he hadn’t seemed very pleased with the earl earlier. She must ask the marchioness about Fitz’s claim that Mr. Montague wanted to die in battle. He had seemed rather imposing and dangerous to her. And while the military was a noble profession, if she must marry, she would really rather have what her mother and stepmother had had, a husband at home.

A gambler would spend more time at the gaming tables than at home, she reminded herself sternly as she took the hand of the portly gentleman to whom she owed this dance—Lord Robert Smythe. She would do far better with a man who had grown up in the country, like Lord Robert. He would know how to deal with her small acreage. She just wished he could be a little less dyspeptic and a little more charming.

Perhaps once Lord Robert left the unhealthy environs of the city and spent his days walking or riding about fields, he would change. She could have Cook feed him fresh greens from the garden instead of dish after dish of greasy meats from society’s supper tables. And she would find out what kind of jokes he liked, so he would smile more.

Plotting the alterations she would make to her partner if they were wedded carried her through the quadrille with only a few minor missteps. Burly Lord Robert looked ridiculous trying to be light on his feet, but an ability to dance was not essential in a husband. He simply needed to be stable and good-natured and wish to have children. He seemed to be interested in her. It was up to her to hold his attention.

She caught a glimpse of Fitz bowing to a lovely young lady who beamed at him as if he’d set the moon and the stars in the sky, and Abby snagged her foot in her hem and stumbled.

Lord Robert broke up the set and led her to the room’s edge while he caught his breath. “Better this way,” he sighed. “Can’t keep that pace. Would you like to take the air?”

She could tell he needed air. Perspiration poured down his brow, and he sopped it with his handkerchief. Really, although her escort was good-looking and polite, she may as well have stayed in Chalkwick Abbey and danced with Billy.

With a sigh, she took Lord Robert’s elbow and let him lead her to the narrow balcony. This was not a large house like the one where Fitz had proposed. There were no convenient columns for murmuring couples to hide behind. She supposed some of the guests were walking about the garden below, but she didn’t think Lord Robert was interested in walking.

She wondered if Fitz might be one of the gentlemen taking advantage of the darkness tonight, and she hated herself for thinking it. She could not condemn him for looking elsewhere now that she had turned him down.

“Do you like children, my lord?” she asked, leaning over the rail while Lord Robert swiped at his brow.

“Not much choice in the matter, is there?” he said pragmatically. “But m’sisters say a good nanny is worth her weight in gold.”

“I have four young siblings,” Abby mentioned casually.