Wicked Wyckerly (20 page)

He tugged nervously at his high, tight neckcloth. “Lady Belden says they’re with a guardian. Happy there, are they?”

“They’d be happier with their sister,” a familiar voice said silkily from behind them.

“Oh, didn’t see you there, Fitz. You know Miss Merriweather?”

“And her siblings.”

Abby could swear the earl’s eyes glittered like green gems in the darkness, and her breath caught in her throat at his magnificence. Not an ounce of fat blurred the contoured angles of the earl’s tight jaw or softened the breadth of his gleaming white shirt and waistcoat. She had the mischievous urge to dirty her finger and imprint it on his immaculate linen.

“Lord Danecroft believes children are toys whose lives may be played with like the cards of which he’s so fond. I am needed elsewhere, gentlemen. I’ll see you inside.”

She returned to the open doorway, feeling exceedingly proud of her suave departure, until she tripped on her hem and tore it. Swearing, she yanked off the useless frill, then marched into the glittering ballroom as if it were her strawberry field.

“The lady is a trifle opinionated,” Fitz commented casually, watching the enticing sway of Miss Merry’s hips as she escaped to the ballroom with her chin held high. “Not to mention bossy and managing.”

“Had enough of that with m’sisters,” Lord Robert agreed. “Think I’ll find the buffet.”

Poorly done, old boy,
Fitz told himself as Abigail’s peach gown disappeared into the crowd. But she could do better than henpecked Robert.

22

“Good morning, bailiff. Fine day, isn’t it?” Fitz asked cheerfully, leading Penny down the front steps of his town house to the street. “You do realize, don’t you, that there isn’t an item worth a farthing anywhere in my vast kingdom that isn’t already accounted for?”

The bailiff leaning against the town house used his fingernail to pry his breakfast from between his teeth while managing to look basset-hound mournful. “If there’s aught coming or going, I’m to report it, my lord. It’s my duty.”

“Well, let me know if the crown jewels arrive, although I daresay if my brother stole them, he played them on the ponies before he popped off.”

The bailiff rightfully declined to reply to this sally. Fitz swung Penny’s hand and strolled in the direction of Quentin’s. At least a bailiff at the door scared off the other creditors. And brick throwers. Nick had not discovered anything interesting at Tattersall’s. With only the clue of possible nationality to the ruffian’s identity, it was hard to search. Horse barns were stuffed with Irishmen.

“I wanna see Miss Abby,” Penelope said warningly.

The pink ribbons in her hair had already come undone, probably from all her head swiveling. The city was still a new and absorbing playground to his daughter.

“She has said she will be there, and if she is not, we will hunt her down.” The only reason he’d agreed to this expedition was Abby’s promise to be at Quentin’s. He certainly didn’t need any help in hiring an estate manager beyond recommendations of available men. He might not know the best crops to plant, but he understood what made men tick.

If only he had the same understanding of women! He knew how to charm his way into a woman’s bed, but Abby was too smart to be wooed by crass flattery.

Still, she’d thoroughly shocked him when she’d turned down his suit. Most women would seize the advantages an earl offered, and he’d rather hoped she looked on him with enough fondness to ignore his disadvantages. He alternated between being proud that he’d chosen a woman with such high moral standards and irate that she didn’t trust him or give him credit for having common sense. And even then, he had to acknowledge she was right to be wary—he
would
gamble her dowry. And possibly her farm. He didn’t have much choice.

But he would never lose her money or farm or leave her in dire straits. And he didn’t know how he could possibly prove that.

“Can Miss Abby be my mama?” Penny asked, her thoughts remarkably echoing his own.

“That’s up to Miss Abby, my poppet.”

“You promised I could have a new mama.”

“I did at that, and I’m hard at work on it. You must promise to behave like a model of decorum so you don’t scare off Miss Abby.”

“Won’t scare her,” Penny insisted. “She likes me.”

“Odd woman that she is, it seems so.” Penny was another reason he had to convince Abby that gambling was his profession, not his obsession. He couldn’t imagine Lady Anne or Mary even acknowledging the existence of his illegitimate daughter.

Scowling fiercely at the persistent creditor shouting and waving his fist from across the crowded street, Fitz lifted Penny and hurried up the stairs to Lord Quentin’s front door before the nuisance could cross the busy intersection. He’d rather not subject Penny to the man’s curses or learn what villainy his family had perpetrated to generate debts to dissolute scoundrels. He could solve only one problem at a time.

Potential candidates for the position of estate agent lined the rear hall, twisting their hats in their hands and gazing about with interest or trepidation. A few even nodded in Fitz’s direction, as if they knew he was the man hiring. He applauded their shrewdness and remembered their faces.

He heard Abby’s laughter and his palms began to sweat. He had to prove himself today. Or become a liar and promise to give up gambling. He didn’t think he could do either, but perversely, he was determined to have the woman who fit his needs, not just his pocket.

The footman led them to a rear parlor where Abby was speaking with two of Quent’s many sisters and nieces. All three women turned and smiled at his approach, but he saw real concern and interest in only Abby’s eyes. She instinctively held out her hands to Penny, who raced to climb into her lap, despite the fact that her dusty shoes left imprints on Abby’s muslin.

“A bouquet of posies couldn’t be lovelier, my ladies,” Fitz declared, bowing with a gallant flourish.

Lady Sally and Lady Margaret did their best to imitate their brother’s aristocratic hauteur, but their dancing eyes gave them away. They would make very bad card players.

Abby, contrary creature that she was, did her best to pretend he was invisible, but Fitz wagered that was her way of ignoring that he’d kissed her. And that she’d liked it. If she’d taken a complete disgust of him, she would have to say so before he would endeavor to close his eyes to her many charms.

He was even ready to overlook the fact that she could be as irritating as a burr under a saddle. “Miss Merriweather, how good of you to assist me in my search. Will Penny be a suitable chaperone for us, or shall we bore the ladies and conduct the interviews in here?”

“Quentin says you may use his study,” Lady Sally informed him. “He has a matter of business to conduct this morning, but he said we might leave the connecting door open so Penny and Miss Merriweather may come and go as they like. We will try not to intrude too often.”

Fitz didn’t know what Quent was about, but he thought the whole arrangement slightly outside proper. Still, he wasn’t about to argue with one that so eminently suited his needs. “Excellent! Shall we begin before the busy men in the outer hall become restless and depart?”

He offered his arm to Abby, and removing Penny from her lap, she reluctantly accepted it. Just the touch of her hand stirred indecent thoughts in him. If he must marry, he preferred a wife he was eager to bed. Abby filled that requirement so well that he felt like the restive stallion he’d once called himself.

He seated her in an unobtrusive wing chair in a corner behind Quent’s desk, where she could observe the candidates he’d be interviewing. With light from the tall window glaring over his shoulder, the interviewees would be partially blinded and not able to discern Abby so well in the dark corner. Having a woman in the room was highly unusual—and bound to be distracting.

“You do not have to do this, you know,” she said, lifting Penny back to her lap. “Your daughter is not likely to sit still for long, and I’m sure your judgment is as good as mine.”

For good luck, and because he appreciated her confidence, Fitz bent over and planted a swift kiss on her head. He was rewarded by Abby lifting an astonished gaze to him. He caressed her pert nose. “If Penny is a nuisance, I shall stuff her under the desk and tickle her with my boot. You, on the other hand, will tell me if they know rhubarb from rutabagas.”

“Or turnips from rutabagas, since I would hope any farmer would know the difference between a fruit and a vegetable,” she said with a swift smile, before ducking her head again.

“Turnips are fruit? What about mangel-wurzels?”

“
Rhubarb
is a fruit. And mangel-wurzels are beets. Now quit being silly.” She unwrapped Penny’s ribbons and began to straighten them out.

Fitz valiantly denied the urge to kiss her again, which seemed directly related to the warmth engulfing him at the sight of Abby cuddling his daughter.

He nodded to the footman waiting at the door, and set about his first official duty as earl—hiring an estate manager who would magically turn weed fields into profit-making crops.

“Mangel-wurzels, sir?” The current interviewee crossed one leg over his other knee and appeared comfortable in the rich London study. “They make good winter fodder for cattle.”

Abby bit back a smile. Fitz had insisted on asking every candidate about beets—whether to show off his spurious knowledge or test his prospective employees was beyond her ability to surmise. But their various reactions had proved entertaining.

She checked on Penelope, who had fallen asleep out of boredom and from the effort of being on her best behavior. She’d spent some time under the desk being tickled by her father’s feet, but even that activity had palled after a while. Abby certainly understood. Interviewing was a dull business in which only Fitz could find entertainment.

She approved of the current candidate. He seemed willing to explore different methods of returning fields to production and improving tenant crop yields. He grasped instantly that Fitz was unable to provide extensive cash investments, and had suggested alternatives.

When he departed, she leaned forward to speak as Fitz made notes. “Choose that one—Mr. Beemer.”

Fitz finished his note and glanced over his shoulder at her. “I would, except he’s already employed. He’s simply seeking a position where he would have more control over the results.”

“Is that bad?”

“Not necessarily, but I don’t want all the control wrenched from my hands, leaving me in ignorance. Besides, there are other equally qualified candidates who don’t already have employment. They’re likely to be more eager.”

She frowned, but before she could argue, Lord Quentin walked in.

“Sorry I was late.” He took a chair instead of disturbing Fitz at his desk. “I see you’ve worked your way through the lot. Made any choices?”

“I have.” Fitz tented his fingers as if he had interviewed employees all his life. “Applebee will suit. He knows Berkshire soil and is familiar with the extent of the estate’s neglect.”

“But he was let go from his previous position because he was drunk!” Abby couldn’t resist interjecting.

“And he admitted as much,” Fitz argued, pushing his chair back to include her. “He has a family to feed, and he swears he’s not a regular tippler, that it was just one instance after he lost his son. He’ll be desperate to prove himself and willing to educate me in the process.”

Quentin looked as dubious as Abigail felt. “Beemer came highly recommended. You’ll need someone who knows how to get the most for your coin.”

Abby noted Fitz’s mulish expression and sat back. Lord Quentin was about to beat his head against a brick wall if he thought he could change Fitz’s mind once he’d made it up—which ought to give her pause if Fitz had truly decided on her for his wife. A decidedly sinful thrill swept through her at the possibility of Fitz chasing her until she gave in.

“Beemer is looking out for himself,” Fitz declared with the decisive authority of an earl. “Applebee will look out for
me
. I want a man who is loyal to the estate, who understands the consequences to everyone who works there if he fails. Beemer won’t care. He’ll simply move on to a better position.”

“Miss Merriweather?” Quentin lifted a dark eyebrow in her direction.

“Mr. Applebee is highly knowledgeable, and Lord Danecroft is correct that he would put the estate before himself—if he doesn’t fall back on his weakness for drink.”

Fitz grinned at her, and Abby felt a little thrill that her opinion mattered to him. She had the odd notion that both men had set this up to involve her for reasons beyond requiring her limited expertise.

“And Applebee knows the difference between mangel-wurzels and turnips,” Fitz added with a knowledgeable nod.

“Mangel-wurzels?” Lord Quentin looked puzzled, and Fitz, delighted.

“Beets, old boy, fodder for cattle I don’t have. You see, I am learning! I think I will have to buy cattle just so I might grow mangel-wurzels. What do you think, Miss Merriweather?”

“I think you’d better start a household account.” She rose and glanced down at the sleeping child at her feet. “And that you might want to take Miss Penny off to her bed and reward her with the biggest ice Gunter’s will sell you when she wakes.”

“Accounts.” He brightened perceptibly. “I keep them in my head now. Would you care to teach me how to keep them in books?”

“Me?” Abby studied him, perplexed. “I’m sure there are more informed people available. Lord Quentin, for instance.”

Both men had risen from their chairs when she did. Lord Quentin bowed in her direction. “I know how to keep books for businesses, Miss Merriweather, but perhaps you could explain the details of farm accounts.”

“He’s matchmaking,” Fitz whispered in her ear before lifting his daughter from the floor.

“Oh.” She regarded the large man innocently standing with hands beneath his coattails, studying her with the same interest as she did him. “Danecroft gambles,” she told him, thinking she’d put an end to further nonsense now. “He would have to risk my farm
and
my inheritance before winning enough to cover even a small portion of his debt. I cannot take that chance.”

Not appearing the least shocked by her bluntness, Lord Quentin explained, “Fitz only wagers when he knows he’ll win, and he wins more often than not.”

Fitz countered with, “And Montague would spend it on buying himself into the army and Atherton would use it to find a mistress. Hire a solicitor with your wealth, my dear. It’s a far more certain method than marriage.”

Since he was carrying Penelope, Fitz could not offer his arm to escort her out. Abigail glanced from one man to the other, not at all sure what she should think. Lord Quentin was saying it was all right to gamble with
her
funds? And Fitz was telling her to hire a lawyer instead of marrying him. Where she had been certain before, now she was confused.

“Don’t worry, my sweet,” Fitz said cheerfully, heading for the hall. “We’ll muddle along on our own. You need only let us know how we can help when you decide what is best for you and your siblings. Come along. Lady Belden will think you have run away.”

Right about now, since she had no hope of thinking her way through this conundrum, running away seemed the best thing to do. She wanted to be home where she could pick her strawberries and straighten out her spinning head.

Except the one thing she was fairly certain of was that she could never sit at her dining table again without wishing that Fitz sat next to her.