Wicked Wyckerly by Patricia Rice

bathing in her kitchen. Abigail wondered if she could excuse herself to go bash her head against a wall, but she decided it was not her fault if an earl had decided to make a fool of her by arriving incognito. From the start, she’d known he was a deceiving charmer, so she wasn’t a complete idiot. Only a partial one.
    “Is marriage my only choice?” she finally found the wit to ask. “Couldn’t I just consult a solicitor?”
    The marchioness frowned and tapped her teacup impatiently. “I gather from your letters that your main concern is retrieving the children, is it not?”
    Abigail nodded.
    “Then unless we can find evidence that your father’s executor or the children’s guardians are incompetent, you must prove that the children will have the proper guidance of a man before there is any possibility whatsoever of reclaiming them. It’s how the world works.”
    The lady was right, of course. And honest, which gave her hope that she might trust her. The lady had arrived in a carriage with a crest, unlike deceptive Mr. Wyckerly, who’d been thrown off a mail coach. She knew about Abigail’s letters to the marquess. She knew Mr. Wyckerly—Lord Danecroft—and he knew her. Abby couldn’t find anything to distrust except her own remarkable good fortune. And if the lady could help her reclaim the children, how could she not do everything within her power to do so? Wasn’t this exactly what she’d prayed would happen—that a wealthy, titled person would come to her aid?
    “Of course, we will have my man of business investigate the children’s circumstances,” Lady Belden continued, “but in the meantime, you should prepare yourself for a battle. It helps to have powerful allies, and all the better if they’re men. For that, we will need to spruce you up.”
    The lady observed Abigail with a critical eye until Abby was ready to squirm in her seat. She didn’t know whether she liked the marchioness. She was simply attempting to digest her abrupt change in circumstance. She had spent her entire life in Chalkwick Abbey. She did not know how to go about elsewhere. And the thought of trusting this stranger to teach her . . .
    “Good bosom. You must display it to better effect,” the marchioness announced. “Your hair is all wrong, but I’ll have my hairdresser fashion it for you. With the proper headdress, no one will notice the unsuitable color. You’re well past the ingenue stage, so I think we can dismiss white and dress you in colors,” she said with all the power and authority of an aristocrat. “You’ll do just fine.”
    Abigail didn’t want to do fine. She didn’t want to go to London. But recalling Tommy’s pleas, she knew she would do whatever it took to make her siblings happy again. She straightened her shoulders and sipped her tea as if she were in perfect agreement.
    She would faint dead away when she reached the privacy of her room.

    “You will do splendidly in London,” Fitz said with false joviality as maids scurried to and fro, packing Miss Merry’s bags under the curt commands of the marchioness in the upper hall.
    Even standing there in shock, Miss Merry managed to bleed him with her glare. “I trust all London isn’t filled with lying earls, then. I have an unfortunate tendency to believe people are who they say they are.”
    “I didn’t lie to you,” he protested. “I’ve been an earl for less than a week. And I’m dashed uncomfortable with it.”
    She relented enough to scan the kitchen doorway for some sign of Penelope, who had grown miraculously quiet after screaming foul curses during yet another bath.
    “I’m sorry for the loss of your family,” she said. “I know how difficult that is. I hope you find someone suitable to look after your daughter. She deserves a good home.”
    Fitz would rather she bled him with glares than twist a knife in his heart as she was doing now. “I have no choice but to take her to London with me while I straighten out the gossip