Wicked Wyckerly by Patricia Rice Page A

mill. It might be convenient to be dead, and perhaps my heir and tenants might wish it so, but contrary to your belief, I do not lie.”
    She nodded absently. “Lies of omission don’t count in your world, I suppose. Do you have any relations who might help you with Penelope?”
    He snorted and tapped his thigh impatiently. She was the most annoying prig of a female. “If you demand complete and open honesty, then I must point out to you that Penelope is the result of an illicit liaison and won’t be welcome in the homes of what few relations might still claim me as family.”
    “Her mother . . . ?” his prim hostess inquired without any sign of condemnation for his wayward youth.
    “Was an actress who married well and moved to the Continent,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. It was still hard to believe he’d ever been so young and desperate as to believe in love when all evidence was to the contrary. “Penny has never known her.”
    “That’s her mother’s loss, then,” Miss Merry said in apparent disapproval of Penny’s mother. “If I had a choice, I would be happy to look after her, but for now it seems my future lies in hands other than my own.”
    He ought to despise her rural bluntness. He certainly resented her backing out of their agreement for her to take Penny while he claimed his stallion. But had he been she, he would have done the same. They were in accord on one point—the children had to come first. “You give me hope that there are other sane, sensible women who will think the same as you. I don’t believe I’m qualified to cope with Penelope on my own.” And he hadn’t the funds to hire anyone. He hid his desperation behind a smile.
    The marchioness swept down the stairs, trailing a maid, a groom, and her carriage driver carrying bandboxes and trunks. “Most of these clothes are outdated and will have to go to your maids later, but they’re good quality and will suffice for now. If we leave immediately, we can be in Oxford before dark and in London by tomorrow. Fitz, are you traveling with us?”
    He’d rather be gnawed to death by rabbits. Nevertheless, he bowed gallantly. “If you would be so gracious as to accept our company, I would be delighted.”
    “ Our company?” Although she was half a head shorter than he, Isabell managed to convey the impression of looking disapprovingly down on him. She’d seen Penelope earlier but had no reason to recognize her.
    The patter of little feet arrived just in time. Fitz grinned and turned to the imp racing down the corridor, green eyes wide with interest. Her hair had been braided while still wet, but already the unruly forelock was escaping. He didn’t know where Abigail’s efficient servants kept finding new clothes for her, but Penelope was now properly garbed in pretty cloth slippers that matched her spring green muslin. She even wore a frilly petticoat and a lacy white scarf that would no doubt be smudged with snot and her luncheon within the hour.
    “My lady, my daughter, Penelope. Can you make a curtsy, Penny?”
    He nearly crowed with pride when she performed a perfectly correct bob of respect.
    “I want to go with Miss Abby,” the pestilence demanded the instant she stood straight again. She was a Wyckerly—staying silent wasn’t in her nature. Fitz lifted his eyebrow to the dowager but didn’t voice the challenge.
    “As my niece says, this just gets interestinger and interestinger.” The marchioness glanced from Fitz to Penny, confirming the likeness, and shook her head in disapproval. “I thought you smarter than that. Oh well, come along, then, we will be a merry party.”
    Feeling as if he rode to his doom by returning to London, where Newgate and creditors awaited, Fitz lifted Penny to his shoulder and followed the ladies out to the oversized berlin.
    He glanced at Miss Merriweather, who appeared to be doing her best imitation of a doorlatch. He’d rather hear her laughing with joy at her newfound