Free Wicked Wyckerly by Patricia Rice

from decent. She capped her inkwell and stood up to prepare for dinner.
    But what if the guardians the executor had chosen did not know how to be parents any better than Mr. Wyckerly? Perhaps they were already looking for any excuse to be rid of her noisy, mischievous brood. Even she must admit, her siblings weren’t the best-behaved children in the world. After her stepmother died giving birth to the twins, her father had allowed them a great deal of freedom.
    That thought was much too wayward. She knew nothing of Mr. Wyckerly except that he was a very bad, extremely awful father. No, far better that she visit the children and confirm for herself that they were safe and happy.
    And if they weren’t? She had so few options that she was grasping at straws.
    In agitation, she glared into her bedroom mirror and attempted to tame her wispy curls. Earlier, she’d foolishly changed from her frumpy morning gown into a high-necked pink muslin that flattered her coloring. She would have to change again if she meant to carry a letter into town. The muslin was much too frail for anything except parlors. As an afterthought, she added a small rope of seed pearls her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday.
    She felt decidedly overdressed as she stopped to check on Penelope. People in the country did not dress for their midday meal. It was foolish to do so, since there was always work to be done while the sun was up. It seemed equally foolish to dress up for soup and cold meats later. But she so seldom had a chance to wear this gown. . . .
    “I don’t like stockings,” Penelope said defiantly when Abigail entered the nursery. She wore one crumpled white stocking twisted up to her knee. The other dangled from her fingers.
    “Well, we could pretend you are a kitten who doesn’t need shoes and feed you in the stable, but I think you’ll like Cook’s rhubarb tarts better than mice.” Briskly, Abby straightened out the crooked knit stocking, tied the ribbon, then smoothly tugged on the other. “Perhaps you would like them better if the ribbons were pink?”
    “I want to wear boots.” Her lip still stuck out, but she didn’t wiggle away when Abby buckled her into Jennifer’s old shoes.
    “Boots and pantaloons?” Abby suggested, taking the child’s hand to help her jump off the bed. “I tried that once. I looked silly. I think one must be tall with long legs to wear boots.”
    Penelope eyed her disapprovingly. “Girls don’t wear pantaloons.”
    “What if they did?” Abby asked, swinging the child’s hand as they descended the stairs. “What if daddies wore dresses?”
    Penelope was laughing at this fanciful notion as they reached the foyer and her father entered. Wearing a neatly folded—although not starched—neckcloth, bottle green cutaway, and yellow waistcoat over impeccable buff stockinet pantaloons, Mr. Wyckerly appeared as if he’d just stepped from a fashion plate.
    Abby tried not to let her jaw drop in awe.
    The gentleman seemed to be fighting the same inclination as he observed his daughter’s laughter. “What a pretty pair you make,” he declared. “I should like to have a painting of the two of you in your matching gowns and ribbons.”
    Astonishingly, his flattery actually made Abby feel feminine and attractive. She knew his words were mere gallantry, except—even her father had failed to notice that she’d made up these gowns so she and Jennifer would match.
    “You are looking uncommonly elegant yourself,” she admitted with a flirtatious flutter of her lashes. It couldn’t hurt to practice. “This is scarcely a London repast.”
    Mr. Wyckerly’s dragon green eyes fastened on her, and he appeared momentarily taken by her coquetry, but he recovered rapidly. “Thank goodness,” he said, shuddering with comic exaggeration. “City dinners are so banal . I far prefer this more exclusive society.”
    Even though she could have scarcely understood a word, Penelope giggled at her father’s