Free Wicked Wyckerly by Patricia Rice Page A

antics. “You look pretty, Papa.”
    “Will you stop hating me if I continue to look pretty?” he asked, widening his eyes hopefully and offering his arms to both of them, although he had to lean over to set Penny’s hand in the crook of his elbow.
    “Maybe,” she agreed with all the solemn grace of a queen.
    Their foolish byplay relieved Abby’s nervousness at encountering the solid, ungiving muscle beneath his coat sleeve. Mr. Wyckerly was considerably taller and much more . . . physically developed . . . than the vicar. “I believe the two of you missed your calling. You should be on the stage.”
    “My little drama queen should be in theater,” he agreed, seating Abby on the right-hand side of the table, “but the only stage I belong on is a coach.” He pulled out a chair across from her for Penny, before taking the place at the head of the table between them.
    Her father’s place. How easily he usurped the position of head of household, even though he was no more than an encroaching guest. An appallingly attractive one whose subtle bay rum scent caused her to surreptitiously study the masculine stubble shadowing his jaw.
    “A stagecoach?” she inquired casually, fearing the reference meant he planned to leave.
    “A topic for another day.” As Cook arrived with the soup tureen, he removed a letter from inside his coat. “A local delivered this as I was walking up to the door.”
    With suddenly shaky hands, Abby took the dirty, wrinkled page. She smiled fondly at the sight of her half brother’s scribbled penmanship. He didn’t dip his ink often enough. It was a wonder anyone could read it.
    Out of politeness, she ought to set it aside, but these letters were far too infrequent and precious for her to eat a bite until she was certain all was well.
    “Go ahead. We will simply eat all this delicious soup while you read.” Mr. Wyckerly gestured grandiosely before catching Penny’s tilting spoon so soup didn’t spill down her front.
    He tucked a napkin into his daughter’s gown while Abigail hastily scanned the scrawled note, then returned to the beginning and tried to read between the few lines. Tommy did not say enough. She needed to know if they ate well, if they had good tutors and were being taught manners. If their guardians were kind to them. So many things she needed to know . . .
    Tears welled up in her eyes as she translated the few brief sentences. How are you? We are well. Cissy ate a bug. Can we come home when I am eleven?
    Such simple words tore at her heart, and she couldn’t prevent great heavy sobs from emerging. She rose hastily from the table and rushed to the front room to blow her nose in a lace-edged handkerchief.
    A moment later, a much larger plain white linen square was held before her, and a solidly reassuring hand grasped her shoulder. “If there’s any way I can help . . . ,” he offered.
    She wanted to crawl into Mr. Wyckerly’s strong arms and pretend this devastatingly handsome man could wield a magic wand and return her world to normal. Instead, she used his linen to wipe her eyes. “It would take lawyers and courts, or a man of great influence, I fear. I am being silly. I’m sure they’re fine. It’s just—” She teared up and couldn’t continue.
    “You miss them,” he said gravely, as if understanding.
    She nodded and dabbed her eyes dry again. “They’re all I have left. I didn’t think I was raising them badly. We aren’t wealthy, I know, but we’ve never gone without. Only—”
    “Someone took them away? Why?”
    She took a deep breath, taking strength from his pragmatic question. Pity would have broken her, but Mr. Wyckerly seemed as bewildered as she had been.
    “Because I’m not a man. Tommy will inherit my father’s small estate. Mr. Greyson, the family lawyer who is in charge of the estate, thought it better if a childless couple raised them. He seemed to think he was doing me a favor, even though I have protested vehemently. Now he