Free Wicked Wyckerly by Patricia Rice Page B

thinks I want Tommy’s money!”
    “Most generally, the child’s executor must provide an allowance for the upkeep of the children. Is there some chance he wishes to keep those funds for himself?” he asked sensibly.
    Returning Mr. Wyckerly’s handkerchief, taking strength from knowing he did not agree with Mr. Greyson, Abby marched back to the dining room. Penny watched anxiously from the doorway, and Abby caught her hand, forcing a smile as she returned her to the table. “I am just missing my little brothers and sisters,” she told the child. “Hop back in your chair before Cook’s dumplings get cold.”
    She sank into the chair Mr. Wyckerly held for her. She couldn’t eat a bite, but his masculine presence reassured her in ways she could not explain. She would dearly love a strong shoulder to cry on, but she wasn’t one to indulge in fantasy. Knowing his shoulder was available was a kindness she hadn’t expected, and it weakened her will.
    “I have no reason to believe that Mr. Greyson means to do more than see the children suitably placed. My father wasn’t a wealthy man. His income came from his father’s trust. He made a few shrewd investments, and they provided us with some luxuries. The children’s mother had a small dowry, nothing extravagant. We would have fared fine. But I am not a man,” she repeated bitterly.

    It seemed Rhubarb Girl had problems as grim as his own and with equally little chance of solving them, because she was right, Fitz concluded glumly after seeing Penny in bed for her nap. Miss Merry was all feminine delicacy, and no right-minded male would believe her capable of raising four young children on her own. They wouldn’t even believe she would want to. He certainly couldn’t, not after one pint-sized hellion had given him multiple gray hairs in a few short days.
    The superb strawberry-rhubarb pie he’d savored for dessert still tingled his tongue with sweet and tart as he returned downstairs, pondering solutions to their mutual dilemmas.
    He wanted his daughter to be strong like the woman waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He knew Miss Merriweather was as worried as he was, but she wore competence around her like a cloak of invulnerability, while he groveled in ignorance.
    His father and older brother had viewed book learning with distaste. They had believed riding the fields and talking to tenants provided sufficient knowledge of estate management, but as a younger son, Fitz had been left out of their activities and denied further instruction. He despised his lack of useful education.
    “I want to show you my gratitude but don’t know how,” he said. He offered his arm and led her back to the table, where the maid had set out cups and saucers for tea. His hostess’s head barely met his chin, and she glided so lightly beside him, he thought she must be made of air.
    He was almost glad Miss Merry didn’t wear the distractingly low bodices of the city, except the formless bit of cloth she covered herself with didn’t do justice to what appeared to be an extravagant figure. One he shouldn’t be admiring.
    “You owe me nothing.” She briefly squeezed his arm before he seated her at the table. “Your daughter has given me a welcome distraction, and you have provided information that might be of use. I think I will sell all the strawberries this year instead of preserving them so I might take a coach to Surrey to visit the children. Once I am assured they’re well, everything will look better.”
    She was letting him off too easily—because she expected a man without the funds to properly care for his daughter to be nothing more than a bankrupt scoundrel. Fitz gritted his teeth against any protest. It wasn’t as if she were wrong.
    “Regardless of how it looks, I can help,” he insisted. “I have friends in London. I could even borrow a private coach-and-four to take you to Surrey once I’ve solved my quandary of how to travel with my unruly daughter. Which