Mischief on Albemarle: The Scoundrel of Mayfair, #2

By Vivian Roycroft

The right man refuses to admit he's wrong. Until he does, the wrongest man in London is rather charming.

Miss Beryl Wentworth is silently, desperately in love with her childhood friend, Finian Fitzwilliam, who unfortunately still treats her as if willing to shove her into the nearest mud puddle. It's infuriating now that she at least has grown up, and it leads to loud and horribly public arguments between them. It seems he'll never treat her as a woman grown, never look at her that way… until a quite charming rake asks her for the first two dances at the Hanover Square assembly room. Dare she hope that His Grace, Ernst Anton Oldenburg, the Duke of Cumberland (and some say a foreign prince) is serious, even if Fitz is not?

Fitz can't believe it. The man's a rake, he ruined Anne Kirkhoven only weeks ago, and now Beryl agrees to dance with the villain? Strong-willed she might be, but there must be something Fitz can do to extricate her from that ducal clutch… even if it means interrupting them behind the shrubbery in Hyde Park.

How can the Scoundrel of Mayfair bring two feuding hearts together without setting off the final argument that tears them apart forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dingbat Publishing
• Release date: Jun 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201794026

Book preview

MISCHIEF ON ALBEMARLE

Copyright © 2013 by Vivian Roycroft

Primary print ISBN

Originally Published by Astraea Press / Clean Reads

Second Edition Published 2021 by Dingbat Publishing

Humble, Texas

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are entirely the produce of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual locations, events, or organizations is coincidental

The right man refuses to admit he’s wrong. Until he does, the wrongest man in London is rather charming.

Prologue

Beryl

Beryl had waited, oh , it seemed forever, to become old enough to follow her elder sister from the nursery, leaving it and her silly younger sister behind. That wondrous day had finally arrived, and she and her new governess, Miss Simpson, walked along the London streets hand in hand while she learned all about being a young lady instead of a misbehaving little hoyden.

When we get home, we’ll practice your curtsey, said Miss Simpson, and we’ll learn when it’s appro—

I know how to curtsey, said Beryl, forgetting her earlier instruction about not interrupting her elders. See—

But she’d barely gotten her knees bent when Miss Simpson tugged her back erect. Not in the middle of the street, dear. People will stare.

Beryl tucked her chin and fell back into step at Miss Simpson’s side. People staring, it seemed, was the worst possible thing that could happen, as she’d been threatened with that several times already during their walk. Why anyone should be concerned by a simple curtsey confused Beryl, but if Miss Simpson said it was bad, for now, at least, she would be guided by her new governess’ wisdom and greater experience.

Goodness me. Miss Simpson halted on the sidewalk, drawing Beryl up beside her. And what have we here?

What we have here seemed to be a little boy, standing outside the orphan school with his hands clasped behind his back. He and the school gates were still half a block ahead, but at a glance Beryl knew that he was no orphan. His clothes were neat and stylish, from his black pumps to his miniature top hat, and the confidence with which he surveyed the street seemed to imply he owned the place rather than requested permission to exist.

He’s not an orphan, Beryl said.

Indeed not, said Miss Simpson, and for the first time, Beryl heard a note of approval in her voice. It’s far more likely that his father is a sponsor of the school and they’ve come to visit. She tugged on Beryl’s hand. Come, let’s introduce ourselves, and then you can demonstrate that curtsey for us.

The boy turned and watched them approach, his chin up and tilted as if wondering who might be invading his realm. His curls beneath his hat turned out to be brown with chestnut highlights; his eyes were clear, impish green.

Although Miss Simpson continued to lecture about how introductions should properly be made, Beryl found it more and more difficult to pay attention even to someone as important as her new governess. That strange little boy kept glancing aside at the massive puddle of water beside the school’s gates, and Beryl couldn’t help but wonder if he planned to push her into it. Clearly he wasn’t as grown up as she was.

Miss Simpson brought Beryl to a stop a few feet away. Good afternoon, young man. How are you?

The boy glanced again at the puddle. Yes, Beryl decided, he intended for her to land in that water, and she decided then and there that she would not allow it to happen. Instead, she imagined how he’d look sitting in the puddle. It was a much more satisfying image.

You’re a funny sort of little boy, aren’t you? Beryl said.

Whatever Miss Simpson was saying came to a gasping halt. Miss Beryl, that’s not a very polite thing to say, especially not on first meeting. We have no idea of this little boy’s rank nor position...

Something strange seemed to be happening, for Miss Simpson’s words faded away in Beryl’s attention. Beryl heard the sound and knew it was Miss Simpson’s attempt to instruct her, but the words themselves and any meaning they carried simply couldn’t be understood. She wondered if the little boy had anything to do with it.

The little boy’s grin was pure imp. And you’re a funny sort of little girl, aren’t you?

"I’m not a little girl." Beryl put up her nose, but since she grinned back at him, the effect was rather lost. Strangely, she found she didn’t mind that in the least.

I think we must be about the same age, he said. "And that means that if I’m a little boy, then you’re a little girl."

Beryl realized he stood very slightly taller, and was forced to admit the logic of his statement. But still... was Miss Simpson still chattering away? That sounded like her voice, although at a distance, perhaps somewhere in the next street over, for all Beryl could understand of her words.

No, Beryl said, everyone knows boys grow up more slowly than girls. Besides, you’re at a school. I have a governess. It wasn’t strictly true, for she knew he was AT the school, not IN it, but it sounded good.

Miss Simpson’s voice finally died away entirely. Beryl glanced up and recognized pure horror in her governess’ expression. Perhaps her conversation with the the strange little boy wasn’t demonstrating the ladylike deportment Miss Simpson had hoped for. That didn’t seem so very important any longer, for some reason.

A school, forsooth. The boy chuckled. "What need have I for a governess? I have a tutor."

Beryl’s grin faded, but only for a moment. This interesting boy might have scored a point, but she was far from out of verbal cannonballs. Then you should dress the part, and not wear such raggedy breeches that your poor mama must hang her head in shame.

Whatever Miss Simpson exclaimed was lost in his giggles.

Call that a gown, do you? Last year’s color, no style worth the name, and the hem’s too low. You know this year, we’re supposed to see your boots.

Again his taunt hit home; Beryl liked her gown very much, but it was a hand-me-down from Beatrice, her older sister, and indeed it was last year’s color and style. Whoever this boy might be, he understood fashion quite well, especially if he’d had any input into the selection of his own attire.

And who tied your cravat? You must have done so, and without the benefit of a mirror... or practice. Really, you should have turned the stained side to your chest, not the public.

Beryl grinned, gratified no end, when the boy glanced down at his rumpled but immaculately clean cravat. She was made even happier when he laughed again, and found herself joining in. He might be a strange little boy, and his accent was quite odd, too, but she liked him.

Without thinking, she stepped close and pushed.

He stumbled back, arms thrown out and spiraling like the blades of a windmill, then he sat down with a massive splash. She laughed harder. A moment later, he joined in, giggling wickedly and without restraint. Miss Simpson’s shrill voice could only be heard by dogs.

He held out a hand, still giggling. You must help me up.

She tucked her hands behind her back. And you must think me simple.

The hand stretched closer. It’s only fair.

At the last moment, Miss Simpson caught on and grabbed Beryl’s shoulder, trying to drag her back. But the boy lunged, and Beryl, caught in the moment, seized his hand. He won the brief tug-of-war with Miss Simpson, the world tumbled around her, and then Beryl was sitting in the puddle with him, wet to her waist, both of them giggling so hard they couldn’t breathe.

My name’s Finian Fitzwilliam, he said when air returned, but you may call me Fitz.

Beryl Wentworth, she said, and held out her hand.

Still sitting in the puddle, he took her hand and bowed over it, like the veriest gentleman. Pleased to meet you. And whatever else he’d intended to say was lost beneath a new round of giggles.

What on earth...?

Beryl glanced up, her laughter dying away in uncertainty. Above them stood a slender man with a somewhat lumpy face perhaps better described as interesting rather than handsome. If Fitz, sitting beside her in the puddle, had before his tumble qualified as fashionable and expensively dressed, the man now staring down at them was even more so. Only the man’s eyes calmed her sudden attack of nerves, for they were the same clear, impish green as Fitz’s, and she decided she liked him, too.

His mouth opened, then closed, rippled as if fighting a smile, then opened and closed again. Well, he finally said, I suppose this is what I deserve, thinking I’d find my well-behaved son waiting for me at the gate, as I requested.

Fitz again dissolved into giggles. Beryl couldn’t help it; she laughed along with him, all her fear vanishing away. If this man was Fitz’s father, then he couldn’t be mean or ugly, not if he’d raised such an entertaining son.

Miss Simpson fluttered her hands as if she could make the entire silly situation vanish with her flapping. I don’t know— I don’t know what—

Worry not, said the man, releasing the ghost of a smile. They’ll wash. Are you this charming young lady’s mother, sister, aunt...? His raised eyebrows invited a response.

Governess. Miss Simpson dropped a curtsey. For the Wentworth family, in Albemarle.

Beryl wondered if she should stand up and demonstrate her own courtsey. But when she glanced at Fitz for his reaction, they both surrendered to another fit of the giggles. She kept sitting in the puddle with him instead.

A pleasure. The man reached down, offering a hand each to Fitz and Beryl.  When her new friend accepted his father’s grip with eagerness, Beryl smiled and did the same, and the man pulled them both to their soggy feet. Please inform your employer this scamp and I shall pay him a call tomorrow afternoon.

More stammering and fluttering, and Beryl wondered if Miss Simpson would ever recover. Sir, who should I say will be calling?

Instead of releasing their hands, the man pulled them even higher, until Beryl felt her feet leave the pavement. She and Fitz swung around the man when he turned in place, both screaming in delighted terror.

Over their combined noise, the man said, William Wentworth-Fitzwilliam, the fourth Earl Fitzwilliam, among other things.

TO BERYL’S ABSOLUTE delight, her new friend and his father did indeed call the next day, and they all sat together in the parlor, sipping tea and munching biscuits. The earl kept his son seated on the sofa beside him, well within arm’s reach should another puddle magically appear, and every time he met Beryl’s eye, they both giggled over their cups.

Even Beryl could see that something made her father nervous. He sipped his tea then set cup and saucer aside, running a hand through his thinning hair. My lord, permit me to apologize. Beryl is a rambunctious child, but that’s no—

Earl Fitzwilliam waved the apology aside. Mr. Wentworth, children are children. Yes, of course they should be instructed and educated, but they must also play and have fun, preferably with other children their age. Excellent oolong, this. He drained his cup and reached across for the offered refill. From your warehouses, sir?

Well, yes—

"Do put some aside for me, if you would. It’s gotten so difficult, finding just the right blend, not