Table Of ContentTable of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - YORKSHIRE, JUNE 1808
Chapter 2
Chapter 3 - YORKSHIRE, APRIL 1818
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
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PRINTING HISTORY
Heat trade paperback edition / March 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rowe, Margaret.
Any wicked thing / Margaret Rowe.—Heat trade paperback ed. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-10147868-4
1. Family secrets—Fiction. 2. England—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O8729A84 2011
813’.6—dc22
2010042110
http://us.penguingroup.com
For my girls:
Sarah, Jessie, Abby, Ely, Kris and Tiff
Chapter 1
YORKSHIRE, JUNE 1808
He has not changed a bit. Except to become more handsome.
—FROM THE DIARY OF FREDERICA WELLS
“What is the point?” Sebastian Goddard, reluctant heir to the duchy of Roxbury,
looked around the long gallery with disfavor after a particularly adept attacque
du fer. Grim and grimy portraits of gentlemen who thankfully were not his
ancestors glared down from the castle walls. Motes of dust swirled in weak
shafts of light, stirred up as he fenced with his oldest friend, who seemed to be
wearing a patched pair of pants that he’d cast off after a growth spurt at Eton. He
spared his opponent nothing, and it took a bit for her to catch a breath to answer.
“I rather think it’s at the end of your sword, Sebastian. That sharp thing.”
“I didn’t say where; I said what, Freddie. Why would he buy this dump when
there’s a reasonably good house at Roxbury Park?” He executed a perfect flying
parry. Freddie overcompensated, slipped and landed on her well-padded bottom
on the hard stone floor with a thump.
He was a cur to engage her, but she had insisted on swordplay to start the day.
An insistent Frederica Wells was, in his long-suffering experience, impossible to
ignore. He was more than a foot taller and several stones heavier, a visitor to the
finest salle d’armes in Great Britain and the continent, fit and fresh from his
lengthy grand tour after a lackluster year at university. His father had sent him
off with a private tutor in the hopes of civilizing him, but Sebastian had become
crafty ditching the old bird. In fact, for the last four months Sebastian had been
wholly on his own. Mr. Tetley had thrust a purse at him at the acropolis in
Athens and washed his hands of him, preferring the duke’s wrath to one more
day with his scapegrace son.
Freddie had been stuck at home as all girls were, no doubt singing and
painting and doing other useless things. Her fencing skills had improved some
from the last time they went at it, but poor Freddie looked like she’d had two too
many lemon tarts thrice daily. He recalled they were her favorite. Even at
many lemon tarts thrice daily. He recalled they were her favorite. Even at
eighteen, she had not lost her baby fat. Her freckled face was red from exertion,
but she grinned up at him like a cheerful pixie as he pulled her to her feet.
She pushed a sweat-soaked brown braid behind her ear. “You know your
father’s love of all things medieval. How could he resist? Didn’t he tell you all
about it yesterday?”
“If he did, I was not paying attention. You know how he bores me.” The pater
had rambled on yesterday about some of the structure dating to the eleventh
century, not that Sebastian cared. Gray rock was gray rock, and his mind had
drifted to visions of boiling oil or molten lead being poured down through the
machicolations on the old man. At twenty-one, Sebastian saw nothing but the
duke’s disinterest in anything contemporary, including himself. His father had
preferred to spend his time with his secretary and their dusty tomes and broken
relics rather than his only son. The men traveled all over Europe outrunning
Boney himself in their quest for medieval miscellany.
“Well, the story of Goddard Castle is not boring in the least,” Freddie said, her
eyes lighting.
Blast. It seemed she had been bitten by the history bug as well. Goddard
Castle indeed. The Archibald family crest and motto was stamped on virtually
every flat surface. The castle was originally home to the Earls of Archibald, and
had been called Archibald Castle until his father had the hubris to rename it after
himself. “I suppose you’re going to give me a lecture now, aren’t you, brat?”
“Your tutor gave a thorough report. I know you care nothing for history, so I
won’t waste my time trying to enlighten you if he couldn’t,” Freddie said, taking
no trouble to mask her superiority. “But we are at war with the French, so even a
blockhead like you might see the fascination in this tale. But never mind. I’m
sure you have plans for the morning. Seducing housemaids and whatnot.”
She stomped off in the direction of the armory to return her foil. He followed,
amused by the sway of her backside. His old breeches looked fairly good on her.
“I know you’re dying to tell me,” he called after her. “You never could keep
your mouth shut for any length of time.”
She turned like a clockwork gear, as he knew she would. “Go to the devil,
Sebastian Goddard!”
“Already there, Freddie.” He smiled at her, hoping she wouldn’t decide to
raise her weapon and run him through. He leaned against a leaded window,
praying it would hold his weight.
Her blue-gray eyes narrowed. “You have not changed one bit.”
“Au contraire. The past two years abroad have been very educational.”
“I’ll bet. Not that I would ever know. You never wrote.”
“I’m sure I did a time or two.” But most of the things he’d seen and done
could not be divulged to a young lady in a letter. He supposed Freddie qualified
