The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne Page 14

  “Can’t lie about all day,” he added. “Things to be done.”

  “I’m sure they can wait,” she replied warily.

  “But I’ve got…services…to perform. Stud services.”

  Ellie’s face grew hot.

  The wounded man murmured in a strange, soft voice. “I’m sorry, my lady. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. Shhh.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “Secret. Not to tell.”

  “Could you stir up the fire, Lady Mercy?” Ellie cried, her voice high and thin. “It feels a little cold in here.” At first it seemed the girl would refuse. Only when Ellie pointed out that James might feel chilled was the request obeyed.

  While the girl turned her back, apparently absorbed in prodding the coals, his lips popped open to expel a soft moan. “Mustn’t forget the soldiers. There should always be soldiers. But she’s got a lovely, lovely pair of bubbies.”

  Ellie looked over at Lady Mercy. Now violently and gleefully assaulting the fire with an iron poker, the girl had temporarily forgotten her concern for “poor, darling James.” His piteous groans were too subtle to be heard at that distance.

  “Stop it,” Ellie whispered frantically. “Just be quiet. Don’t talk.”

  “Someone ought to give that wench a spanking.” He chuckled, low.

  “James! Hush.”

  He gripped the pleats of her bed robe as she leaned over him. “A thousand pounds you owe me. I paid for your company. I’ll take that back and with interest, madam. We are not done. You owe me five nights.”

  Carefully she pried his hand from the material, but then his fingers clung to hers with the same determination.

  “Tell Mr. Grieves I’ll be back to work as soon as the sun comes up, madam. A valet’s work is never done. If you could walk a day in my shoes, you’d know.”

  ***

  The physician was a rotund fellow with a wig that sat slightly askew on his head, waistcoat buttons that were all—apart from one—in the wrong holes, very bright eyes, and a merry disposition, clearly increased by drink. As he stumbled around the bed, examining James in a slapdash fashion that Ellie could only hope had some purpose unapparent to the layperson, he hummed under his breath and occasionally let out a raucous laugh. He swayed, clutching for the bedpost and missing by several inches.

  “I’m sure ’tis naught but a little concussion, madam,” he announced. “A good night’s rest will help. Keep the feet elevated so blood returns to the brain. I do not advise the application of brandy or any other believed restorative. I don’t hold with it.” He punctuated this with a loud, rumbling burp, which, had she held a flame to it, would have set fire to the bed drapes.

  She frowned. “But he seems not to know who he is or where he is. He thinks he’s a valet.”

  “That, madam, is the nature of concussion,” he slurred. “’Tis a sorry business, but there we are. Accidents do happen. The brain will right itself.”

  No sooner had he given her this straw of hope, than he snatched it away again.

  “Or it may not, of course. There’s nothing one can do but wait.”

  Ellie hated feeling helpless. The more she studied the man stretched out on the bed, the more wounded he looked. Much of his sorry appearance was due to the preexisting bruise around his eye, but when combined with the blood on his forehead, it was more than she could bear. “Surely there is something we can—”

  “No. No.” The physician snapped his bag swiftly shut. “In fact, madam, the least one does, the better. He must have no shocks. Let him come slowly around to reality. The brain is much better left to heal itself.”

  Grieves held out the physician’s mud-spattered greatcoat. “You say we should let him believe whatever he has in his mind and not try to make him remember who he is?” There was a detectable note of glee in the valet’s tone.

  “Precisely. Forcing the memory does no good whatsoever and might only cause harm.”

  Shaking her head, Ellie walked to the window and looked out on the dark, rain-soaked yard of the inn. How on earth were they going to manage James now and get him safely to his grandmother in this state?

  When the physician left, Grieves tried to comfort her. “We’ll take him directly on to Morecroft and let his own physician examine him on the morrow, madam. Do not fret.”

  “But how can we let his grandmother see him like this? She’ll think it’s my fault, no doubt.”

  “Quite.” Grieves gave her an odd smile, as if he tried to withhold it but gave in. “Perhaps her ladyship is better off not knowing. For now.” He straightened his lips and attempted a solemn face. “The lady need not be worried unduly, and I’m certain he will soon improve. It is, after all, far from the first time something heavy has been struck about his head.”

  It was decided that Lady Mercy should stay with them in the room that night, and Grieves returned to the stables. The rain had eased off, and he assured her he was quite happy to sleep there. The valet seemed in a very good mood for a man whose master lay confused and helpless, but his blithely confident demeanor made Ellie feel a little better.

  She ordered another supper for Lady Mercy and watched her eat. Continually she checked that James was still breathing, and then, satisfied that he was, returned to her seat at the table.

  “Tell me how you came to be hiding in Mr. Hartley’s carriage, Lady Mercy.”

  “I ran away, of course. To be with him.” Her small face darkened in a fierce frown. “Now you’re here. It’s most unfair.”

  “Life very often is.”

  “But I am in love with James Hartley!” Lady Mercy’s impassioned declaration sent the candle flames into a wild dance. “He saved my life, you know.” Thus Ellie heard all about a rescue on horseback several weeks ago. “No one else came to my aid. My brother was not watching. I was quite alone. I could have died had James not ridden after me.”

  “That was very gallant of him.”

  “I remember it vividly. I was wearing a pink satin spencer topped with a rose-and-white striped scarf. And I had my lime-green gloves. Oh, and some extremely lush plumes in my hat that made Cecelia Montague blatantly emerald with envy. Although she denied it feverishly.”

  “I see.”

  “Has poor, darling James ever saved your life?”

  She laughed. “No. I save my own.” She’d always been her own savior.

  “I know you don’t love him like I do. You can’t possibly. Do you?” the girl demanded.

  Ellie hesitated. “It doesn’t really matter whom we love, because the other person is sometimes incapable of loving in return. If you do not have those expectations, you won’t be hurt or disappointed. A person is much better off independent, relying on no one else, keeping their heart to themselves.”

  Lady Mercy regarded her with that peculiarly precocious hauteur. “Are you his harlot?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A woman of the night? A loose woman? A demirep?”

  “Good gracious, no. Whatever—?”

  “But your clothes were almost all off, and you were in bed with him.”

  Uh, oh. “I was merely changing my clothes. They were wet from the rain. Mr. Hartley was…helping me.”

  “I heard him say he paid for you. Something about five nights.”

  Ellie replied curtly, “He has a concussion. He does not know what he’s saying.”

  “My brother prefers to spend his money on harlots than on proper young ladies, because they don’t make things complicated. So he says.”

  “Does he indeed?”

  “He says he’s never going to get married.”

  “Probably a wise choice,” she replied wryly. “For the sake of women everywhere.” Reaching across the cluttered table, she took the ale jug from the girl’s hands. “You should have lemonade.”

  The arrogant little madam wrinkled her nose. “I can have ale. This is very weak. My brother lets me drink wine at home. I even tried brandy once. He dared me to finish a whole glass of it for a shilling.”

&n
bsp; “Your brother sounds quite a character. I assume he’s your only guardian?”

  The girl nodded. “He lets me do whatever I like, since I got rid of Nanny.”

  Ellie smiled. “If life is so fine at home, why are you running away?”

  Lady Mercy’s green eyes widened just enough to show a sudden fearful glimmer. Ellie remembered what she’d said about the incident on the horse.

  “Perhaps being with James makes you feel safer?”

  Again the girl didn’t answer. She yawned heartily instead, rubbing her eyes, shoulders slumped. Apparently no one cared much about her posture either.

  Ellie made up a cot at the foot of the bed for Lady Mercy but resigned herself to a wakeful night in the chair by the fire. The child was quick to point out the impropriety of unmarried people sharing the same room all night. Ellie reminded her that James needed a nurse to watch over him. Under those circumstances, she said, the rules could be bent.

  “And you will be our chaperone, Lady Mercy,” she added.

  “Yes. I shall keep watch! There will be none of that going on, while I’m here.”

  Indeed, she thought with a sigh, there could not be.

  ***

  James opened his eyes a half inch. He’d lost his memory only for the first few moments after wakening from the blow. Then, once his senses returned full force, he took advantage of the accident. He was going to have a little fun with Miss Vyne, and if she came out of her five nights unscathed, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying on his part. He’d get his thousand pounds’ worth and then some. Stud services indeed!

  Very cautiously he slid out of bed, taking a blanket from the many she’d laid over him, and carried it to where she slept in the chair. Lady Mercy snored away contentedly on the cot at the foot of the bed. He laid the blanket over Ellie, tucking it around her, trying not to think too hard about that luscious body he was prevented from enjoying fully tonight. She stirred slightly. Her eyes flickered open but did not quite focus on his face as he leaned over her.

  “Sleep, my lady,” he whispered. His lips brushed her twitching eyelids. “You’ll need it before our next encounter.”

  “Hmmm.”

  He allowed his fingers to drift gently down the side of her cheek, then her graceful neck. As much as her steadily heaving breaths tempted, he couldn’t let his hand stray any farther. Not tonight, alas.

  Chapter 11

  She woke with a start, surprised she’d ever fallen asleep. Her neck was stiff from sleeping in that chair. Lady Mercy, already cloaked and booted, a fur muff hanging around her neck, stood beside her, prodding her steadily with one finger.

  “Wake up, Vyne woman. He said to wake you and tell you to go down.”

  “What? Who?” She leapt up and wiped drool from her mouth with one hand.

  The bed was empty, last night’s supper things all removed, and the room tidied, even the pieces of armor back in their place, guarding the door.

  “He still thinks he’s a servant,” the girl added, singsong. “It’s all your fault, because if you hadn’t used your dreadful feminine wiles to seduce him, he would have waited for me. He would never be here with you, a strumpet bereft of virtue, and I would never have screamed.”

  How quickly the girl found a culprit to lessen her part in last night’s accident. It reminded Ellie of herself.

  She caught the girl’s coat sleeve between thumb and forefinger. “Lady Mercy, you must promise not to speak a word to anyone about what you saw last night.”

  “Why should I promise you anything?”

  “Because until Mr. Hartley is fit and well,”—and able to defend himself, she thought miserably—“it is best not to mention it.” The last thing he needed, in his current state, was his grandmother finding out through rumor that James had spent the night with Ellie Vyne at the Barley Mow. “For his sake,” she added, knowing where this girl’s loyalties lie.

  The truculent child stuck out her lower lip.

  Ellie sighed deeply. “I will owe you a favor.”

  Finally the girl agreed to do her best. “Although I can’t promise,” she chirped. “I am terrible at keeping secrets.” With that crumb of comfort thrown out, she stuck her freckled nose in the air and flounced away.

  ***

  Somewhere after midnight it must have rained hard again. Fat, rippling puddles dotted the inn yard, and the air was thick with damp. Misty clouds were emitted with every breath as the passengers waited for loading onto the mail coach. Several faces turned her way in envy when James carried her battered trunk on his shoulder and cleared a path through the bedraggled crowd, leading her to a private carriage. It was the same sleek black vessel that almost forced the mail coach off the road yesterday.

  Mr. Grieves held the door for her and pointed out the heated brick for her feet, luring her inside with the promise of that luxury.

  As she stepped up behind Lady Mercy, she heard James cursing, struggling with her unwieldy trunk. The catch had broken open again. The newly tied rope knots were too loose, and several items fell to the wet cobbles. She wanted to help him, but Mr. Grieves advised her against it.

  “Let the valet secure your trunk, Miss Vyne. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “But I know the peculiar way it has to be—”

  “Really, Miss Vyne, he will manage.” Mr. Grieves patted her hand and smiled broadly. “He’s stronger than he looks and very keen.” Then he turned his head and bellowed through the window, “Put some wind in your sails, Smallwick, or I’ll be forced to take a horsewhip to your bony backside. You’re keeping Miss Vyne waiting.”

  Ellie flinched. “Surely that’s not necessary,” she whispered.

  “Remember, he thinks he’s a servant, Miss Vyne, and the physician did say we should go along with it until he recovers. We must not challenge his brain with ideas so far unfamiliar to him.”

  “But…Smallwick?”

  The valet gave a sheepish grin. “I thought the name suited him, madam, and he has taken to it without complaint.”

  “Mr. Grieves, that is quite evil of you.”

  “In life there are few pleasures to be had, madam. One must take them where one can. Needs must.”

  A follower of that philosophy herself, she really could not quarrel with it.

  He raised his voice to shout through the carriage window, “And one must talk to these fellows in the language they understand, Miss Vyne. Smallwick must learn.”

  Another stifled curse preceded her trunk falling to the ground with a bang. Unconcerned by James’s plight, Mr. Grieves filled the next few moments by loudly asking Lady Mercy if she slept well and how she liked her supper.

  “Mr. Grieves, I do think we ought to help—”

  “No, no, he has it. There. See.”

  Ellie gripped the window frame and peered out just in time to see his firm calves leaping up onto the back of the carriage. James was tall, which would make it doubly difficult to hang on to his precarious perch. Her mind traveled ahead to the narrow lanes, overhung with low branches. The poor man could be scratched to pieces. Looking around the relatively warm interior of Mr. Grieves’s carriage, she suggested there was room for “Smallwick” inside, pointing out that rain must make his outside seat slippery. But her new traveling companion refused to entertain the thought.

  She glanced out once more and saw a handsome woman waving her bonnet from the entrance of the tavern.

  “James! Oh, James! Stop! James!”

  Horrified, she shrank back in her seat, away from the window. Ophelia Southwold. What the devil was she doing at the Barley Mow? James, of course, having lost his memory, did not answer to the name.

  The carriage jolted forward and splashed through puddles, picking up speed with no caution for anyone else in the yard. Ellie hung onto the leather strap beside her head and looked at Grieves, who was smiling merrily. He took mischievous pleasure in his master’s predicament, and for the first half an hour, every bump they lurched over was accompanied by his snort of laughter a
nd a misty-eyed grin.

  Ellie tried not to worry about the unfortunate “Smallwick.” But each thump of the poor man’s knees against the back of the carriage made her teeth grind.

  “Smallwick has quite a litany of curses,” she observed finally.

  “He does indeed, madam. I shall be obliged to thrash him for that language when we get to Morecroft.”

  Again they heard a shower of lurid curses from the man clinging to the outside of the carriage. Ellie was glad Lady Mercy wore her fur-lined bonnet pulled low over her ears to keep them warm. The girl had apparently come well prepared for winter weather. Since she’d confessed to getting rid of her nanny, it was evident she looked after herself to a surprising degree for such a small person. Some grown women of Ellie’s acquaintance were not so capable of looking after themselves.

  Needs must, thought Ellie, glancing again at the self-contained little girl beside her.

  As they sped along, the vessel heaved from side to side, and James’s knees knocked against the back of the carriage like bell clappers.

  Mr. Grieves leaned across the small space to reassure her with a whisper. “It will do him good, you know, madam, to see how the other half lives.”

  “I suppose so.” If he should remember any of it later.

  The carriage bounced over a rut so violently they were almost tossed out of their seats. A loud, ominous crack followed immediately, and the barouche tilted at an angle before bumping to an abrupt, bone-wrenching halt.

  “I believe we lost Smallwick,” she muttered. “I heard something heavy fall.”

  Mr. Grieves scrambled to the door and leapt out, directly into an ankle-deep trench of rainwater. She heard the shouting but remained in her seat. She daren’t look, fearing her trunk was in the mud and all her articles of intimate clothing strewn about. How typical of James to hire a driver whose main interest was speed, not the comfort of his passengers.

  Lady Mercy hung out through the open window and reported on the situation with suitable tragic emphasis. “The wheel broke. Looks like we’re stuck. And it’s raining again. The lane will soon be flooded. We’ll be swept away and most likely drowned. I’m glad I wore my best lace underthings, for I should hate for my corpse to be found in only linen.”