The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne Read online

  James Hartley was filthy rich, the son and grandson of knighted merchants. His grandmother was the daughter of a marquis, niece of a duke, and the most important person in Morecroft. It was said that she kept a servant just for holding her smelling salts. Invitations to her social events were almost as sought after by the county elite as invitations to Court. James, her only grandson, had known nothing but the best schools, the finest tailors, the most sought-after chefs. The most beautiful women.

  She, on the other hand, was a wayward, stray stepdaughter of an impoverished, eccentric admiral. Her mother had been a pretty nobody—even worse, a foreigner. Slandered wherever she went, Ellie knew the world saw her as a clumsy, irreverent creature of little beauty, scant charm, no fashion sense, and just enough wit to keep the gates of debtor’s prison at bay.

  What on earth was James Hartley doing with her?

  Chapter 15

  So that was over with. James had worried about seeing Sophia again, wondered how it might feel after two years, feared the return of those familiar pangs he’d carried for so long. But he’d merely experienced a pleasure such as he knew at seeing any old friend after a period of absence. Even his old animosity toward her husband was muted.

  Ellie walked ahead, leaping over puddles—frequently landing in them—while he circled each one and maintained a safe distance.

  This was the very lane along which he’d traveled the first time he laid eyes on Ellie Vyne. On his way to visit Sophia as he trotted along in his new curricle, he’d mistaken the girl for a gypsy. She wandered along the verge untended, her dress muddied, her dark hair loose down her back and ornamented with a wilted daisy chain. He’d turned his head to look at her as he passed, just as his wheels splashed through a deep puddle and coated her from head to foot. He would have stopped, but when she cursed at him in some very foul language, he felt no guilt and continued on his way.

  If anyone had told him back then that he would consider one day marrying the girl, he could only have laughed at the absurdity. Ellie Vyne? But she’s feral, he would have said. Of course, he was never very tactful back then.

  Now he was intensely sorry for many things he’d uttered in the past while trying to be amusing.

  “Why did you tell her we’re engaged?” She looked over her shoulder.

  “People must know sooner or later.” It had been his sole purpose in seeing Sophia that day. He felt it only right that she should know. In a sense, he wanted her approval, and if Ellie had not followed him there, he would have asked Sophie’s advice too.

  “But it really isn’t true. It’s not an engagement.”

  “This again?” He stopped walking; so she did too. Sometimes he wondered if she truly planned to go through with marriage to him. She seemed fearful of the commitment, always avoiding any serious conversation on the subject. There was also her history of broken engagements, a pattern of disastrous, ill-advised romances. Would he be just another casualty of her restless attention, another fool bewitched and cast aside when he’d outlived his usefulness and his entertainment value?

  “Did you say it to wound Sophie?” she demanded.

  “Why would I want to do that, pray?”

  She exhaled heavily and pushed a stray curl back under the limp brim of her rain-soaked bonnet. “You were in love with her, and she threw you over for another man.”

  James looked at her small, troublemaking fingers. They were turning a bluish pallor, because she’d lost her gloves again. “Was I in love with her?”

  “Everyone says so.”

  “Then it must be true. Will you take my gloves? You’re cold.”

  “No. Thank you.” Her expression was vexed. “And I don’t care for the word engagement. It’s never brought me much good fortune, only more scandal.”

  He looked at her stubborn, bossy mouth. He wanted her hand, but it was never still. “What about the word marriage, Miss Vyne? Does that word trouble you too?”

  “We will marry only if these five nights prove fruitful.”

  She looked particularly beautiful in her windswept state. Very tempting.

  “That was the agreement, James.” She began backing up; something about his expression apparently caused her anxiety.

  “Smallwick,” he corrected with a smile and walked toward her.

  To his relief, a little twitch turned up the corner of her willful lips, and she stopped at the verge, her back to a stout oak. “May I keep Smallwick a while longer then?”

  “Yes.” He raised a hand to her face and curved it slowly toward her cold cheek, letting his gloved fingertips drift slowly downward. “If he’s making good use of himself.”

  “Oh, he is.” She smiled.

  “Then he’s yours.”

  He bent his head, but just as he expected to claim a kiss, she dodged around him and walked on. Sighing heavily, he straightened up and followed. “Until Grieves comes with Dr. Salt,” she said. “What can be taking them so long?”

  James winced. “No doubt Grieves enjoys his freedom from my service and is kicking up his heels in Morecroft.” He wouldn’t put it past his valet to have gone off on another holiday somewhere. Grieves was a shrewd fellow and probably knew this was a ruse.

  At steps running after them down the lane, they both turned. The boy, Rafe, flew toward them, waving worn leather gloves.

  “You left these behind, missus!”

  “How many gloves have you lost?” he muttered to the woman at his side. How many men have returned them to you? he might have added. If seeking another quarrel.

  “My sisters say I should have them attached to me on strings as I did when I was a child.”

  The boy tumbled into them, red faced. James was struck with a memory of another similarly raven-haired creature once looking up at him and smiling. Oh, sir, you forgot your hat, sir. A pretty young housemaid running after him as he left a party. It was the first time he’d noticed her, and after that they’d enjoyed a brief affair. It lasted no more than a week perhaps. He was a lusty young man, and she was eager, available, most obliging. A lovely girl with very dark eyes and a soft voice. She was the housemaid he’d known more than ten years ago—the young woman who sent for him too late and died. Supposedly, along with her child.

  His child.

  This boy’s eyes were blue, startling, an unusual combination with the ebony hair.

  At the farmhouse, he had been too caught up in relaying the news that was burning a hole in his tongue. What Sophie said about the boy hadn’t fully sunk in. Now it did. Rafe was Russ Kane’s nephew, so she’d said. Two years ago, when she accused James of letting a woman and child die, she’d hinted that the dead woman was Kane’s sister. Which is how she knew about it. If the housemaid was Kane’s sister, and this boy was Kane’s nephew…

  He struggled to remember his conversation with Sophie two years ago, the night she ran away from him to marry Kane. She’d definitely told him the housemaid—Rebecca—had died. What did she say about the child? The memory was shrouded in fog, and he’d been half cut on brandy at the time, but he was sure she’d told him the child died too. If she had told him otherwise, he would have asked about the child, wanted to see him, paid for his education.

  Ellie took her gloves, thanked the boy, and with a thoughtful, pensive expression, watched him run back to the farmhouse gates.

  James, too, followed the boy’s retreat with his narrowed gaze.

  His son? Was it possible that Rebecca’s child had lived? The boy was surely the right age to be his. He swallowed hard and stared down the lane until his sight began to mist over. A crushing weight settled over his chest. In the distance, the farmhouse gate clanged shut.

  Perhaps it was a coincidence. After all, he knew very little about Kane’s background, and he could have many siblings, many nephews.

  He closed his eyes.

  Breathe.

  He had a son. Dear God. He had a son? If Rafe was his, Sophia had kept the truth from him for two years. Unforgiveable.

  “Loo
k,” Ellie said.

  He opened his eyes. She was pointing at the heavy sky.

  “I can almost taste the snow already. Won’t that be lovely if it snows for Christmas?”

  He looked down the lane again toward the farmhouse surrounded by that flint stone wall. The boy’s face haunted him, would not let him rest.

  His son. His son?

  The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became.

  “I do hope Molly Robbins has mended your breeches,” Ellie exclaimed. “You look quite ridiculous in those you borrowed from my aunt.” She giggled and then covered her mouth, pretending to be sorry.

  He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I can’t help it if your aunt’s lover happens to be short and wide.”

  “My aunt’s what?”

  Glad to see her amusement snapped off at last, he relayed his suspicions about her aunt’s early morning, personal milk delivery.

  “How dare you suggest such a thing? James Hartley, that is positively untrue.”

  “I saw Farmer Osborne with my own two good eyes, sneaking out of the cottage yesterday after we arrived. And last night he was trying to get in through the back door, clearly surprised to find it bolted.”

  “My aunt is a very proper lady, and she’s devoted to the captain’s memory!”

  “I’m telling you, woman, I know what I saw.” He gestured at his breeches. “And how else do you explain these?”

  Reminded of them, she broke into another chuckle, putting both hands up to her lips this time but unable to hide the wicked gleam in her eyes.

  “It seems to me,” he added, “that Farmer Osborne had more than one reason to send his daughter off to Bath and get her out of the way.”

  “James! Not my aunt and Farmer Osborne. Two more respectable people you could never meet.”

  Head up, James walked on, lengthening his stride and leaving her to walk behind.

  “Your ankle must be much improved, Smallwick,” she called out wryly.

  So he faltered, limping belatedly. Laughter rolled out of her yet again.

  How could one person have so much laughter inside, waiting to come out on the slightest provocation?

  “Apparently everyone in this damnable village is keeping a secret,” he muttered, thinking not only of Eliza Cawley and her clandestine visitor, but of Sophia and that cheeky-faced, crow-headed boy.

  ***

  Ellie caught her reflection in the hall mirror as they walked through the front door. She noted, in some distress, her reddened cheeks and dampened, windblown curls. No wonder James kept looking at her oddly. She must be the most unkempt woman with whom he’d ever been observed in company. Thinking to run upstairs and tidy herself, she was prevented by her aunt, who greeted them in the hall, agitated again.

  “Ellie, thank goodness.” She lowered her voice. “Lord Shale is here with his son. I am unaccustomed to grand visitors and could not think how to entertain them.” Perhaps seeing her intention to run out again, her aunt quickly seized her coat and clutched it in her arms. “You cannot leave them in my parlor. Go!” She began herding her niece along the hall and away from the door. “Go in. They are here for you, not me, and Lady Mercy has already sung several songs on the spinet.”

  “Good. Let Lady Mercy entertain the Shales.”

  “But, my dear Ellie, her songs are not very ladylike. Someone has taught her the wrong lyrics out of mischief. I dare not say anything, but Lord Shale has gone quite puce in color. Besides, although the young lady has much to say for herself and could never be described as a shrinking violet, I fear she is much too young to be ‘out.’ She tells me she is only ten, Ellie. Yet she insisted on sitting down at the spinet, and nothing dissuaded her.”

  “No. I can imagine.”

  “But surely she is not ‘out’ so young.”

  “I believe her upbringing has been rather unusual, Aunt Lizzie. She has very little supervision.”

  “Why don’t you take charge of her then,” James interrupted. “You like being in charge, Miss Vyne. Ordering people about.”

  “Indeed I do not.”

  “I’ve never known anyone so fond of laying down rules, madam. You do it so well.” Then he strode onward into the kitchen to look for his mended breeches.

  Feet heavy, she entered the parlor. Lord Shale stood to greet her, and his son eventually followed suit. To Ellie’s horror, Mrs. Flick was still there, having extended her morning visit beyond the usual half hour, very probably to glean as much gossip as she could. The arrival of the Shales was an added bonus. Her small eyes bore into Ellie from across the parlor.

  “So there you are at last. Your aunt said you’d gone out walking. In this weather. And all alone. Really, you young girls are so careless of your health. I am an advocate of indoor exercise. Outdoors, one is inclined to exert oneself overmuch. Indoors, one is in no danger of choking on insects or catching too much sunlight.”

  “I believe fresh air improves the health, madam,” Ellie replied. “I take in as much of it as I can in the country.”

  Although she smiled at Mrs. Flick, the gesture was not returned. Even the woman’s clothes bore a grudge—tightly buttoned and sparsely decorated.

  “The benefits are plain, Miss Vyne. You are the picture of good health,” Lord Shale assured her. “A brisk walk can be very beneficial, I always say. Trenton loves to walk. Do you not, Trenton?”

  His son, having already slumped back onto the couch, was examining his pocket watch. No one ever looked less like a person inclined to walking.

  “And what brings you to Sydney Dovedale so suddenly?” Mrs. Flick demanded, shouting to be heard above Lady Mercy’s heavy-handed playing.

  “A visit to my aunt for Christmas,” Ellie replied and crossed to the spinet. “I heard she’d been under the weather. I hoped to cheer her spirits.”

  Mrs. Flick made a huffing sound, as if the idea of Ellie’s presence cheering anyone’s spirits was patently ridiculous. “It was a little cold, and she is well recovered now. Thanks to my remedy. I daresay she could have been very ill had she not listened to me about the goose grease and calf’s foot. There was no occasion for you to come charging across the country, I’m sure.”

  As Ellie’s aunt entered the parlor behind her, Mrs. Flick raised her voice another decibel. “Isn’t that right, Eliza? My remedy was all you required.”

  “Oh yes, yes, indeed.”

  Ellie leaned over the spinet and closed the music Lady Mercy was following. “I believe Molly Robbins wanted to take you on a tour of the village, my lady. The rain has stopped now, and you should take advantage of it.”

  “She’s sewing in the kitchen.”

  “But I’m sure she’s done now. Run along.”

  “I don’t want to. She’s a dull, plain girl.”

  Ellie gritted her teeth in another smile. “But you do want to go to the party tonight?”

  Blackmail the child understood. She climbed down from the stool, curtseyed to the guests, and allowed Ellie to shuffle her out of the parlor.

  “And what is this I hear about a manservant?” Mrs. Flick exclaimed, her small mouth hemmed with deep lines engraved by a lifetime of disappointment in the behavior of others. When she closed her mouth, it was as if the strings of a miser’s purse were pulled tight.

  Everyone looked at Ellie as she sat beside her aunt. “Oh, it is quite the new thing to be had among young ladies in Town, madam.”

  Mrs. Flick’s eyes shrank to wary slits.

  “They are very useful for carrying boxes and lifting heavy items. Opening stuck doors and bottles. That sort of thing. Very good for a woman who lacks a husband.” Ellie was getting into her story. “I hear the Princess Sophia keeps one. A Male Peculiar is the correct term.”

  All eyes were on her still. Mrs. Flick’s gaze widened only very slightly. “A Male Peculiar? I never heard of such a thing.”

  “I can assure you, madam, they are all the rage. In Town.”

  There was a pause. Aunt Lizzie
blew her nose soundly into her lace kerchief, and Lord Shale tapped his cane against his shoe. In his cage, the captain’s parakeet let out a low cackle. “Ooh…Smallwick! Small…wick!”

  Ellie looked down at her skirt, hiding a smile.

  “How are you getting along without Mary Wills?” Mrs. Flick demanded as she turned her fiercely critical attention to Aunt Lizzie. “I do not know why you gave her up, and now you have guests, you will rue the day you let her go. Guests do make an awful mess, especially when they descend upon a house without warning and bring small people in tow.”

  Aunt Lizzie swallowed fearfully, her fingers pulling at the pleats in her skirt.

  “If Mary ate too much,” the other woman continued, “you could have got a girl of less appetite and considerably less heft from the orphanage. A younger girl, grateful for the roof over her head and who takes up only a little air. Mary Wills had a tendency to fill spaces, and this is only a small house with narrow rooms.”

  “But I am managing quite well without a maid,” Aunt Lizzie ventured. “Especially now I have Ellie here to help.”

  Mrs. Flick drew back with a sharp jerk of her head. “How much help she’ll be to you, I can’t imagine. Dashing hither and thither in all weathers. Like most young girls, never about when she is needed.”

  Lord Shale cleared his throat. “If the rain has stopped, Miss Vyne, and you are not too tired from your walk, I’m sure Trenton would very much enjoy a stroll about your aunt’s garden.”

  It was the lesser of two evils. At least she’d be in the fresh air. So she forced a brighter smile and let the unpleasant young man escort her out through the French doors into the small, walled garden behind the cottage.

  Mrs. Flick, she knew, kept an eye on them through the gothic arched panels of the door. No doubt she’d already begun preparing her next round of gossip to share later with the good folk of the village. It was lucky James had not joined them in the parlor, because Mrs. Flick would have recognized him immediately, and she was not the sort to play along with a masquerade.