The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne (21 page)

Since he could not possibly know what to say to that, she was not surprised when he remained silent.

“The object of the game,” she explained, churlish, “is for each person to take a slice. If the bullet falls from the top, the person making the slice must, with their hands behind their back, retrieve the bullet from the flour.”

“Without their hands?”

“Just with their mouths, of course.”

“Won’t the flour get everywhere?”

“That, Hartley, is the point. You’re supposed to get all floury and look ridiculous. It’s fun.” She folded her arms. “Not that you, precious, pampered Prince James, can understand the concept.”

The wine and eggnog had flowed liberally that evening, so there was great jollity even before the game began, but Ellie felt only confusion and sadness. She should have joined the frenzy, for that game was once one of her favorites, and she was usually the first to cover her face in flour. Tonight, however, her heart wasn’t in it.

She gave herself a stern lecture. James had never professed to love her. He’d been quite frank about two things—his need for a wife just to stop his dictatorial grandmother forcing candidates upon him, and Ellie’s suitability because she would not fall in love with him or have grandly romantic expectations about their marriage. It was wrong to want more, to suddenly change the rules after they’d both agreed upon the terms.

If she was in danger of feeling too much, being hurt, she had better withdraw a few steps and save herself. She had let him too close, evidently.

As she turned her face to the window, she saw it had begun to snow. Fat white flakes drifted slowly down, and in her sight they glistened like diamonds because of the tears trapped in her lashes.

When James soon had his mouth and nose covered in white flour, she pushed herself to laugh, and he seemed to believe it. After that, he spent much of the evening with Rafe Adamson, discussing the spaniel the boy had trained to hunt rabbits. She’d never seen him so talkative and friendly, unless it was to some woman he tried to charm. Tonight he put his efforts into winning over the boy instead.

By the time they rode home on Farmer Osborne’s cart, two inches of snow had settled, framing the tree limbs with white and muffling the steady clop of the old shire horses’ hooves. They huddled together under woolen blankets and fleece in the back of the cart. Lady Mercy was the only one with enough breath left to chatter—something she did almost without pause for most of the journey. It was fortunate for Molly Robbins that her new friend lent her the pair of fur earmuffs, or she would have taken the brunt of that boundless, ebullient, one-way conversation.

Her aunt tried to organize the singing of Christmas carols, but she was perhaps the only one who’d imbibed enough to think that was a good idea. Lady Mercy was willing but did not know the proper lyrics to any, so that plan soon fell by the wayside. Instead, they began a game of “
I
pack
my
bag
and
in
it
I
put…
” All the things put in the bag were very silly and impractical, such as aardvarks, brass buttons, and cucumber, of course.

Grieves and Dr. Salt rode behind in James’s mended carriage. Ellie had expected Lady Mercy to prefer riding home in the more comfortable vessel, but she chose the open cart instead. When Aunt Lizzie asked her why, the child replied that she wanted everyone to be able to see her hat. But Ellie wondered if the girl was simply enjoying herself for once, going with the mood of the moment, experiencing life like everyone else.

James gave her waist a gentle squeeze. A plume of misty breath evaporated around his lips. “I’ll miss you tonight, madam,” he whispered.

But once back with his familiar luxuries, in that big, warm, soft bed at Hartley House, he wouldn’t suffer overly much. She’d never seen his bed, of course, but she had a picture of it in her mind—a monstrosity passed down through generations, with four ugly posts and grim drapes that smelled musty and had probably witnessed the deflowering of many genteel, well-connected, perfectly behaved Hartley brides on their wedding night.

Back at the cottage, they said their good-byes very properly and civilly, as might be expected of a lady and her servant. Ellie watched the carriage taking him back to his world and felt a deep chill settle into her bones now that he was no longer there to keep her warm.

Yes, it was a good thing she had awoken to the dangers that evening. She had begun to get entirely too reckless and forget the terms of their bargain.

Just a few days ago, at Lady Clegg-Foster’s party, he’d said,
I
don’t want to be blamed for breaking anyone’s delicate heart, but I know there’s no danger of that with you.

That, after all, was why he chose her, and she would do well to remember it.

“Engaged?
Engaged?
To that trollop!”

He couldn’t even slip unseen by the drawing-room door. She lurked in her lair, waiting for him. His grandmother’s shrill tones echoed around the elegant walls of Hartley House, shaking flakes of plaster loose in some of the older sections of the building.

“Come here at once and explain yourself! Lady Clegg-Foster informs me by letter that your scandalous engagement with that infamous hussy is widely known in London already. Yet I am oddly uninformed in the matter. What can be the meaning of this?”

He hadn’t meant to spring it on her quite this soon, but there it was. Sprung already by Lady Clegg-Foster, who saved him the trouble. James took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode forward into his grandmother’s drawing room.

“Dear God,” she exclaimed the moment his face felt the glow of her nearest candles. “What has she done to you?”

He’d almost forgotten about his blackened eye and the small cuts on his brow—one from the ewer she cracked over his head some nights ago and the other from the suit of armor falling upon him. “What has who done to me?”

“Mariella Vyne,” she exclaimed, flourishing Lady Clegg-Foster’s letter. “Once again, I am the last to know my grandson’s intentions. And of all the women you might have chosen! But still…how many times has she been engaged already? No doubt it won’t stick.” She lay on her chaise in lonely splendor, her only company a little pug nestled tightly in her lap.

Tonight, after enjoying himself so thoroughly at the Kanes’ farmhouse, the emptiness of this great drawing room with its marble Corinthian pillars and opulent carved cornices was more evident than ever. The elegant arrangement of soulless artifacts and alcoves of precisely placed Wedgewood ornaments must not be touched, merely admired from a distance. Guests at Hartley House were meant to feel awed, not comfortable.

James stooped to peck her cheek. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me, Grandmama.” He was joking, of course. She hadn’t been pleased to see him in years, not since he became too tall to be cowed by her and stopped taking her opinion as absolute fact.

“Do be careful, James. Don’t lean all over me.” Her little pug leapt up, baring its teeth in a low growl of surprising resonance for such a tiny creature. “Is that
flour
in your hair?”

“Yes, Grandmama. I’ve been to a party.”

She drew back, nose wrinkled. “I smell the wine on your breath.”

“At least I am still upright.”

“Barely.”

How would she take the news, he wondered, when he told her she had a twelve-year-old great-grandson? One shock at a time perhaps. “As to those rumors of an engagement, Grandmama, I’m afraid they are true.”

She wilted against the arm of her chaise. “I suppose this is one of your foolish rebellions, James.”

“Undoubtedly. I have invited her to dinner tomorrow. Then you can congratulate us as I’m sure you’ll want to.” He could only blame his carefree mood on the party.

“Here?” His grandmother’s pug jumped from her lap and lunged at his boots. “You invited that gel here? A Vyne? Have you forgotten how her uncle ran off with your mama, causing a scandal from which we were fortunate to recover? Now you want to bring another one of them into my house? Let her sit on my furniture?”

Actually, it was his furniture, he could have pointed out. The house and contents had been left to him in his father’s will twenty years ago. He let his grandmother live there and run it the way she wanted, because he was most often in London these days, and also because he preferred to manage a smaller house and fewer staff. He’d avoided responsibilities. For far too long.

“I promise Miss Vyne will behave herself, Grandmama.” He tried to extract his foot from the pug’s jaws. “We should be able to keep the damage to a minimum if we are vigilant.”

“I forbid it!”

“Alas, the engagement cannot be undone, or she will doubtless complain to all and sundry, slandering the Hartley name yet again.” He finally succeeded in bribing the pug with a sweetmeat from the dish on a nearby console.

His grandmother rang the little bell beside her chaise. “A Vyne. I never thought to see the day when another one of those people should walk into this house. Atrocious! You’ve parted from your proper mind, clearly. Now you are here again, I shall expect you to reunite with good sense.”

When the housekeeper, Braithwaite, arrived in answer to the bell, Lady Hartley regained her wits enough to command that the house valuables be locked away out of sight before dinner the following evening.

James watched the comedy from a safe distance. Sometimes it was best to let the storm pass before making any attempt to fix the damage. He walked to the sash window and looked out on the finest street in Morecroft. Across the paved curve of road, lit by oil lamps, there was a pretty park bordered by black iron railings. As a child, whenever he visited his grandmother and long before he came to live there permanently, he stood at this same window, watching other boys run around the park, rattling the railings with sticks, chasing one another, and causing a ruckus. James was not allowed to join them, because he had to keep his clothes clean and tidy. It was a rule that prevented him from having many friends of his own age for years. Not until he became a young man did he find the courage to test a few of his grandmama’s rules, and his romance with Sophia Valentine had been one such rebellion. Then, when he courted Sophia, he walked in that little park with her, strolling in circles, while his grandmother took her turn watching from these windows, disapproval oozing from every pore. It had been a small victory against her tyranny.

She was quick to assume now that Ellie Vyne was another such strike against her.

“I might have known you’d do something like this, James Julius Hartley! This is your idea of sport at my expense, naturally. Well, you’ve had your fun. We must end this mischief at once and nip this gossip in the bud.”

Mischief. Perhaps that was how it began, but Ellie’s acquisition of the Hartley necklace had finally landed them both in trouble they couldn’t get out of. He, for one, didn’t want to get out of it, although her behavior when he left her side this evening had a distinctly cooler air.

Behind him, his grandmother grumbled away. “If you marry that bold, ill-bred creature, you will never be welcomed in the finer drawing rooms of Society. You know how she once insulted His Majesty. He never forgets a slight. If you marry her, a knighthood shall never be yours.”

“A disappointment I’ll struggle to bear,” he muttered.

“Your grandfather strove hard to raise this family’s status. And his father before him. Now you will endanger everything your ascendants worked to gain, by choosing such a bride? What you need, James, is a wife of high rank or great fortune. Or both. Miss Vyne, it hardly need be said…”

“But it will anyway.”

“…is neither.”

James cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I bought her for a thousand pounds, and she can’t be returned. An impulsive purchase, I’ll admit, and regrettable. But we must make do now.”

His grandmother reached behind her for the arm of her chaise, apparently expecting to faint upon it. She did not, however, having stouter blood than she thought. “You
bought
her for a thousand pounds?”

“I did, Grandmama.”

For the first time in his memory, she was silenced.

“By the by, I intend to begin taking greater interest in the family business,” he added. “From now on, I shall take a more active role in the company. It was recently pointed out to me that I have most of my senses and four solid limbs in my possession. I ought to do something worthwhile with them. So it’s time I got to work, don’t you think?”

Her eyes became very round; so did her mouth.

“Excuse me. I must retire to bed and get some sleep. I had virtually none last night.” With a smile, James walked out of the drawing room, leaving her to digest these stunning developments.

An ostentatious staircase led up to the second floor of the house, partnered by a carved banister with a swooping curve, perfect for sliding down. He’d often thought that, but never dared try it. He took the stairs three at a time—something he hadn’t done in ten years—his hand caressing that smooth banister. At the top he paused and looked down. He itched to slide down it, but at his age he’d probably damage something irreparably, and he needed all that intact for Miss Vyne.

So…perhaps another time.

He gave the banister a fond pat and hurried onward to his room in the east wing of the house, where he burst in through the door with such force that the candles were almost extinguished, and Grieves, busy organizing the closet, banged his head on a shelf. “Is someone on fire, sir?”

“Not yet, Grieves. Possibly on my wedding night.” He smirked and glanced at his bed, a frisson of excitement leaping through his veins when he pictured Ellie Vyne lying in it.

The valet watched him with a circumspect eye. “Your head is quite back to rights then, sir.”

“Oh yes.” He waved a hand. “Dr. Salt found nothing amiss.”

“And your memory is fully returned.”

“Yes. Things are back to normal.”

Grieves gave him an arch look. “Are they, sir?”

He laughed, dropping onto the bed. “Perhaps not completely. And where, pray tell, did you get to, Grieves?”

“I took a room at the Red Lion Inn, sir, here in Morecroft.”

“Well, why the devil—?”

“I knew, sir, that you were quite in your usual mind, and I guessed your intentions with Miss Vyne.”

James scowled and propped himself up on his elbows.

The valet added with a half-inch of smile. “I might occasionally forget toast soldiers for your boiled egg, but I am not completely worthless. I have seen the ups and downs of your various relationships with young ladies and taken note of all the signs.”

“Fortunately for you, I was not seriously hurt, but—”

“And upon my arrival in Morecroft with the mended carriage, sir, I happened to see a face I recognized.”

“Hmmm?” James was barely listening, as he was too busy thinking about his wedding-night plans.

“The bewigged gentleman, sir, who came to your London house the same morning we left in haste to follow Miss Vyne.”

James sat fully upright. “The count? In Morecroft? Are you sure?”

“He has taken root at the Red Lion Inn, sir.” Grieves finished folding the brocade dressing gown he’d drawn from the trunk, and laid it over the foot of the bed. “I took a room there, sir, last night, just to observe his movements. I did not wish to alarm you unduly, if his presence here was innocent. I’m sure you have much on your mind already.”

“What is he doing here?”

“He has participated in a number of card games at the inn and at the club in Morecroft.”

“They let him in?”

“It appears he gained entrance with Lord Shale and his son.” He paused, bowed his gray head. “If I might say so, sir, I fear the count’s presence here can have no good end for you or for Miss Vyne.”

James thought about this. Was the man hoping to get more money out of him? He was a blackmailer, could be capable of anything. “Why are the Shales entangled with that fellow?”

“Young Master Shale has lost considerable sums of money to the count. I found this out when I made inquiries at the local of the Gentlemen’s Gentleman’s club. Lord Shale’s valet is a member.”

“I see. I was not aware your club had branches, even in Morecroft.”

“Oh yes, sir. We are to be found all over, and our membership is very loyal. It is good to have connections, and few people know more secrets than a valet. Lord Shale’s man is quite perturbed by the situation. And Lord Shale is not the only gentleman inconvenienced by the count de Bonneville.”

James stood and walked across the room to rest his hands on the mantel above the fire.

“I should further warn you, sir, that Lady Ophelia Southwold has also arrived in Morecroft and also taken a room at the Red Lion.”

“Good God.”

“Quite. I had the misfortune to run into her there, and she demanded to know where you were. It seems she has followed you from London.”

He groaned. “What did you tell her?”

“I informed her ladyship that I could not divulge your whereabouts, that you were on a mission of great importance and utter secrecy.” Grieves chuckled. “She is now convinced that you are a spy for His Majesty and on the trail of that Frenchman, the count de Bonneville.” The valet made his face somber again. “She came by this notion through no fault of my own. I told her very little, as you see, and her small mind has assumed the rest.”

“But you did not dissuade her from it.”

“Indeed not, sir. Surely to protest would only increase her certainty.”

James was amused but had other things on his mind.

“Lady Hartley is in a fretful mood, sir,” said Grieves. “I assume she has heard about your engagement.”

As he stared down at the hob grate, James was distracted. “What? Yes. Oh yes.” He was thinking of Ellie, how oddly she’d behaved that evening. He knew the way she laughed—he’d heard it at his expense enough times—and for the second half of the party, she was not laughing, only pretending.

Had she grown bored with him, as she had with past fiancés?

He swung around, one hand thrust toward Grieves. “Look at me. I’m a bundle of nerves. I must be sickening for something.”

Observing that still hand carefully for a moment, the valet replied, “Should I send for Dr. Salt again, sir?”

James took a slow, deep breath. His eyes stopped darting about, looking for someone to scalp, and came to rest on a point just a few inches above Grieves’s head. “I know she is absolutely the wrong woman for me. She is irritating in the extreme, argumentative, contrary—has a habit of showing her ankles off at every opportunity and then blaming me for admiring them. She’s ensnared herself with a worthless crook and is very possibly in league with him still, working me for every penny. Her intention, quite calmly stated, is to use me like a stud horse, without so much as a thought for my feelings. And yet—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Words stalled on his tongue. Frustrated, he returned to the bed and sat, elbows on his thighs, fingers locked, head bowed.
Poor, country maid
indeed!