The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne (17 page)

James was very quiet. Anger rolled off him in waves, and all of it directed at her. She should never have followed him. Hiding behind trees, for pity’s sake! What was she thinking to confront him like that? It was fortunate Sophie had not heard.

A baby cooed gently in a crib by the hearth, above which a line of freshly laundered men’s shirts hung to dry. On the mantel, nestled between bunches of mistletoe and holly, rested three sketches undoubtedly drawn by Sophie; one of her husband, one of the boy, and one of the plump baby, soon introduced as Petruchio.

“Petruchio?”

“It was that or Romeo.” Sophie sighed. “My husband has just begun to read Shakespeare, I’m afraid.” Ellie knew Sophie had been teaching her husband to read. Apparently the lessons progressed well. “At least this way we can call him Peter,” she added with a smile. “There is not much to be done with a Romeo.”

Throughout this conversation, James remained silent and watched the black-haired boy who sneakily fed pastry crusts to his dog under the table. Sophie, naturally, was too polite to ask how she and James, once enemies, came to be traveling together.

“I heard you say this is Rafe?” Ellie prompted.

For some reason, her friend had offered no introduction to the boy. Now Sophie fussed with her apron strings as she joined them at the table. It struck Ellie that there was a vast deal of nervous fidgeting in her presence ever since she arrived in Sydney Dovedale. First her aunt and now Sophie. That village never used to have so many anxious people who couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Yes,” her friend said finally. “Rafe is my husband’s nephew.”

“Who are you then?” the boy wanted to know.

“Ellie Vyne.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, young man.”

The boy looked at her hand then her face again.

He wiped his grubby palm on his breeches and shook her hand warily. Again she clutched at a spark of recognition, but it was gone, evaporated before she could make sense of it. “You live here with your aunt and uncle?” she asked him, since Sophie volunteered no further information.

“’Course I do,” the boy sputtered, spraying sugar and pastry crumbs. Then he stopped, dropped his pie, and glared at her. “What are you doing here? Strangers don’t come here much. You haven’t come to take me away, have you?”

“Rafe,” Sophie exclaimed, “don’t be silly. This is my friend Ellie, and she and Mr. Hartley have come all the way from London to visit. Why on earth should she want to take you away?”

The boy rounded his shoulders, still glowering at Ellie from beneath a thick fringe of ebony hair. “Just makin’ sure. She looks like trouble.”

James spoke finally. “Perceptive child.”

Rafe flicked his hair back. “What’s that, mister?”

“You have Miss Vyne pegged already.”

The boy wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked at Ellie. “Why are you trouble then?”

She shrugged, unable to reply because James had just put his hand over hers where it rested on the table. She didn’t know what to do about it. Did it mean she was forgiven? “I’m not really,” she replied. “It’s just rumor and gossip. Mostly unfair and unfounded.”

Beside her, James gave a small snort of derision, which she pointedly ignored.

“They say that about me too,” the boy blurted. “That I’m trouble.”

Sophie passed him a kerchief and urged that he wipe his mouth on that instead of his sleeve, and then she reprimanded him for not washing his hands before he came to the table. Reluctantly, the boy slouched off into the scullery to complete that task. The dog galloped after him.

“Aunt Lizzie told me that your brother sold his property.”

“Yes, to a very grand fellow by the name of Sir William Milford, a bachelor, who is not often in residence—thwarting the hopes of every single lady within twenty miles. Although one cannot blame the fellow for declining to live in that drafty fortress. There are rumors of extensive plans to improve it.” Sophie shrugged. “One wonders what can be done with such a place and what madness he suffers for shouldering the burden. But his tenants and workers say he is kindly and just.” She gave a wry smile. “Aunt Finn says that is merely because he is so seldom here.”

“Your aunt is out?” Ellie asked, disappointed not to see the lady in her usual rocking chair by the fire. Finnola Valentine was a lively character with a good share of scandal in her own past. She could always be counted on to say or do something shocking. Ellie had a great fondness for her and vice versa.

“Aunt Finn spends a few weeks in Norwich with an old friend,” Sophie replied with another quick smile. “As far as I know, the town still stands. We expect her back for Christmas, but if she enjoys herself, I daresay she’ll be in no hurry to return.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“You plan to stay for the New Year, Ellie?” Sophie asked, her voice fragile suddenly.

“I desired a pleasant change, and London is so—”

“We’re engaged,” said James.

Breath snagged in her throat. “We most certainly are
not
engaged!”

His fingers tightened over hers. “We most certainly
are
, woman!”

“Not yet we are not.” She felt her cheeks getting warm. She was embarrassed in front of her friend, who must think she’d gone mad. Engagements scared her to death these days. She’d never had any luck with them before. In her experience, men quickly settled into taking her for granted once they were engaged. “I believe I told you quite clearly that there is no engagement. Just an arrangement. Of sorts.”

Poor Sophie was gazing at them both, completely befuddled.

“It’s merely an agreement to consider marriage,” Ellie explained further. “If the conditions are favorable.”

“Call it what you will,” James snapped, taking his hand away.

The boy returned from the scullery, dropped into his chair, and this time addressed James. “You live in Lunnen, mister?”

James irritably scratched the side of his nose. “I do. Presently.”

The interrogation returned to Ellie. “Where do you live, missus?”

“All over the place.”

“All over?”

James muttered, “Like a gypsy.”

She tried to explain. “Sometimes I stay with my sisters in London. Sometimes I visit my father, or I go to Brighton or Bath and stay with friends.” She forced each word out, although her mind was preoccupied.

“Really? Brighton?” James laughed harshly. “I thought you said you’d never been there in your life.”

Rather than answer, she took a large bite of mince pie.

Having considered what she’d said, Rafe exclaimed, “You move around a lot. Like a crook what don’t want to be caught.”

“Rafe!”

James smiled. “Once again, a perfect understanding of Miss Vyne already. She doesn’t wish to be caught.”

The boy grinned. “I moved around a lot too. Before I done come ’ere.”

“
Came
here
,” Sophie corrected, looking frazzled.

“Done came here,” the boy repeated. He pointed at Ellie. “You’ve got brambles in your hair.”

Ellie realized then that there was something familiar around his mouth. She tried picturing the boy with lighter coloring.

James muttered, “Miss Vyne lurks under hedgerows to spy upon people.”

There was a short silence until Sophie found another subject, chattering about all the renovations her husband made to the farmhouse. Ellie tried to pay attention, but her mind would not behave, and she saw that James, equally inattentive to the conversation, was fascinated by the boy. He stared across the table until Sophie’s husband came in from the stables.

The greeting between James and Mr. Kane was cool and less comfortable than an Indian fakir’s mattress of knives, but passed without incident. Since his wife forgot to mention it, Mr. Kane extended an invitation to them both for the party that evening.

Before they left, Sophie took Ellie into the pantry to give her some preserves for her aunt. With the door partially closed behind them, the women surveyed the shelves full of preserves, until Sophie suddenly reached for her hand and whispered, “My dear friend, there are things you don’t know about James.”

“Really? I’ve always thought I knew everything about everything.”

“Do be serious for once! James is a man with…a past.”

“And I am a woman with the same.”

“But there is—”

The door opened, and Rafe stuck his head in. “What are you whisperin’ about? Are you whisperin’ about me? You are, ain’t yer? You’ve got a guilty face.”

“No we are not, for pity’s sake,” Sophie snapped, rather more angrily than necessary it seemed to Ellie. “Why would we have anything to whisper about you?”

But it was enough interruption to dissuade Sophie from whatever warning she’d meant to give. She’d seemed torn as to whether she should speak or not and, with only very slight discouragement, gave up.

Ellie didn’t push for more. In truth, she didn’t want to hear any bad things about James. Part of her took umbrage at her friend suggesting there might be anything about James of which she was unaware. She’d known the man and all his faults for seventeen years, for pity’s sake.

Yet something had troubled her friend for the entire visit and so deeply that, until Sophie’s husband raised the matter, she forgot to mention the party altogether. Under normal circumstances, a party would be the first thing either woman mentioned to the other. Today, however, they were both too distracted.

Ellie had seen Sophie glance at James with fearful, hollowed eyes. Whenever she dared look at him at all. Something was very wrong. Ellie’s doubts and fears needed little nurturing to flourish like weeds through her mind.

Had her friend’s strange, stilted manner stemmed from knowing how Ellie and James were always at odds? Did she wonder how they could overcome the infamous feud? Or was it simply the differences in their background?

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?

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.

“Look,” 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.