The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

  A decade ago, he’d lost an illegitimate son. A housemaid with whom he’d enjoyed a brief affair became pregnant, but having been dismissed from her post, she didn’t tell James until she was ready to deliver. At that time he was away from London. He returned as quickly as he could, but the woman had disappeared from her lodgings by then, and no one knew where she had gone. He’d searched for her family, but found none. Ten years later, when Sophia Valentine threw him over forever, she accused him of having deserted the pregnant housemaid, of deliberately leaving her and her newborn son to die alone. James had been shocked, horrified. If he’d known about the baby before it was too late, of course he would have helped in any way possible. But the fact remained that a woman and child had died. James must be accountable.

  He supposed, with hindsight, he should have known the truth when the maid was dismissed from her post—that there was more to it than the vague excuse he was given for her leaving. However, he was younger then, foolish and thoughtless, finding his pleasure where he could, turning a blind eye to the darker facts of life. And to the consequences of his sins. He’d never known the woman and her child had died until Sophia threw it in his face when she made her choice and left him forever. He’d opened his eyes that night and did not like what he saw in himself.

  Forced to look inward and question, where previously he’d always assumed he knew best about everything, James had made the tumultuous decision to turn a new leaf.

  Now, whenever he thought of that housemaid and her child—which was often—the cold heaviness of grief and regret settled in his stomach. A grievous mistake that he might have prevented, but it was too late to save them now. All he could do was make recompense in his own life.

  He groaned, and his coffee cup fell to the saucer with a rattle that set his teeth on edge. “I must find my Marie-Antoinette.”

  A low sigh slipped out between the valet’s lips. “The one from Brighton, sir?”

  “Yes.” He’d been searching for months, looking for her in every pretty face, every sad smile.

  “I thought we’d given up on that idea, sir.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “But we are not even sure she exists, are we, sir?”

  He scowled hard at his cup. She existed. Somewhere. Yes, he’d fallen flat on his face and woken with a nightmarish headache, but he hadn’t conjured her out of thin air. His imagination was not that creative. She was real. Six months later, her kiss still lingered on his lips. If he was truly going to turn his life around, he needed her beside him, just as he’d needed her on that little stone bench to keep him upright.

  It was positively infuriating that she refused to be found when he needed her so very badly, and while other saucy vixens, like Ellie Vyne, popped up all over the place, trying to distract him from his new course.

  Grieves gestured at the egg before him and said somberly, “Shall I crack it for you, sir? Or do you feel up to it yourself this morning?”

  James snatched the butter knife from the valet’s hand, muttering under his breath, “Up to it? Up to it? Here!” With one swing of the polished blade the eggshell was cracked in two, and a satisfying blob of bright golden egg yolk oozed out onto the tablecloth. James grinned, feeling slightly better.

  Grieves set the silver toast rack beside James’s coffee cup. “And now, sir, to the business of the day. Shall you be dining in this evening?”

  “I don’t think so—no—I have a party I must attend.”

  “Ah, very good, sir. As it is Tuesday, I shall be out, of course.”

  James glanced slyly at the valet. Grieves always had Tuesday nights off, and what he did with them was something he never discussed in detail. “Your club, is it?”

  The valet hesitated. “Yes, sir. The Gentlemen’s Gentleman’s Club. We look out for one another.”

  That was it—never any more explanation than that. “Grieves, I confess myself fascinated by your Tuesday evening excursions across town. What happens at your club?”

  “Sir, as I told you before, I am not at liberty to discuss the matter. All members are sworn to secrecy.”

  “I suppose you all sit around complaining about your masters, eh? Planning rebellion.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grieves replied, his expression unchanging. “You have guessed our purpose exactly.” He moved around the table, hands at his sides. “And now I must remind you, sir—as much as it pains us both—that Mr. Dillworthy will be arriving soon after breakfast.”

  There, alas, went his improved mood. “What the devil does he want?”

  “He wishes to discuss the matter of escalating costs at the Morton Street—”

  “Damn it all, Grieves!” James looked at the toast. “How many years have you been with me now?”

  The valet sighed. “Almost five, sir. And it doesn’t feel a day over ten.”

  There was a pause. Master and valet both perused the breakfast table, then each other. Finally the table again. Eventually, Grieves realized his mistake and hastily began cutting the toast slices into the preferred “soldier” shapes more suitable for dipping in runny yolk.

  James gave a small grunt of approval. One must have toast soldiers with one’s egg or else the entire day was off on the wrong foot. There weren’t many reliable things in his life, but a few habits devotedly maintained kept his world from spinning too rapidly. He would feel dreadfully alone if not for those small, comforting reassurances. His valet had suggested it was a sign of old age advancing. James refused to believe it.

  “Now that we have taken care of that pressing matter, sir, once again to the unavoidable and imminent arrival of Mr. Dillworthy regarding the Morton Street home.”

  “Hmmm?” He was busy dipping a toast soldier into his egg yolk, anticipating the first comforting mouthful.

  “He is, I understand, distressed at the rising costs associated with the renovations and—”

  “Dillworthy’s been grumbling into your ear, has he?”

  “It seems he cannot make you sit still long enough to grumble likewise into yours, sir.”

  “No.” James smirked. “You ought to practice evasion a little more yourself.” He knew poor Grieves was frequently the target at which people—failing to capture him in conversation—aimed their arrows, settling for a circuitous route in hopes of eventually reaching his ear with their concerns.

  “Mr. Dillworthy is concerned, he tells me, with the number of charities to which you’ve donated considerable sums in the past year. Lady Hartley disapproves your choices, sir, and as the Hartley family accountant for some years, he has—”

  “Grieves, I am thir…over one and twenty, as you know.”

  The valet raised a sharp eyebrow. “Quite well over, sir.”

  “As a consequence, and disturbing as it might be to my grandmother’s loyal slave Mr. Dillworthy, I am capable of making my own financial decisions. For too long I paid no attention to my money and how it’s spent. Now I know where every penny goes. And it goes where I decide.”

  “To a home for unwed mothers?”

  “Precisely. I want those renovations in Morton Street finished as soon as possible, and cost is no object. I’ve told Dillworthy this many times. Then my grandmother corners him when she comes to Town, and he quivers like a spineless jelly.”

  “Lady Hartley objects to the idea of young ladies giving birth out of wedlock, and she is of the opinion that charities like that one merely encourage sinful behavior. Such women, she says, should be punished and chastity promoted.”

  “Grandmama does her bit to promote chastity, without a doubt,” he replied wryly. “I happen to disagree with her. Now I have control of all my money, I daresay I’ll disagree with her more often. I’m beginning to like the sensation.”

  Grieves collected the scattered pages of newspaper, folding them neatly. “It is a great pity, sir,” he quietly observed, “that too many people are unaware of the good that you do.”

  James shrugged. He didn’t take on these commitments for Society’s appro
val.

  “I suppose most folk care to hear only about your failures, so they can feel better about their own lives,” the valet added. “Success makes for less interesting gossip.”

  “Yes, Grieves, people are generally horrid, selfish buggers. Except you and I, of course.”

  Grieves swept crumbs from the tablecloth with a tiny silver pan and brush. “Might I inquire, sir, if you were able to retrieve the Hartley Diamonds the other night? You left the boxing club in such haste when you heard that Lady Southwold had given them to—”

  “No. I was not able to get them back. But I shall. That French crook will not get away with this.”

  “And Lady Southwold, sir?”

  James winced at the topic, but at least Grieves was distracted from further talk of the accounts. “Lady Southwold is quite evidently not my mystery woman from Brighton. Her knuckles are bordering on manly, and she breathes too hard.”

  “Gracious, sir, how frightful. Audible breathing is such a terrible habit. One of many you cannot abide in women these days.”

  He looked up, eyes narrowed. “Hmmm.”

  “One wonders, sir, if your list of unacceptable traits might outweigh the acceptable ones to such a degree that the right woman will never be found.”

  “Nonsense. I met her in Brighton.” Now if he could only find her again, his entire world would be put to rights. “She is my future wife and the mother of my many children. We must find that woman, Grieves. We simply must. She is the one for me, and none other will suffice.”

  Grieves made a small sound that might have passed for gentle agreement, but was very nearly a skeptical sigh and could almost be an “oh no.” It was one of many similar noises in the valet’s repertoire, muted exclamations that could serve several purposes. “Although it pains me to bring the fact to your notice, sir, we have depleted the possibilities. All those ladies you once thought she might be have each subsequently proven unsatisfactory.”

  “Then we must search further. Evidently, I’ve overlooked someone, although it seems impossible. I’m always most observant.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure nothing gets past you.” The valet moved to the window, his smooth stride barely a whisper across the carpet. After a moment, he spoke again, his tone jauntier. “Now that we know Lady Southwold is most definitely not your mystery lady, it is perhaps a good thing, sir—if I might venture—that the count de Bonneville has taken her off your hands.”

  “Count! Ha! He’s a rotten confidence trickster. My grandmother’s lapdog has more noble blood in its veins.” James grabbed another toast soldier and rammed it headfirst into his egg yolk.

  “And you say you found the redoubtable Miss Vyne in the villain’s bed, sir? One imagines that she’s quite enough trouble for one man to handle without poaching Lady Southwold away.”

  He grunted, not looking up from his breakfast.

  The valet began fussing with the drapes, chuckling under his breath.

  “What strikes you as so humorous this morning, Grieves?”

  “I was just observing to myself, sir, how you always said you would not wish Miss Vyne on your worst enemy.” Grieves coughed into his gloved hand, discreetly palming a smile, but not before James had seen it. “An odd coincidence, is it not, that she should now be in the company of your worst enemy?”

  James frowned at his egg. His swollen eye was hurting. So was the cut on his brow. “Another female given too much rein,” he grumbled.

  He wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Vyne woman knew exactly where the count might be found, and the Hartley Diamonds too. She could almost certainly get them back for him with little effort. James doubted many men were strong enough to refuse her anything she wanted.

  There! Damn. Now he’d gone and thought of her legs again. Letting that woman into his mind was like setting a kitten loose in a basket of wool.

  ***

  “It is impolite to read at the table, Ellie,” her sister Charlotte exclaimed in a frigid whisper.

  Hastily closing the book, she slid it away out of sight on her lap.

  “It seems you have forgotten all about manners these days,” Charlotte added.

  Ellie really hadn’t thought that reading at the table would matter, since her brother-in-law ate his breakfast with the speed and elegance of an ill-tempered boar, not saying a word to anyone and with eyes fixed fiercely upon his plate. But pointing this out would upset Charlotte. Upsetting Charlotte was never a good idea, for she had ways of punishing the miscreant. Ingenious, dastardly ways.

  “I managed to secure an invite for you to Lady Clegg-Foster’s party this evening. I hope you will be on your best behavior, Ellie. You do have an appropriate gown? If not, I suppose I can lend you one of mine, if you promise not to get it stained or torn. My maid will have to let out the”—she lowered her voice, glancing timidly at her distracted husband—“bosom, for yours is quite…but Simpkins is splendidly efficient, and I’m sure no one will notice you had to be squeezed into it, like stuffing into a goose. Sadly, I have nothing in a stripe, and my white muslin is a little too youthful for you.”

  Very dastardly. Just like that, for instance.

  “Why do I need a stripe?” Ellie inquired sweetly.

  “Why, because it has the effect of lessening a fuller figure. A downward stripe is most beneficial for a woman of middle age.”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Yes, dear. We are all sadly aware of the fact.”

  Ellie bit her tongue, banking her first response and settling for something more genteel. “I’d rather not go out, Charlotte. If you don’t mind, I will stay in.”

  Her sister scowled hard across the table, apparently trying to freeze her to stone. Finally she snapped, “Of course I mind. I went to great lengths for that invitation. Have you no idea how difficult it is to have a sister who adamantly insists on shaming us all, floating about the country like a gypsy, doing as she pleases? You are lucky to be invited anywhere with your scandalous reputation—” She stopped, catching her husband’s grim expression just before he forked more kipper into his mouth.

  “Surely I’ll only embarrass you further by going out into Society,” Ellie remarked, reaching for the butter. “You know how I am.”

  “What you need is a respectable husband.” Charlotte lowered her voice. “And you won’t find one unless you go out to respectable parties.”

  “Dear Charlotte, I know you mean well, but truly I don’t want a husband. I’d rather get a little dog for companionship. Much easier to train. If he tries to wander off, I can simply scoop him up and keep him under my arm.” After all her failed engagements, she expected her family to understand by now how unsuited her temperament was to the institution of marriage. But still they persisted in this idea that she could be tamed.

  “It doesn’t matter what you want. It’s what you need.”

  What you all need for me, Ellie thought as she buttered her blackened toast and wondered why, wherever she stayed, her toast was always burnt to a cinder. Probably because the staff were busy gossiping about her. At times like these, she especially missed the duke, with whom she might have shared a good chuckle about the toast.

  It seems Beelzebub had his way with the bread, Ellie, the duke might have remarked. As he shall have it with me in time.

  “Papa insists that Amelia and I help you find a husband before this Season is over,” Charlotte babbled onward under her breath, squeaking like a frantic mouse trapped in a biscuit jar. “He says at your age there’s no excuse not to be married, and it’s very awkward for him to explain to friends why you are not.”

  Ellie’s stepfather worried about the embarrassment she caused him, but he never gave a thought to the trouble he made for her as she struggled to pay his bills every month, supplementing his stretched Navy pension with her winnings as the count. She wondered where the admiral thought the money came from. He never asked, probably preferring not to know. She’d hoped now that Charlotte and Amelia were married, their husbands might
be able to contribute something to the admiral’s upkeep, but subtle hints had so far gone unheard. Ostrichlike, her half sisters stuck their heads in sand, just as their father did. Charlotte practiced this denial so thoroughly that she’d become enviably skilled. So far that morning she had not asked a single question about Ellie’s strange arrival on her doorstep in the small hours. Even roused from her bed while it was still dark out, Charlotte had kept her composure and her curiosity in check, shepherded her sister to a bedroom, and organized a fire as if this sort of thing happened every day. Ellie, knowing her sister must be bursting to ask who brought her to the house at such an uncivilized hour, had already prepared a gruesome tale of being kidnapped and manhandled by highway robbers. She was naturally disappointed not to have the chance to tell it.

  “I suppose,” she said with a hefty sigh that blew toast crumbs across the cloth, “what I need is a very rich husband, on his death bed, with no other relatives to lay claim to his fortune. A man capable of overlooking my aged state and many sins. A rarity, indeed, I think you must agree.”

  Charlotte’s lips tightened in an angry line. Ellie smothered a snort, aware of her brother-in-law’s stern, silent disapproval joining that of his wife’s as he glowered at her while wiping his mouth on a napkin. He’d never said more than three words to Ellie in the entire span of their acquaintance, and she knew his wife must have nagged him into letting her stay. She was not the sort of houseguest in which an earl’s son could take pride—even if he was only a younger son and had no title of his own. Ellie was a liability. Wherever she went, trouble frequently followed. And not all of it was even her fault. Not that anyone ever believed her.

  Charlotte put down her teacup. “If you do not soon find a husband, Sister, who will look after you as you get old? You must think of these things, for Herbert and I can do only so much, and we will soon have the expense of children to raise. Amelia and her husband have only that small house in Grosvenor Square for now, until his papa dies, and I’m quite sure they haven’t room for you. Who else may provide for you in the winter of your years, when we cannot?” Her lips drooped with concern for the aging Ellie’s predicament—but probably mostly for her own misfortune in having such a sister. “I think you do not try hard enough. You can look pretty with effort, and I daresay some men find dark coloring quite appealing.” She patted her own blonde curls with more than a hint of smug satisfaction. “But hair like yours shows the gray much quicker. Time passes, Sister. Mark me, each year will add a half hour to the time spent at your mirror each morning. You must find a man now while you still have some hope, before your looks are utterly gone. If only you were less…less…” Waving her slender hand, she plucked at the air for a word. “Giddy!”