The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

  “If I did, would you put the incident out of your mind? Or will you dredge it up again every time we quarrel?”

  “Every time we quarrel?” She laughed sharply. “You assume we’ll have them on a regular schedule.”

  “Why not?” Now his voice rose again too, even through gritted teeth. “Why break with tradition? We do it so bloody well.”

  “Apologize to me!”

  “Will you apologize for the ink moustache?”

  “I was ten!”

  “Aha! So it’s different for you. I’m to make excuses for your immaturity.”

  “Ten is not twenty-six.”

  Of course he changed the subject then, because he knew he was losing the argument. “So I was right, and you were in this with him all along. Taking me for what you could get. Wanting your silly revenge.”

  “Silly?” She was trying very hard to hold onto the last shreds of her temper. “It is over, James. It was fun while it lasted.” She squeezed out a breathless laugh. “Thank you for the laughs and the—”

  “You, madam, have lost your gumption.”

  “I have not!”

  “I wagered everything on you, and you fall at the first obstacle.”

  How typical that he compared her to a racehorse. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t gamble, if you’re not prepared to lose!”

  He pulled her into a kiss just as enraged and wild as the storm she’d watched brewing in his gaze. Hands to his shoulders, she tried pushing away, but his fingers pressed into her arms firmly, his mouth closed over her lips, and he took from her forcefully. Just when she thought he meant to leave her with no breath at all, he let her go. She stumbled against the door, blinking, struggling for air.

  “Don’t ever do that again!”

  “I want my money’s worth.”

  Ellie was livid. All he worried about was his damned money? She slapped his face hard.

  He didn’t even flinch. His gaze bore into hers, hard as flint. “You owe me.”

  “Send me the bill, Hartley.”

  “With interest, Vyne.” He spun away and disappeared into the night, leaving her with throbbing lips and a fierce, unremitting bellyache such as she hadn’t experienced since she ate too much cake on her seventh birthday.

  It was for the best, Ellie reminded herself.

  He was a Hartley; she was a Vyne—well, a Jankyn, actually. It was trouble from the beginning, and they were as bad as each other when it came to indulgence in all the wrong things.

  Chapter 23

  He’d learned from Rafe that Bonneville was staying in Sydney Dovedale at Merryweather’s tavern. The villain had settled in there like a cuckoo—or perhaps more appropriately, like a giant spider waiting to catch flies in his web. James could not forgive the man for coming back into Ellie’s life at the exact wrong moment. He saw the hopes that had begun to form in his heart dashed again by that sly creature in filthy, muddied boots. If Ellie could not put herself first for once, what could he do to keep her? She was too damned stubborn. Fury heated his blood until even his vision was clouded in a scarlet mist.

  Something gave that crook, Bonneville, enough bravado to think he had the upper hand in this entire business, and when James entered the tavern that evening, full of rage, the count didn’t even get out of his chair. In fact, he smiled over his cards and beckoned him to the corner table.

  “There you are, Hartley. She told you, did she? I suppose you want to discuss what you can do for me.”

  James looked around at the faces watching—all exceedingly curious, surprised to see a man like him in that place. He shouldn’t be there, making a fool of himself. He should leave, go back to Morecroft, and abandon that stubborn woman to her own problems.

  But he thought suddenly of Grieves leaving the blue-eyed Hetty to walk alone on the sands. Of chances forfeit and time lost. He thought of little Ellie, the wild-haired girl wandering along the verge, stopping to curse at him for muddying her gown. He thought of Ellie hiding behind a potted palm with custard on her lovely rear. Of her trembling hand placed tentatively in his as he danced with her for the very first time. Of the melting snow caught in her lashes tonight when she blinked up at him and tried to laugh carelessly.

  It was not snow dripping to her cheek, of course. He knew that.

  “Do for you?” he snapped at her father. “Should you not think of doing something for her?”

  “Well, I have, haven’t I?” Still seated, the other man puffed out his chest. “Came back to look after my girl. Make certain she’s not taken advantage of.”

  James swept off his hat. “Stand up, Bonneville.”

  A few chairs scraped away across the flagged floor as the more sober observers sensed trouble. The count watched him without blinking. “I thought you’d want to discuss this in private, Hartley.”

  James shrugged off his coat next and set it over the back of an empty chair. “Not necessary. Stand up.” He began rolling up his sleeves. He could still taste Ellie on his lips. She thought it was over? Not until he was dead and buried. This time he would not retreat wounded. “We’ll settle this here and now.” He hadn’t sparred at the boxing club since the night he ran into Ellie at the inn, and James had plenty to get off his chest.

  The other man still held his cards, and his brow wrinkled in a deep frown. “You’re too rash, Hartley. Surely we can come to some arrangement. Something more permanent than the one you and I discussed in London. I was thinking a monthly stipend?”

  “Bonneville, you will stand and fight. I won’t hit a man while he’s seated.”

  The count laughed, his face red with drink. “Then I’d better keep my arse in this here chair.”

  It was the laughter that did it. James had reached his snapping point when it came to being laughed at. He saw Ellie laughing at him that night, tossing back her head in that typical dramatic fashion, exclaiming that it had all been “fun.” As if it had never been anything more than that.

  Damn her!

  “What ails, Hartley? It will not cost you so much. A mere drop in the ocean to you, I’m sure. You want to play this game, you must pay.”

  “Game? This is no game to me, Bonneville.”

  “Of course ’tis. What else could it be for a fine gent like you to dally with my little girl? I’ve heard about you, seen you in action. You’re a rake. Perhaps you had her fooled for a moment. I daresay her eyes will be open soon enough. I’ll set her straight.”

  James saw nothing now, heard nothing but the count’s laughter echoing hers, tumbling through his mind, mocking and cruel.

  He swung his fist, but his temper, like that thrown punch, was too wild. The count ducked, and James missed. Instead, by sheer, unfortunate accident, he hit the man sitting at a table behind. A large, thick-necked fellow with bulging arms and fists like ham hocks. In the next breath, James was defending himself against an unexpected opponent—the village blacksmith.

  The count, however, did not escape. Someone else, looking to join in the fight and having a bone to pick with the villain, shattered a chair across his back. Within seconds, the tavern erupted, fists, feet, and heads flying. There were, James discovered, more than a few hidden grudges waiting for a chance to be aired and exorcised in that idyllic little country village.

  Bob Robbins, a tall, lanky lad, shot to his aid against the count, apparently choosing his side in the blink of an eye. But the carpenter’s burly son, whose nose remained out of joint since James danced with his sweetheart at the Kanes’ party just the night before, quickly took advantage of the general confusion and took a running leap at him from behind.

  James winced at the slow, ripping sound. There went the stitches in his sleeve shoulder.

  He imagined Grieves solemnly shaking his head as he perused the mistreated shirt in the morning. But Grieves would understand that sometimes a man had to sacrifice a little sartorial elegance for the woman he loved.

  The woman he loved.

  Yes, he was head over heels. At that moment, quite litera
lly.

  ***

  When Ellie returned to her aunt’s cottage later that evening, a bulky shape leapt out on her from the yew hedge in the dark and then crumpled at her feet, falling heavily against the front door.

  “Daughter dear,” a voice slurred, “help your ol’ pa! I’ve been beaten to within an inch o’ my life by that rotten bugger, Hartley.”

  Her aunt, hearing the bang against her door, opened it to find Ellie crouched over the bloodied face of Josiah Jankyn.

  “Goodness gracious!”

  Oh, thought Ellie, that is not the half of it. “Help me get him inside, Aunt Lizzie.”

  Together, the two women hauled him into the passage and shut the door.

  “Why, it is Jane Osborne’s friend,” her aunt exclaimed, a candle raised to inspect the man sprawled untidily in her hall. “I heard there was a brawl at the tavern tonight. Such a noise, such madness. And with Christmas soon upon us. ’Tis shameful!”

  Since they couldn’t leave him on the flagged floor and he was too bloody for the parlor, they managed to move him into the kitchen and sit him at the wooden table. Ellie filled a basin with water and washed off his face, while her aunt warmed milk over the stove.

  “Milk?” Josiah whined. “At this time o’ night, I’d rather have something that lies less heavy in the stomach. Have you no brandy? Or sherry? Or a bit o’ sweet wine?”

  “You’ll have what you’re given,” Ellie replied crisply.

  “Ouch! Be gentle, m’dear. I’m fair bruised all over from that Hartley blackguard. To be sure, you’ll have second thoughts about him now, after he did this to me.”

  “I suppose you did nothing to provoke it?”

  “I was sitting there, minding my own business, and in he comes, ready to fight. I had no chance to defend meself. None at all. Clearly he has no respect for his elders. Now, thanks to your fancy man, they threw me out, even after I paid for the room fair and square. I can’t think where I shall sleep tonight.”

  She rinsed out her rag and watched thin swirls of his blood in the water. “James Hartley told me he paid you a thousand pounds for me. Is this true?”

  “’Tis a bold-faced lie,” Josiah exclaimed.

  Ellie knew whom she believed. James might be a rake, but he was not a good liar. Yet this man, whatever else he might be, was her father. What sort of daughter would she be to turn him out in the snow? “I suppose, if I send you off again, you’ll go to Farmer Osborne’s and cause trouble there.”

  “Me? Cause trouble?”

  “He sounds like you,” Aunt Lizzie muttered dryly.

  Ellie wiped her hands on her apron. “If my aunt agrees, you can stay here in the kitchen and sleep by the range where it is warm. But it is up to her.”

  They both looked at Aunt Lizzie, who certainly did not want any difficulties caused for Farmer Osborne. When Ellie whispered that they had better keep him there rather than let him run about the village, creating havoc, Aunt Lizzie reluctantly agreed.

  “I will explain everything,” Ellie assured her.

  “Oh, dear. I am almost afraid to hear it.” But the lady hurried off to fetch blankets and pillows for the newcomer. “Another strange man staying the night in my cottage. Goodness knows what Mrs. Flick would have to say about it.”

  Once she was gone, Josiah stretched out his legs. “Ah, good girl. I knew you couldn’t see me suffer.”

  “I shall see you suffer—and gladly—if you cause my aunt any trouble. Keep your fingers in your pockets while you’re here, or you’ll be out in that snow, fending for yourself.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Daughter. I steal only from those who can afford it. Think of me as Robin Hood.”

  She sniffed. “Except Robin Hood stole from the rich to give to the poor, not to fill his own purse.” Even as she spoke, she was reminded of the justification she’d given for her own sleight of hand deeds in the past. Always she’d found some way to reassure her conscience that it was not wrong to take from those so much better off than herself. She was as her father had said earlier: a “chip off the old block.”

  “I’ll have a bit o’ that beef and a slice o’ bread before I shut my eyes, Mariella m’dear.”

  “For a man so concerned about his digestion, you should know it is unwise to consume food this late at night.”

  “But if I don’t eat, my poor, rumbling belly will keep me awake all night.” He smacked his lips and looked about the kitchen. “Any horseradish to go with it?”

  ***

  The next morning, Mrs. Flick, always to be relied upon for the latest news, called in at breakfast, while Ellie’s father was fortunately still asleep in the kitchen and therefore out of sight. From her Ellie and Aunt Lizzie learned that James Hartley had indeed started the fight.

  “They say the Earl of Everscham took him home to Morecroft. He was in a dreadful state. In drink, no doubt. James Hartley always was a no-good rogue.”

  Ellie and her aunt exchanged fearful glances.

  “It all began over a game of cards. Jane Osborne’s foreign gentleman was involved. Furniture was thrown. Really, I have never approved of that tavern, and this is the last straw. It is not safe. I have always said so, and now I am proven correct. A place like that encourages drunkenness and lewd behavior. This is a good, peaceful village where the residents conduct themselves with decorum. It is not a garrison. Merryweather’s ought to be shuttered.”

  Later, when the old busybody was gone, Aunt Lizzie asked Ellie if she thought they should go to Morecroft. “He might be badly injured, my dear. I will ask Farmer Osborne to take us. Or we can hire the fly, if it is not being used today.”

  Ellie shook her head. “James Hartley is no longer mine to worry about. We ended our engagement yesterday.” Now, finally, just when it was all too late, she could call it that. Why was it so hard before? “If I see him again, it will only prolong…” Unable to finish, she ran from the parlor and up the stairs to her room.

  In truth, she yearned to see James and make sure he was not badly hurt, but trying to take care of everyone had got her into this predicament in the first place. One look from his despicably blue eyes could melt her completely, and yet she was resolved to put an end to the affair, for all their sakes.

  What began as mischief over that ugly diamond necklace had turned into something much worse, brought both her and James so much trouble. Now it had transformed the charming gentleman rake into a down-and-dirty tavern brawler. Lady Hartley must be having fits today. No doubt she laid the blame solely at Ellie’s feet. As well she should.

  ***

  “James Julius Hartley, of all the things you’ve ever done to cause me an apoplexy, this one surely takes the prize! Brawling in a tavern. And in your evening clothes. They are quite ruined, you know. Braithwaite, who never overestimates these things and is not prone to dramatics, assures me that the silk cravat is to be despaired of, and the shoulder of your coat has been quite rendered asunder, the stitches no more than beggar’s teeth.”

  He stared at the wallpaper above her head as she leaned over him, complaining and shrill. She said nothing about his injuries, being more concerned by the wounds to her pride and the Hartley name.

  “Braithwaite should leave the care of my clothes to Grieves,” he muttered, aware of the dislike between his valet and his grandmother’s housekeeper. “It is not her business.”

  James had broken his ankle for good this time as he fell over the tavern step, and would be unable to move about unassisted for some time. His jaw was bruised, he knew, having seen his reflection when Grieves held up the small hand mirror for his perusal. He had another cut across his right eyebrow and a second black eye to match the one that was on its way to healing. He was lucky, so the valet had gravely intoned, not to lose a tooth.

  Despite all these injuries, the worst pain was inside, out of view. That damned woman had dared to finish with him. Just like that. Apparently she’d expected no objection from him. As if what they’d had these past few days never mattered—had b
een nothing to her but an amusement.

  “Scrapping like a demented stray cur in the street! What were you thinking? Now you must recuperate, James. Put that dreadful hussy out of your mind once and for all. Perhaps now you see the depths to which any association with her will cause you to plummet.” Lady Hartley clasped her growling pug to her bosom. “I want you in top form for the ball. The sooner we get you safely married and away from this latest scandalous mess, the better. A good wedding always takes people’s minds off less savory matters.”

  When his grandmother’s face withdrew, another immediately loomed over him, hanging there like a scavenging bird above a trampled carcass.

  “James! Darling! What a good thing I am still here to look after you.”

  He groaned deeply.

  “I know, my darling,” Ophelia cooed. “Such pain you must be in.”

  He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, she remained, attempting to order Grieves about. “There is no need for a shave today. Take the razor away. I’m sure he can do without.”

  “But, madam—”

  “Now you’ve spilled water on my skirt.”

  “And fancy, madam,” he heard Grieves reply, “you have not melted.”

  “How dare you! I have not forgot how you shoved me in that horrid, dirty cupboard at the Barley Mow,” Ophelia hissed at the valet, a few inches above James’s head. “Don’t think I shall ever forget that little indignity.”

  “It was done for your own safety, madam.”

  “So you tell me. I know what he was up to there with her. Well, it won’t happen again. He’s mine now. This incident will bring him to his senses at last. If you like to protect your master so much, you should know that I could quite easily tell his grandmama how he lost the Hartley Diamonds. They are hers, are they not? He’s not supposed to have them until he marries, and then they will be passed to his wife. I can only imagine what she will have to say about that.”

  James quickly shut his eyes again.

  “Forgive me, madam,” Grieves answered smoothly, “but I believe it was you who lost the Hartley Diamonds.”