The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne (22 page)

***

When he called at the Red Lion Inn the next day, the count was no longer occupying a room. According to the landlady, the “charming French gentleman” had left early that morning.

When he returned to Hartley House, James found his grandmother—who had kept late to her bed that morning, complaining of an unspecific illness caused by him—was finally up and insisted he join her for tea in the drawing room. Expecting to find her alone and ready to chastise him again, instead he found her holding court on her chaise, her color returned, thanks to the liberal application of rouge and face powder. And the company of visitors.

He tripped to a halt.

Ophelia Southwold perched upon a small chair facing his grandmother, and beside her sat a shorter, rounder, older woman, currently waging discreet battle with the pug. Immediately, he thought about retreat, but Braithwaite blocked his route with a very ornate tea tray on wheels.

“James, do sit down and stop getting in the way,” his grandmother exclaimed. “Come and entertain Lady Ophelia Southwold and her friend, Miss Bicknell. You know Lady Ophelia?”

“Yes,” he muttered reluctantly, glancing at her briefly.

“James and I are old acquaintances,” she purred.

Miss Bicknell said nothing. She was too busy fighting the pug, which had latched on to the hem of her gown and proceeded to shake it like a dead rabbit.

The tea tray forced him to reverse across the carpet until the back of his knees collided with a chair. He sat abruptly, and the thick scent of floral perfume stuck unpleasantly in his throat. “I did not know you were in the country, Lady Ophelia,” he managed tightly, lying through his teeth.

“It was a trip made quite on the spur of the moment.” She, too, lied, of course. Her lashes swept down and up again, the practiced smile never leaving her face. “London can be so gray and tiresome this time of year. I decided to visit Miss Bicknell, my former governess. Imagine my surprise when I came to call upon Lady Hartley this morning and heard that you, too, were in the country.”

James knew her trip to Morecroft had nothing to do with Miss Bicknell, whose residency in the town merely served as a convenient excuse. He suspected Miss Bicknell knew this also, for the older woman threw her former charge a bemused sideways glance and then resumed her war with the ill-tempered pug.

The following silence was broken abruptly by his grandmother. “I’ve invited Lady Ophelia to dine with us this evening.”

When James glowered at her, she coughed feebly into a lace handkerchief, and both ladies expressed lavish concern for her health.

“It is nothing,” his grandmother gasped, dabbing at her lips with the handkerchief but never quite dislodging the blood-red color daubed upon them. “The surprise of my grandson’s midnight arrival yesterday has quite shattered my nerves, that is all. I was not expecting him until the end of the month. At my age, surprises of
that
fashion can be most distressing. However, now you are here, Lady Ophelia, perhaps you can entertain my grandson for me, keep him out of trouble, and save me the task.”

James said nothing. Lady Ophelia watched him with a smug, victorious expression on her face. The second heavy silence was interrupted only by the slow ripping of worsted as his grandmother’s pug succeeded in tearing off a strip of Miss Bicknell’s gown.

He could not think why he was ever entertained by women like Ophelia. James supposed he’d imagined he
ought
to enjoy her company. But it was never fulfilling and had left him with a sense of emptiness and frustration. He eyed the fondant delicacies carefully arranged on his grandmother’s china cake stand and realized that Ophelia was very much like one of those confections. All decoration and no substance. Once he bit into it, he knew it would taste no more appealing than a mouthful of dry sawdust. The only treat he had a taste for now was Miss Ellie Vyne, and it was becoming more and more evident by the moment that waiting several hours without another nibble was quite out of the question.

***

After lunch, Ellie went with her aunt and Lady Mercy to find some last-minute Christmas gifts at the one shop in Sydney Dovedale—Hodson’s—an emporium of delights that no one could ever simply pass by. As a child, Ellie spent hours there, perusing the many shelves and glass-fronted cupboards, her pocket money growing sweaty in her hand. The bow window looked onto the main thoroughfare of the village, and Mr. Hodson himself made certain no one walked by without exchanging a few words with him. He could be found at any time, sweeping his front step and polishing the brass doorknocker, looking over his shoulder at the first sound of a prospective customer approaching.

Today when he saw the three women advancing in his direction, he almost fell over his broom in haste to shepherd them inside. He had, Ellie learned, some experience of Lady Mercy and her spending habits already since her visit there the day before. While Lady Mercy kept Hodson busy unraveling all his ribbons for her consideration, Ellie and her aunt wandered farther into the shop. Here were a few other customers, but since Ellie had not taken a great deal of notice—her attention caught by a particularly splendid pair of very costly kidskin gloves—the sudden arrival of Jane Osborne at her shoulder was somewhat jolting.

“Miss Vyne, fancy seeing you here at this time of year,” the young woman exclaimed through her ponderous bucked teeth.

“Miss Osborne,” she replied, still admiring the gloves. “You were not at the Kanes’ party last night.”

“Good gracious, no! I don’t consort with the likes of them.”

“Oh?”

“I told my papa he should not go either. But he is never mindful of our status in society.”

“The Kanes are very good people.”

“But not our sort of people.”

“What can you mean by that?”

“Come, Miss Vyne. Lazarus Kane is a common man with no pedigree. Sophia Valentine fell considerably in the world when she married him.” Jane lowered her voice, but only slightly. “I daresay she often regrets it now, since it cut her off forever from all good society, but she has only herself to blame.”

Ellie knew that Jane Osborne once wanted Sophie’s husband for herself. Jealousy was a terrible emotion and could make any woman into an ass. She, of all people, ought to know. “The Kanes seem very happy,” she replied, her voice curt.

Since Miss Osborne had no interest in the happiness of anyone but herself, she quickly steered the subject in another direction. “I recently returned from Bath, did you know?”

“My aunt mentioned something about it.”

“I plan to go back in the spring. The entertainments are superior there, of course, and the fashions far beyond anything here. People say Bath is no longer the attraction it once was, but I quite disagree. I suppose you go often to Bath, Miss Vyne.”

“Not often.”

“I was just talking to the count about Bath. You do know the count de Bonneville, Miss Vyne? You and he have some passing acquaintance, he informs me.”

She almost dropped the gloves she was examining.

A man approached, gestured forward by Jane Osborne, who chatted excitedly about having met him while she was in Bath and then almost tripping over him in Morecroft yesterday. Ellie stared, and the man stared back with a pair of cunning dark eyes. He bowed stiffly from the waist. “Mademoiselle Vyne.”

She couldn’t think of a solitary word to say. The count de Bonneville—a character she knew to be pure invention—was standing before her in an old-fashioned white wig and a set of clothes that, despite his proud posture, had an unmistakable air of “better days” about them. There was a thread hanging loose on his coat, where a button must have come off. Jane Osborne, never a very observant person, appeared not to notice the missing button. The woman was clearly in awe of her new aristocratic friend and eager to show him off, like a trophy won at the county fair for the best homemade jam.

“The count dines with Papa and me this evening. Perhaps you will join us, Miss Vyne?”

“Sorry…no. I dine in Morecroft with the Hartleys.”

“A great shame,” the “count” intoned gravely in a thick French accent. “I shall ’ope to see you again while I am in the country, Mademoiselle Vyne.”

Her gaze drifted downward, to where Jane Osborne slid her hand through the man’s arm. “Yes,” Ellie murmured awkwardly. “I’m sure we shall meet again.”

He smirked. “I doubt it not.”

Fear gripped her heart and then shook her pulse until it started again. Whoever this man was, it could only be trouble. His eyes had not once blinked as they roved over her face. He seemed amused by her frozen state—almost to relish it.

She clawed for that infamous courage of hers, wrenching it back inside her skin, patching the tears rendered in her gumption by the sudden shock of coming face-to-face with a make-believe creation. A man who could expose her past exploits and ruin any chance she might have of putting it all behind her.

The odd couple soon left the shop, and her aunt whispered, “He must be old enough to be her father.”

“How long has she known that man?”

“Since she was in Bath, it seems. Although, from all her papa tells me, it seems the fellow never maintained the connection. I suppose she met him again quite by accident in Morecroft, and then he could not escape further acquaintance.” Aunt Lizzie sighed, shaking her head. “For a count, he has some very dirty footwear.”

“I fear he is not the man he pretends to be.”

“You know the count?”

Ellie watched through the bow window as they crossed the lane. “I know
a
count de Bonneville, but that is not the same person with whom I am well acquainted.”

“Are you certain? My goodness. I hope he does not lead poor Jane along for some devious motive.”

“I would advise Farmer Osborne to be wary of that gentleman, Aunt Lizzie.” It was worrisome to hear that the imposter dined with the Osbornes that evening. Even if he had, as her aunt suggested, attempted to escape any further entanglement with Jane after meeting her in Bath, he was clearly ready to ingratiate himself now. Farmer Osborne lived very comfortably, Jane was his only child, and the generous fellow had not thought it necessary to entail his property for the good of any distant male relative. It was common knowledge that he spoiled Jane. The chance that this might make her a target for fortune hunters had always appeared minimal in light of her unpleasant, cross disposition that could turn the most brazen gallant to a block of ice, but also because of her own sense of superiority.

Now she had found someone who put up with her, and a man she deemed worthy. An unlikely combination to be sure.

“Oh dear! She is a very stubborn girl,” said Aunt Lizzie. “Her father struggles so. I fear she will pay no heed to warnings.”

Heavy footsteps creaked across the wooden boards of the shop, and Mrs. Flick’s less-than-dulcet tones rang out loudly. “I thought the Osborne girl had found herself one of those Male Peculiars. But apparently he’s a French count. I always knew her father was desperate to get rid of her, but a Frenchman of all things! And he has very coarse manners. Did not even hold the door for me. I could have sworn I smelled brandy on his breath. I am told he is acquainted with you, young lady.” She gave Ellie a scathing, up-and-down assessment, “Sydney Dovedale will go to rack and ruin before the year is out. Folk coming here and spreading their strange ideas. Bringing their uncouth, foreign friends and
Male
Peculiars
.”

Naturally it was all Ellie’s fault; her presence there stirred up trouble for that quiet village.

“I think you’ll find, dear Mrs. Flick, that there were a great many strange things going on behind the curtains of Sydney Dovedale long before I came back.”

The woman sniffed, and her starched shoulders crackled. “And behind curtains is where they should be kept. Not running up the lane for all to see.”

She watched Mrs. Flick stride away down the shop. Perhaps that old curmudgeon was right—perhaps it was better to keep some things hidden and pretend they didn’t exist. Exposing this “count” as an imposter risked exposing herself also. But doing nothing at all left Jane Osborne to the “count’s” motives—which could not be good or amiable—and possibly cause great trouble to Farmer Osborne, thereby to Ellie’s beloved aunt.

Mr. Hodson’s sharp voice broke into her thoughts. “Do you mean to purchase the gloves, Miss Vyne?”

She hastily handed the beautiful gloves back, and he put them out of her reach in a glass cabinet where her unworthy hands could not fondle them with yearning any longer.

Upon their return to the cottage, two messages awaited. The first was for Lady Mercy, whose brother, the Earl of Everscham, had arrived in Morecroft, none too happy at being ripped away from his pleasures elsewhere. According to the note, he expected his sister at Hartley House that evening. He waited there for her. It was, of course, beneath him, to visit a small cottage in Sydney Dovedale and fetch his little sister. He preferred the grander environs of Hartley House.

Ellie had decided already that she didn’t like Lady Mercy’s brother very much. The rest of the village was of the same opinion, especially since Lady Mercy told everyone at the party last night that her elder brother spanked her with his shoe at every opportunity. This was not quite in order with what the young lady had said about her brother previously, but Ellie was now in the mood to imagine all men to blame for something. She refused to consider what had got her into this querulous, shifting temper. As usual, she turned her anger in all directions, seeking a culprit other than herself.

The second note was a message for her.

“What is it?” Lady Mercy wanted to know, bouncing on her toes, trying to read the single line scribbled on the paper.

Ellie hastily tucked it away in her pocket.

“But, Ellie, you cannot go out again,” her aunt exclaimed, seeing her drop her packages and head for the door, still in her bonnet and coat. “It has just begun to snow.”

“I won’t be long, Aunt Lizzie. There is just one more thing I forgot.”

She hurried across the common, dodging the swans and geese. Speckles of snow filled the air. Like goose feathers from a pillow fight, they took a long time to fall and were too light yet to make much of a layer on the ground. As she passed through the church lychgate, a robin flew out from above her head, startling her. She was too jumpy. This would not do. No point facing this man, whoever he was, with fear upon her face. He was clearly up to no good, and she must take care in her approach, show no weakness.

Her fingers were icy cold. She’d left her gloves behind again, having removed them before she opened the notes. She walked faster, rounded the corner of the church, and saw him there, leaning on a headstone. The imposter.

“Ah, good. You came, m’dear. I feared you might ignore my note.” No sign of a French accent now, but a cockney one, tainted with something else. A voice uniquely shadowed, capable of many identities. “I had the tavern keeper write it for me. Charged me a penny, bleedin’ tight-purse.”

“What do you want with me, sir?”

His lips cracked apart in a broad grin. “I tried to catch you alone now for some time, but always
someone
gets in the way.”

Ellie blew out a quick breath, the frigid air cloudy around her mouth. “Again, sir—who are you, and what do you want from me?”

His tongue rasped over dry lips. “My name is Josiah Jankyn, my dear. And I rather thought it was time we became acquainted.”

She couldn’t breathe, as if her corset was suddenly too tight. Her head felt light, dizzy.

His words slipped out calmly, as if oblivious to the turmoil they caused. Or, at least, not caring.

“I’m your pa.”

***

James had left Morecroft before the snow began, and since his mind was on other matters, he gave no thought to the winter weather but drove his grandmother’s curricle along the lane as if it was a summer’s day. Only when he passed a few farmer’s carts and saw the drivers looking at him oddly, did he realize how unwise it was to choose an open vehicle for a jaunt along country lanes in December. By the time he reached Sydney Dovedale, his face was frozen, his feet and fingertips likewise.

Then the snow began to fall. The bare branches filled with pristine white, and a stillness settled over the countryside. The rhythmic clip of the horses’ hooves became as soothing as a lullaby. In the distance, soft puffs of gray smoke billowed from cottage chimneys, and there was the church spire, snow clinging to the clock face. Almost there and in anticipation of seeing Ellie Vyne, he felt warmer already.

***

Her first emotion was disbelief, naturally. “My father is dead, sir. He died before I was born.”

“’Fraid not, m’dear. Here I am. As you see with your own two eyes. In the flesh. Still ’live and kickin’.”

Fingers clasped tight in a vain effort to warm them, she stared at the man before her. He was in his fifties, tall, rugged, weathered by life. There were signs of a once-handsome face, but worn now and sagging about the mouth. His eyes were very dark, and his gaze probed deeply. Snow gathered on his wig until he took it off and shook it. His hair underneath was brown, lightly peppered with gray.

“It was you,” she stammered. “You’ve been following me for months.” A ghost. Surely that was what he was. An apparition.

“Oh yes.” He sucked on his teeth, drawing out the “s” in a long hiss. “The minute I saw you, o’ course, I recognized you were my Jenny’s girl. Almost the very image of her you are. And then I saw you wearing those pearls she stole from me.”

Snowflakes clung to the edge of her bonnet and the lavender ribbons under her chin. “I don’t understand. Who is Jenny?”

He stepped closer over the whitened grass. “Jenny was my wife. My partner in crime. My pretty little pigeon.” Then the smile snapped off his face. “Until she ran off and left me. Decided she could do better. Took off with a box full of jewelry, got on a boat, and got herself shipwrecked.” He paused, and when she said nothing, he added, “She was your mother, m’dear.”

“My…my mother? But her name was Catherine. She was a widow—”

“Yes, I heard that fairy story. Poor widow woman, rescued from a storm at sea by Admiral Vyne, married and settled down like a proper lady. Has a few babies. Lives a life of lies, while her real husband thinks she’s drowned.” He snapped his thick, callused fingers inches from her face. “Gone. The ungrateful hussy. For years I thought she was dead.” He turned and strolled around the gravestone, his hands behind his back. “Then, one day, there I am, in Jamaica, sitting in a tavern down by the docks, rifling my way through a few untended pockets, running a few cons to pass the time until my boat sails, and what do I see on the wall, right above all the bottles of rum covering a hole in the plaster?” He looked at her again over his snow-laden shoulder. “Guess, Mariella my girl. What did I see?”

She couldn’t think. Her hands were numb with cold, and her mind rapidly followed suit.

“My Jenny. In a portrait. Large as life. Couldn’t forget those eyes of hers, could I? And you’ve got them too, m’dear.”

Ellie closed those eyes now to protect them from his pointing, accusatory finger. “So I ask the proprietor of the place—an exiled Englishman—and he tells me the tale of the lovely widow called Catherine. Rescued at sea and now his sister-in-law. Married to Admiral Vyne, no less, and kicking up her heels in the English countryside like the fine lady she ain’t.”

So he talked of the portrait her aunt gave Uncle Grae when he left England in disgrace.

“Then I knew she’d tricked me, didn’t I? Decided to come and get the wench back, but when I got here, she was dead. Again.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I went to see the grave this time to make certain.”

She reopened her eyes and looked at him. Now she knew he was flesh and blood, not a ghost at all. The father she’d thought dead all these years was here before her.

Josiah stood straight, rough hands clasped around his coat lapels. “The parson’s wife showed me the gravestone. ‘What does it say then?’ I asked her, and she told me.” He raised his voice to a new pitch, high and haughty. “‘Here lies Catherine Vanderlilly Vyne, devoted wife and mother.’ Catherine, indeed. Nah! Jenny Jankyn lies here. Deceiving whore. That’s what that stone should’ve said.”

“Don’t you say that about my mother!”

“It’s what she was, m’dear. You may as well face the truth.”

But whatever she was once, her mother had clearly tried to change her life, not only for herself but for the child she knew she carried. When she was shipwrecked, she must have seen the opportunity to reinvent herself and seized her chance for redemption. Ellie knew all about the desire for peace.

Her gaze tracked to the right and caught Mrs. Flick passing along on the other side of the churchyard wall. The old busybody couldn’t hear their conversation, but she stared quite openly, probably taking note of every detail. Josiah Jankyn waved a greeting, and Mrs. Flick walked on in haste.

“Curious folks in Sydney Dovedale, eh?” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “That’s the trouble with a village this size. They’ll soon have something to talk about, won’t they?”

“Will they?”

“When you announce the return of your long lost pa, just in the nick o’ time”—he grinned—“to give you away at the church.” A sudden wind blew a flurry of snow from the shivering branches of a nearby yew tree, and he was lost from her sight for a moment, smothered in white. But he was still there. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not. I can see how that might be, m’dear. An old crook like me for a pa…and the fact that your ma was a lyin’, thievin’ whore.” He scratched his chin, his gaze fixed on her face. Then he added slowly, carefully, “That your ma was still wed to me when she took the admiral for a husband.”

The flurry thinned, and she saw the finger placed to his thin lips.

“Now that doesn’t quite seem lawful, does it, Mariella? Marryin’ two men at once?”

She tried to swallow but found her tongue swollen, her throat dry.

“I believe they call that
bigamy
. Ain’t that what they call it? That makes those fancy sisters of yours…oh, what’s that word now?
Bastards.
” He spat the word out, half-laughing. “Aye, that’s right. Those pretentious, fancy sisters are about to find out that they’re the bastard offspring of a lyin’, thievin’ little strumpet. Won’t go down too well for them, will it? Tsk, tsk!”

Thus, slowly he peeled back the layers, revealing the damage he could do to the people she cared about and had looked after for so many years. All her hard work to get her half sisters well married would be for naught if this man brought it crashing down around them. She might survive the scandal—she might—but her stepfather and sisters never could. And James?

As if he read her thoughts, Josiah continued, “Well, m’dear, here you are, on the verge of marriage to that rich gent. What will he say, I wonder, to find the likes o’ me as a father-in-law? Will his grandmama welcome me to Hartley House with open arms?” He laughed. “No. I suppose I’d better stay out o’ sight. You’ll be ashamed of your old pa.”

Suddenly she saw again the faces of those women at Lady Clegg-Foster’s party, sneering at her as she tried to hide behind a potted palm with trifle on her backside, and then of James, coming to her rescue. He couldn’t save her this time.

“I hope those fine folk never hear about that trick you’ve been playing, m’dear. Running about in men’s breeches, taking advantage of a few rich fellows who can’t hold their drink. Cheating at cards, even gambling in clubs where ladies ain’t permitted. You and the good old
count
.” He rubbed his gloveless hands together. “Perhaps now that we’re reunited, while I’m here in the country, you might find your way clear to helping your old pa out.”

“I take it you mean financially, sir.”

“Don’t we talk fancy? I see that admiral fellow raised you up to be a lady. Fair brings a tear to my eye, Mariella. Aye,
financially
. And don’t clench your lips at me, my girl. Would you rather I went to the workhouse? I’m only asking for a little help from a relative, my own dear daughter. Surely you can help your ol’ pa out with coin for board and lodging in this bitter weather?”

“Where are you staying?”

He gestured with his hat. “Yonder tavern by the common. The room for rent is small and drafty, and the roof merely strains the rain, but it does. I’ve stayed in worse places.”

There was nothing else for it but to help him. After all, she’d spent years helping her adopted family, and this man was her own flesh and blood. She dug her frozen fingers into the small reticule hanging from her wrist and passed him a few coins. “Here, this should be enough. I can’t imagine Merryweather charges much for his room.” She refused to give him more, in case he spent it on drink. The last thing she needed was a drunken “pa” spilling all her secrets tonight in the tavern.

He looked at the coins she’d dropped into his palm. “You’re a good girl, Mariella.”

“That’s all I can give you,” she warned. “I haven’t much money of my own, and you surely know that since you’ve been following me.”

Her father did not deny it. “Aye, and on the matter of finances, my girl, I hope you will allow me to guide you from now on, as is my fatherly duty.”

“Your fatherly duty? Isn’t it a little late—?”

“I wouldn’t want you to put all your eggs in one basket, Mariella. What if your fine beau changes his mind? That old hag, Hartley, might put a stop to her grandson yet. Now that highborn hussy, Ophelia Southwold, has come chasing him across the country, I daresay he’ll soon forget about you.”

Ellie inhaled a quick, startled breath of frigid air.

“Folk like that always stick to their own kind in the end. Oh, he’ll enjoy himself with you in the meantime, and you, my girl”—he shook a finger in her face—“must take what you can get from him while the pickings are still good. But when push comes to shove, he’ll let you down in favor of riches and a wench with a title.” He paused and squinted at her. “Don’t take it to heart, girl. There’s always another rich idiot around the corner. You’d do well to keep the Shales in your sights, and if I were you, I’d go for the older one, since he’s not so long to live. Unlike your Mr. Hartley, they cannot afford to be choosy. It’s always good to have a contingency plan.”

She dug her trembling hands back into her pockets. “Thank you for the offer of
guidance
, but I’ll manage my own life. I always have.”

He sniffed and closed his fist over the coins. “So I see. You’ve done nicely on your wits alone, Daughter. Makes your old pa proud, it does. Chip off the old block. But it wouldn’t do any harm to listen to your pa, now he’s come all this way to find you.”