The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne (23 page)

Ellie wondered if he expected an invitation to tea. There did not seem to be any proper etiquette for dealing with a father returned from the dead.

While she was still pondering this strange situation, he said, “Your Mr. Hartley is rich as Croesus, so I hear. Must have plenty to spare.”

Uh, oh.
“Do not get any ideas on that score, sir.”

“Just a thought, m’dear.”

“I will not ask him for money,” she replied, terse.

“P’raps you’d prefer it if I paid him a visit and asked for the money meself? He’s been having his way with my daughter. I ought to get something out of it. I ought to collect my due.”

She was horrified. “Don’t go near him.”

“Tsk, tsk. Ashamed o’ me, I suppose.”

Ellie said nothing to that.

“Aye. ’Tis as I thought—you are ashamed. That you should find your father after all these years, and he is but a poor, friendless fellow who must scrape together a living.”

“No. I am saddened, sir, that I should meet my father after all these years, and the first thing he asks me for is money.”

He raised heavy eyelids, his expression mournful, the smiles hidden for now, although she suspected they were not gone far. “Without money, a man is reduced to poaching for his food and breaking into houses for a place to sleep warm. Would you want that for your pa?”

No she would not. She wanted that here in peaceful Sydney Dovedale even less.

He tipped his head back and sniffed at the snowfall. “I like this place. Might stay a while.”

“Do as you wish.”

He looked at her and laughed. “Since you’re dining at Hartley House tonight, you’ll have ample opportunity to ask your
gentleman
for a few pounds for a new frock or such like. He doesn’t look as if he’d refuse you anything, m’dear. For now.” He reached over and tapped her ice-cold cheek with two fingers. “To a fellow like that, a purse full o’ coin is never missed. ’Tis a mere drop in the ocean. And a few lost trinkets around the house can always be blamed on the servants. They eat with silver knives and forks, no doubt, none of that Sheffield plate?”

“Sir, you are mistaken if you think I—”

“Now, now, Mariella.” He chuckled and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Your ol’ pa was only speculating. Enjoying a little jest. Don’t frown so. Think of me tonight, getting by as best I can, while you dine at that elegant table with folks who have more than they know what to do with. More than they can possibly need.”

“I thought you were invited to dine with the Osbornes.”

“Ah yes.” He shrugged. “The toothy young lady is heir to a considerable sum, so I hear. I did not know it when I first met her in Bath.” Raising rough fingers to his chin, he scratched the stubble thoughtfully. “Luck was on my side when I ran into her again, eh?”

Ellie shook her head. “I would advise you not to pursue Miss Jane Osborne in hopes of getting your hands on her father’s fortune. Farmer Osborne is in very good health, and in any case, it is likely he will marry again soon.” There was no need to elaborate. Let him think the good farmer about to take a young bride and sire more heirs.

His face fell.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she added hurriedly.

“A little kiss on the cheek for your old pa? Is that too much to ask?”

She hesitated. Wind and snow whipped around her feet and seemed to reach right inside her boots.

“You complained when I asked you for money, and you turn up your nose at a kiss. Some daughter you are.”

“Some father you are.”

Rather than take offense as she expected, he looked bemused. “It seems we both need time to get accustomed to the idea.”

Making her face as calm as could be, Ellie rose on tiptoe and kissed his rough cheek. “That’s better.” His eyes brightened. “Now I’ll be here at nine in the morning, if you should want to see me, daughter dear, and bring me a bit o’ breakfast.”

“I’m sure Merryweather can provide you—”

“Aye, but that bread is stale, hard enough to break a man’s tooth, and the stew his wife made last night is bad for the digestion. At my age, a man should cosset his insides.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very well. I’ll bring what I can.”

“Good girl. Now you go and make yourself pretty for your fancy gentleman, and while you still hold his interest, you should find your way into his pockets—”

Ellie scowled.

“Just a jape, Mariella! How serious you are, just like your mama.”

No one had ever called her too serious before. But Ellie had finally found herself in a situation that could not be improved by laughing.

***

James stared through the snow. It fell faster now in fatter flakes. He was almost blinded by it. He wished he had been.

He’d drawn his horses to a halt the moment he recognized the bright lavender ribbons of Ellie’s bonnet. What was she doing, standing in the graveyard in this weather, talking to a man? The snowfall had muffled his horses’ hooves, but he stopped far enough away that they wouldn’t notice him anyway. As he watched her talking intimately with the count and then kissing the man on his cheek, he felt his happy mood rapidly disintegrate until it was merely dust.

***

She ran home to her aunt’s cottage, head bowed against the white fleece shroud, her tear-filled gaze on the ground as it flew beneath her boots.

Her father was alive.

Part of her heart wanted to celebrate the fact that she had a living blood relative. It seemed only natural that she should feel some joy. Yet what pleasure could she take in this turn of events? He had come to find her only when he thought he might use her to his advantage. For months he must have followed her, seen what she got up to as the count, and then decided he ought to have his share.

If James knew, he would be horrified and distance himself from her as soon as possible. Ellie did not know how she’d managed to capture his attention this long as it was, when he was used to the company of fine ladies with elegant manners—ladies who did not run after him down country lanes, making an exhibit of themselves, casting discretion and their pride to the four winds.

***

The snowy lane rolled fast under his horses. He’d traveled all this way to surprise her, and he was the one surprised. He’d meant to ride with her back to Morecroft for dinner, but now he knew he needed time to get his temper under control. He’d send the carriage for her instead and wait for her on his own territory. Let her come to him this time.

Deceiver! Hussy!
Was every word out of her lips a lie?

To think, he’d begun trust her, begun to imagine—

He saw the boy in the nick of time. The horses swerved, and his wheel went up on the snow-blanketed verge.

“Oy! Mister, look where yer goin’.”

Rafe Adamson had run out across the lane, holding a dead goose partially hidden under his coat.

James swore. His hands were shaking. “You look where you’re going, boy! I almost trampled you into the ground.” He pulled the horses to a halt as his curricle bumped back down onto the lane. “Damn it all, boy! You could have been dead.” Those words echoed through his aching head, tore further into his shattered nerves.

“Well, I ain’t, am I?” the boy replied cheerily, peering up at him through a snowy fringe of hair. “Don’t get your breeches in a twist.” He proudly showed off the dead bird under his coat. “Look what I got, mister.”

James swallowed, and his fury slowly fell away. The boy was right. He wasn’t dead, was he? He was alive, blood pumping through his veins. James had given him that life.

“Did you poach that bird, Rafe Adamson?”

“Nah. ’Course not. It was give to me right and proper.”

He didn’t believe a word of it. “Going home?”

The boy nodded.

“I can take you as far as the farmhouse gates. Want a ride?”

The boy nodded again, more eagerly. His eyes shone with unguarded admiration for the curricle and the fine horses. James leaned down, offering his hand. The boy flung the dead bird up into James’s lap before climbing up over the wheel and bouncing excitedly into the seat beside him.

“Can I drive, mister?”

“Well, I—”

“Go on!” The boy grinned broadly and altogether too charmingly. “Give a poor boy a bit o’ fun. It won’t cost yer nuffin’.”

He shook his head wryly and passed the boy the reins. “Now be cautious and don’t—”

They were off at speed, jolting and jerking down the snowy lane, and James was obliged to hang on for dear life. At least it gave him something to take his mind off Ellie Vyne and her previous lover.

The boy was laughing, head back, and his startling blue eyes reflected pure, uncomplicated delight. His cheeks were red with the cold wind, but he was careless.

Just the way James was once, traveling down these very same lanes.

Rafe’s laughter was infectious, and soon James too was laughing, even as he shouted his words of caution to the reckless driver.

Fate had given him a second chance with this boy; perhaps he could give Ellie the same. He should not have run off like that without giving her a chance to explain herself, he realized. But he would see her tonight at dinner. He would not be angry and churlish. No indeed. He would be civil and quite calm. Let the mischievous, ungrateful wench make up her excuses then. If she could.

***

The valet brought him a glass of brandy, striding across the carpet with his usual stalwart grace, balancing the small silver tray in one hand.

“I thought you would be in need, sir. The weather is frightful out.”

“Yes, thank you, Grieves.” He took the glass as he slumped into a chair beside the fire, still wearing his coat. His nerves had certainly had a bit of a shock—first from the sight of that blackguard Bonneville with Ellie, and then from the death-defying curricle ride with his son.

“You left in some haste this afternoon, sir. I do hope it was not an unpleasant mission.”

This was Grieves’s way of asking where he’d been, of course, while maintaining the polite distance expected. James winced. “I went to Sydney Dovedale.”

“I see, sir. Quite an undertaking in a curricle. In the snow.”

“Hmmm.”

“Something most important must have driven you to it.”

James coughed as he swallowed his brandy a little too fast.

It was her fault, he decided briskly. Ellie Vyne had got him so tied up in her silky corset ribbons that he was hard pressed to make a solitary practical decision. Thus he went racing to see her without a thought for his warmth and comfort.

Grieves tucked the silver salver under his arm, but rather than walk away, he remained standing by James’s chair.

“You hover, Grieves. Is there something you wish to say?”

The valet cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. If I may.”

Wearily, James waved a hand. “Proceed.” May as well get it over with, he mused. Probably some lecture about risking his health by riding out in the snow. For a damnable woman.

But Grieves said suddenly, “When I worked for my previous employer, the Earl of Leighton, the countess gave all the indoor servants a day off and a trip to the sea in celebration of our victory at the battle of Waterloo. It was a very overcast day and I, having been warned against sand in my shoes, stayed on the promenade.”

James was barely listening, feeling too sorry for himself. “Hmmm.”

“There was a young chambermaid by the name of Hetty. I was very fond of her. Sadly, nothing could come of it. The countess was most adamantly set against romance below stairs, and quite rightly so, of course.”

He watched a wisp of white hair on the valet’s head, standing upright, caught on a draft.

“Dearest Hetty,” Grieves warbled. “She had the prettiest pair of blue eyes. She wore a bonnet of blue flowers that day by the sea, and I…” he paused, cheeks flushed. “I pinched a flower from it to keep it pressed between the pages of my Bible.”

“I find it hard to believe you capable of such villainy, Grieves.”

“I was young then, sir, and impulsive. And terribly fond of the color blue.”

“I sincerely hope we advance to the point, Grieves. If there is one. Or have I just wasted more precious seconds of my life?”

“The point, sir, is that Hetty walked down on the sands, and I was too afraid to follow, having been warned against the inconvenience of sand in one’s shoes. Soon after that trip, Hetty left us to nurse a sick aunt in Northampton. Scarlet fever, I believe it was.”

“And what became of the erstwhile Hetty and her blue eyes?”

“She died, sir. Taken by the same fever as her aunt.”

“Oh.” He cringed. “I’m…sorry.”

“You see, sir, I suppose my point is that I should have seized the moment, taken a chance, and walked on the sand. We never know how long we have, do we?” The valet raised a hand to pat down that rebellious sprig of hair. “I still have the flower I took from Hetty’s bonnet, but it is brittle now. The once vibrant color has faded. Time takes everything away from us, sooner or later. But I never felt again for any other woman what I felt that day for Hetty. It was most extraordinary. As if I knew that she was meant for me, as if I recognized a soul mate. Love is a very odd and challenging thing, sir. I was too cowardly to accept it for what it was.”

James glowered down at his brandy. Love? Was he in love with that wretched, deceiving woman? He’d thought himself in love before, with Sophia, and look how that turned out! Yet he wanted to please Ellie and protect her. He wanted to make her happy. It seemed such a simple thing, but no one had done it before, evidently. For someone who laughed often, she was sad inside. He’d noted it when he sat beside her on that little bench in Brighton and they pretended to be other people. Or, perhaps,
not
pretending to be other people, for once.

“Of course, sir. I did not mean to suggest you capable of any such feeling as love,” Grieves continued as he turned away again. “The countess used to say that love was a weakness of the lower classes. I daresay she was as right about that as she was about all things, even those in which she had no experience.”

James tapped his fingers against the pleasing curve of his brandy glass and found himself thinking of other pleasing curves.