Read The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne for Free Online Page A

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