She spied a pair of cufflinks upon a dresser top—something he might have picked up and toyed with that very day. Perhaps he had considered using them and then discarded the idea. Impulsively, she took one and clasped it in her hand like a treasure. It was made of gold and set with little diamonds, and since there were two, she decided instantly to keep one until their marriage. One for each of them. It would be a sort of “until we meet again,” remembrance. She savoured the feel of it in her hand. It was merely a cufflink, but it was his, and now it was hers.
Then when a maid brought in a freshly laundered stack of Phillip’s neatly folded handkerchiefs, Ariana watched her put them away in a drawer, waited until the servant left, and then crossed the room and opened the drawer. The top few handkerchiefs were made of soft silk and embroidered with a P and an M at the bottom corner—very fine and elegant. Beneath them were brown and red ones made of linen; “snuff” handkerchiefs. With a quickening of her pulse, she picked one up and sniffed it deeply. Yes, it had Phillip’s scent, a mixture of snuff and clean linen.
She could not resist keeping it. Ariana already had one of Phillip’s handkerchiefs tucked away at her aunt’s house, but as she lovingly patted the cloths into place and closed the drawer, she felt very satisfied to have another, for it held his scent. The one at home had lost it.
With a little smile she tucked it into her reticule beside the cuff link. She would tell Phillip about it when she next saw him—if indeed she was going to see him before the wedding. Oh, but it was coming at long last! Nine days more and she would be Mrs. Mornay! At times, in all honesty, there was a little cloud of fear accompanying the thought—after all, there were mysteries she knew precious little about. The sight of the huge bed in the room was a stark reminder of that. But she need not dwell on that right now.
She left that room for the adjoining bedchamber to inspect her trousseau. Since she hadn’t yet worn these garments, they didn’t feel as though they were hers any more than the expensive furniture or decorations. Only her little escritoire from home was familiar, and it looked unhappily out of place.
Hearing Mrs. Bentley’s voice in the master bedchamber, Ariana returned to the room, and found the seamstress leaving. A sound behind her made her turn in surprise—it was the housekeeper, wearing an indignant expression.
“Mrs. Hamilton! My word, you startled me.”
“I beg your pardon.” She did not seem sorry, and she had not curtseyed.
Mrs. Bentley asked, “When is Mr. Mornay expected to return home?”
“I cannot say, ma’am. I can ask Mr. Frederick, however.”
“Hmm, do so.”
“At once, ma’am.” The housekeeper turned and yanked on the bellpull, and then left the room.
“I do not trust that woman,” Ariana’s aunt said, after watching the servant go. “She stared at you with a look that should never be on a servant’s countenance. They shouldn’t stare at you at all, firstly, and should always appear happy to be of service or, failing that, as if they had no feelings whatsoever.”
“But, ma’am, they are people, and do have feelings.”
Mrs. Bentley dismissed this with a toss of her head. “She complained about her mattress, if you recall. And I found it to be perfectly good; quite fine for a servant, in fact. I tell you, do not trust her.”
“You found it to be perfectly good? Do you mean, you went to her chamber?”
“I did.”
Not having an answer for this odd behaviour, Ariana threw open the wardrobe and smiled. Phillip’s servants kept his things in impeccable order, that much was clear.
“I mean to befriend Mrs. Hamilton,” she said. “Indeed, I will need her help as I grow accustomed to Phillip’s habits and preferences.” She wrinkled her brows in thought. “She is somewhat new to the household, I am told, but she has learned her duties; she can much benefit me as I seek to do the same.”
“If you need help, you need only ask me, or hire a new woman in her place. Not all servants can countenance a change in the household that a new mistress brings. They get it in their heads that somehow the place belongs to them, and they resent what they feel is an intrusion. I have seen it, Ariana.”
The butler arrived with Fotch, Mr. Mornay’s valet. Both servants wore looks of mild alarm, though they bowed politely.
“Ah. Frederick,” Ariana said. “Did Mr. Mornay mention when he would return, today?”
“No, ma’am. Except it is unlikely he will take his supper here.”
Fotch stepped forward, with an apologetic air. “May I help you, ma’am?” He looked behind Ariana to the open wardrobe as if to say, ‘I notice you are into my master’s clothing. Is something amiss?” Unable to resist assuring himself that everything was as it should be, he went and took a quick look at the wardrobe and then shut the door with a firmness that was perhaps a little unbecoming in one with a new mistress in the room; his loyalty and longtime care of his master’s clothes were his excuse. Ariana could see the possessiveness; the protectiveness for his master, and she smiled at him.
Fotch then remembered that he liked Miss Forsythe, and bowed lightly. But his eyes fell upon the single cuff link on the dresser and he went and picked it up, and then looked questioningly about, as if it might have fallen.
Ariana, instantly aware of having the other, was too embarrassed to say so to the servant.
Frederick cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“No, Freddy, thank you.”
“Shall I instruct Cook to prepare a meal for you and Mrs. Bentley?”
Ariana’s aunt answered. “That won’t be necessary.”
Before leaving the house, Ariana quickly checked on the progress of all the changes she had authorized. In the dining room, the work was underway, but as she got to the doorway, she stopped in shock. The room looked ghastly. It had been taken apart, but not yet put back together, and she had a sudden sensation of having ruined the beautiful dwelling with her foolish ideas!
Even Mrs. Bentley had to exclaim, “Upon my word! I do hope you are not responsible for all of this upset, my dear.” She stepped around bits of broken plaster and tools, looking as if the mess held the plague.
Ariana frowned, but said nothing. She saw a spot where a painted roundel had been, covered now by an opaque substance to prepare it for a new painting. So much grace and elegance erased, as though it had never existed! What if she had inadvertently ruined the house in Grosvenor Square? And what would Mr. Mornay say about it?
Chapter Seven
When the master of the house arrived home that evening, he had forgotten about the missing candlestick and the letter-opener. They were trifles. But he was now informed about the expensive cuff-link which was missing its twin, and that a handkerchief—or perhaps two—were also unaccounted for, all of which had been noticed following the visit of a certain young blonde-haired woman.
Worse by far was that his valet came to him in tears—Fotch, with tears in his eyes! It was the first moment when he felt real concern about the recent rash of missing items.
“Sir!” The agonized look on the servant’s face was almost unbearable.
“Yes, Fotch?”
The man couldn’t bear to speak. He held up a white linen shirt, a look of sheer misery on his face, and turned it so Mr. Mornay could see the front. There was a huge blotch of ink on it, running in a ragged bleed in all directions, even up to the collar points. The placket where the three buttons were sewn on was solid black.
Mr. Mornay frowned. “What happened?”
“That’s just it, sir! I ‘ave no clue! I found it just like this right and tight, hangin’ in the wardrobe, sir!”
Mr. Mornay’s lips were compressed. “Anything else missing or ruined?”
“No, saints be praised, sir!”
“Summon Mr. Frederick.”
The valet didn’t move. Mr. Mornay asked, “Yes?”
“If I could just say, sir, how sorry I am. Something’s rotten, sir!”
“Yes, thank you, Fotch.” He had a thought. “You’re not leasing out the laundry?”
“Goodness, no, sir! I washed this shirt myself, and I left it white as ever it was, sir!”
“Very well,” he said, nodding.
When the butler arrived, he too was visibly upset. “Sir, I beg you to understand that neither I nor Fotch have the smallest notion of how this could have happened!”
Mr. Mornay moved aside a stack of letters and surveyed his longtime butler. “Set yourself at ease, Frederick, I don’t intend to hang you on a gibbet for it.”
“Thank you, sir.” The butler visibly relaxed, but of course a butler could not be expected to relax completely under the circumstances.
“However—” The master’s word set a new flurry in his pulse.
“I do think I should be able to expect my butler to keep abreast of the comings and goings in this house. Something has been amiss, as you know. Missing items, possible thefts, and now my own clothing ruinously meddled with—or attacked.”
“Attacked, sir?”
“Do you see it as something less?” he asked.
“Well, sir—” he hesitated.
This made Mr. Mornay look at him expectantly. “Well? Do you know something?”
He looked down and then said, “Well, it’s just a conjecture, sir.” The butler looked at Fotch who nodded his head in agreement. Mr. Mornay was losing patience.
“What is it, Mr. Frederick?” His tone dripped with exasperation.
“You see, sir, Fotch and I both saw—someone—looking in your wardrobe today.”
“What! Why on earth didn’t you say so?” He was growing more annoyed by the second.
“We assumed you knew—”
“Knew! Are you mad? Who was it?”
“The lady, sir.... Miss Forsythe. Our future mistress.” Frederick’s voice had trailed off, and Mr. Mornay’s demeanour became unarmed. He seemed at a loss, in fact, and took a breath.
“Are you suggesting this was the work of Miss Forsythe?”
“Well, sir, we don’t rightly know what to suggest. Or what to think. We only know we saw her at your wardrobe...and then Fotch found the garment.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Hangin’ up, sir, with your other clothing, but pulled apart, like, so that it wasn’t touchin’ nothin’ else.”
Mr. Mornay held out his hand. “Let me see it.” When he had the shirt in hand, he looked it over carefully, not really knowing what he was looking for but willing it to tell him something. Had it been stained deliberately or not? That was his question.
The three men examined the item, and there was no question in anyone’s mind that it could have been an accident. Ink from a bottle had been deliberately poured on the garment, and then allowed to slowly seep across it, in a spidery design that ended in uneven blotches all across the shirt.
Each man wore a frown. No one wanted to believe that the sweet-faced Miss Forsythe could be responsible. Mr. Mornay could not believe for a second that she was, but there was no way for him to ignore that she had been in his bedchamber when the result, in his hands, was so evident and deleterious. He dismissed the servants and thought for a few moments.
He called Fotch back to help him change. Then, before leaving the house for an engagement, he stopped in front of Freddy.
“I want a footman or other servant at all times in the rooms where workmen are. Further, take all the items in these rooms that aren’t closed up in drawers and lock them away somewhere until this infernal refurbishing is done! I want a man stationed at the door to my chamber at all times. And place another man at the next chamber since they have communicating doors, and make sure no one enters either without being duly noted.”
The butler was nodding gravely.
“I also want a running tally of the cost of everything which has gone missing or been destroyed.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Tell Mrs. Hamilton what I’ve told you, and see that my orders are carried out.”
“At once, sir.”
Mr. Mornay hesitated; the butler waited, sensing more was to come. “If Miss Forsythe comes again....”
“Yes, sir?” Mr. Mornay fell silent a moment, choosing his next words carefully.
“Let Mrs. Hamilton or another servant accompany her.”
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” Frederick closed the door, troubled for his master’s sake, but inwardly proud of the man. Wasn’t the master such a...master! He would see that there were no more dastardly goings on in Grosvenor Square, that was certain.
Lord Wingate drew a long, bony finger along a large map which he had unfurled on a table. He tapped lightly upon Hanover Square and then let his finger run down the streets to Grosvenor Square, stopping abruptly at house number 25.
“ʾTisn’t a long distance, but long enough for our purposes. I tell you, if we have to take her on the wedding day, we’ll do it, by Jove!” He looked up to where his younger brother was stretched out on a worn sofa, eyes closed, and one arm draped lazily across his eyes. Wingate’s eyes narrowed. “Are you attending to me, Antoine?”
His brother slowly removed his arm from over his eyes and yawned. “I hear you, if that’s what you mean. But evidently you haven’t heard me. Did I not say,” he asked, coming with difficulty to a sitting position, and blinking at his brother who stood only a few feet away, “that I am not for trying again? I intend on dropping the scheme; I thought I had made that clear.”
Lord Wingate grimaced. “What a cake you are. A prime gull.” He paced with cat-like intensity to one end of the small room they were sharing, never taking his eyes off his brother. “This is a chance to get back what’s been lost to us. The estate can be bought back. The trustees will be relieved to have it back in our laps. We can live there again, you know!”
Lord Antoine spun his legs off the sofa and placed his booted feet onto the floor. He looked tired. “Mornay had nothing to do with your not having a feather to fly with. You squandered your fortune entirely on your own.”
“As I am the heir, I fail to see how that concerns you.” He flicked his eyes at his younger brother, and shook his long hair out of his face. “Mornay had more to do with it than you know. Heʼs long been too high in the instep. But his blunt will be sufficient to restore some of mine. That’s what matters.”
“I thought what mattered was what he did to my wedding prospect. You don’t really care a fig about that, do you?”
“All that signifies is that if we move ahead as planned, he will be willing to pay, and it will more than compensate both our losses.”
The brothers stared at one another. Antoine hated to see the circles under Julian’s eyes and hoped earnestly that his own did not mirror them. “Your losses, perhaps, not mine.”
Julian smiled. “Both our losses, brother.”
“After which, I’ve no way of preventing you from gaming it away again.”
Lord Wingate’s demeanor changed. “I seem to recall that you enjoyed many a night’s gaming as well, brother.”
“I knew when to stop. You never did.”
“Of course I did. You stop after you win. It’s that simple.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I had a run of bad luck, that’s all.”
“As I said; you don’t know when to quit.” Holliwell stood up and made to leave the shabby apartment. It was the most they could afford, living off what they managed to eke out by gaming and other ignoble means. The family estate was “let to nurse.” That meant it was in the hands of trustees until the debts Wingate had been run up were fully paid. They had no regular income.
“Where are you going?” Wingate’s voice was slow and icy
“What is it to you, sir? I see that you were never in this on account of my ruined hopes, as you said.”
“I was willing to help, and now I will need your help.”
“I said I’m not for it! I’ve thought it over, and little chance I’d have with Miss Herley if I were to harm
her dearest friend!”
“Don’t be beetle-headed! Are you still harping about Miss Herley? And you say you know when to quit?” He faced his brother, his countenance snarling. “The game’s up, Antoine! You’re blocked at both ends. There is not to be a Miss Herley for you, and it is on account of Mr. Mornay! And his interfering little chit! Now, you will help me in this matter. You have nothing to lose, and we both stand much to gain.”
Lord Antoine stood grim and still, digesting what his brother had said. He was right, undoubtedly. There could be no chance of his marrying Miss Herley now. Her family was not rich, but they were utterly respectable—the very thing he was not. The very thing his family had not been for at least two generations. Mr. Mornay had been spot-on in warning her against him. But that didn’t mean he had to just swallow it, did it?
He undid the buttons of his coat and walked over to where the map was laid out on the table. A single sputtering flame threw its light onto the paper, and when he bent over it to study it, the light was partially blocked. Lord Wingate moved the candle.
“What is your plan?” Holliwell asked. Perhaps it was the right thing to do, to help his brother. Even if Wingate was a hell-hound, as they called him, he was still his brother. Family. That had to count for something.
Chapter Eight
When Ariana awoke the next morning, a disturbed feeling rounded the edges of her consciousness. Why? Tonight she would see Phillip—that was a good thing. She would see the princess—another good thing, to be sure. But then she remembered: she’d nearly been abducted in front of Merrilton House. She’d come near being nabbed from the street by wicked, horrible men! And she’d be returning to that street tonight.
Yet the Lord had prevented harm from befalling her. And she wasn’t about to venture out alone again in the dark. Rather, she would stay close to her beloved.
Now she could focus on the coming excitement of the night. Having met the Regent months earlier had been a thrill, but to meet the princess was even more thrilling. Unlike her father, Princess Charlotte was not famous for vices. Moreover, according to the papers she suffered much due to the constant feuding between her royal parents. Ariana had nothing but admiration and sympathy for her. In fact, she wished she had asked Mr. Mornay to advise her, because for once she was concerned about what to wear for the event.
The House in Grosvenor Square Page 9