The House in Grosvenor Square

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Mrs. Hamilton was sitting in a comfortable wing chair with a newspaper upon her lap. There was a small fire burning, and the laidy was even sipping a cup of some hot liquid. Molly wished she would be asked to join her.

  But no such thing.

  “I have learned that you are a wicked, disloyal servant, Molly! What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Molly blinked at her in alarm and surprise. For a few moments she did not know what to say. “I ain’t done nothin’, mum,” was her meager reply.

  “Perhaps not yet, but do you deny that you were caught napping letters in your previous household?” Molly’s head fell in shame. She had thought that episode was behind her. She’d only done it for the extra money which she used to feed her little brother who was practically a street urchin.

  “Well?” Mrs. Hamilton could be merciless at times.

  Molly shook her head, no.

  “Of course you don’t deny it; you can’t deny it. You’re guilty!”

  “The master knows, mum.”

  She seemed startled. “The master knows? What you’ve done?”

  This time Molly nodded more confidently.

  “I don’t believe it! He would never hire you on!”

  “The mistress asked him to, mum.”

  “The mistress—do you mean, Miss Forsythe?”

  “Ay.”

  “Does she know you took her letters?”

  “Ay, mum.”

  This jarred with what Mrs. Hamilton believed of Miss Forsythe. It smacked of, well, kindness, and didn’t suit her mental image of the future mistress of 25 Grosvenor Square at all.

  “Well, I suppose in that case, she may even be planning to keep you on....” Mrs. Hamilton’s words seemed to be meant for herself, as though she were thinking aloud. Molly did not understand them, in any case. Why wouldn’t Miss Forsythe plan to keep her on? She certainly hoped she did! She had no reason to believe otherwise, as she had not heard Mrs. Hamilton’s prediction, and no one considered a scullery maid of enough importance to repeat it to her.

  After thinking for a moment, Mrs. Hamilton said, “Well, in any case, I am going to keep a sharp eye on you, missee!”

  The maid curtseyed. “Ay, mum.”

  “That will be all.” Mrs. Hamilton took a slow sip of her tea, thinking hard. Her plans for using the girl would have to change. No matter. She was sure Molly would still come in handy. In fact—her eyes lit with a thought. She would come in very handy, indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lord Antoine could not believe, now that he thought on it, that he had ever seriously entertained the thought of abducting Miss Forsythe. He’d always been a bit crass in his attitude toward women—frequenting East End flash houses with their ready supply of demireps could do that to a man—but certainly he never wished to harm a lady. And Miss Forsythe was a lady, indeed. Abduction, moreover, was a serious business, and he had to make it clear to Julian that he would have nothing more to do with it.

  He thought back to the day when the whole nasty plot had been hatched. His brother, Lord Wingate, had come upon him unexpectedly as he had been nursing a wound in a favorite pub, The Whip. It was the worst sort of wound a man could sustain, he felt. He had hoped to marry Miss Lavinia Herley. The Herleys were not so wealthy that they could cover his debts, but Lavinia’s dowry was not so small to be beyond temptation either. Besides, and perhaps most importantly, the Herleys had not been aware of his family’s sinister reputation, and had welcomed the young man into their midst as the best of suitors. It had been unfair and vexing to find that the Paragon had spoken against him, dashing his hopes, turning the Herleys into the same sort of cold and affronted individuals most members of the ton were when it came to his family.

  That wasn’t the reason he had risen up against Mr. Mornay’s fiancée, however. The thing that had catapulted him from a life of selfishness and debauchery into one of possible felonious crime—attempting to abduct a lady of quality—was that Lord Antoine liked Lavinia. In fact, he missed her terribly. Not only was she bubbly and bright, the very opposite of his own morose disposition, but she enjoyed being with him. She found him witty and funny. And he enjoyed amusing her. Indeed, he liked himself more in her presence than at any other time!

  She was good for him, that’s what.

  Still it was with dismay that Holliwell had realized he had feelings for Miss Herley. He, a rogue, a rake, no less than his brother and father before him, had feelings for a gently bred young woman of no measurable consequence except she counted Miss Forsythe as her friend. It was daunting. It was unprecedented. It was...liberating! It meant he had the capacity to love a woman—a simple thing, perhaps, for some, but a matter he’d nearly concluded was outside of his capabilities.

  So instead of thanking the Paragon for ensuring his release from further doings with the middle-class Herleys, Lord Antoine found his meddling unforgivable.

  When he mentioned his woes over a bottle of brandy that day in the pub, Lord Wingate, in a generous mood, vowed to get revenge for his brother’s sake. They commiserated over the opportunities they had been deprived of: a dowry; a family connexion that would not harm their own (as if anything could further harm the family name), the progeny that might have resulted from the union, and finally the pleasures of matrimonial life (which neither had more than a foggy idea of, as their own sire and dam had not lived together since their conception). No matter, it was felt to be a major loss upon their sensibilities, and nothing but a good revenge would answer.

  By the time a second bottle of the potent libation had been consumed, the brothers were feeling more brotherly than they had, perhaps, in all their lives. Lord Wingate, as the elder, felt especially protective of his younger sibling, and together they hatched a plan. They would get at Mornay through his weakest point, which happened to be Miss Forsythe. Exactly what they would do with Miss Forsythe once they had managed to get hold of her was not entirely clear. But the Paragon had deprived Lord Antoine of his intended bride, and so they must of necessity do the same to him.

  Perhaps they would put her on board a ship bound for America. Perhaps Botany Bay. Perhaps they would hold her for ransom. Who knew? Who cared? The object at hand was simply to get her.

  Lord Antoine remembered Mr. O’Brien was a friend of Miss Forsythe’s. He was a trusting sort of soul—a real cat’s paw. He might be useful in their cause.

  It was Mr. Chesley who informed his lordship of the viscount’s ball, and Lord Antoine, though he no longer had a heart for felonious crime, who told his brother. He did it to silence him. To get him off his back. He also told him that he, Antoine, would have no hand in setting a trap for the lady on this night. He would be busy, he said, crashing the card party at the Herley’s. He did not add that he had no desire or intention of waylaying Miss Forsythe upon any occasion or that he would henceforward refuse to help his brother if he persisted in that endeavour. He’d tried to tell him before and found it pointless. Eventually it would become clear to Julian. He’d face his wrath then, when he had to.

  When Mr. Mornay returned to collect Ariana, for they were yet to go on to the Viscount’s ball, Beatrice scampered up to him. “May I call upon my sister? I am so much better now.” She looked at Mr. O’Brien. “I am sure Mr. O’Brien shall drive me to see her.”

  Mr. O’Brien coughed lightly. “Of course.” It would be a reason to see Ariana.

  Mr. Mornay said, “If you are thoroughly better, by all means. Otherwise, if your aunt sees the least evidence of ill-health I suspect you’ll get a combing that will leave your ears ringing.”

  “I am almost thoroughly better,” she declared. Ariana smiled at her and the girls embraced. Mrs. O’Brien added, “I believe your sister will be fully recovered by the date of your wedding. But now, she must come. My son will take us home.”

  Mr. O’Brien said, “I am invited to the viscount’s ball also, mamma.”

  “You must take us home first, sir.”

  No sooner had Ariana and Mr. M
ornay started off for the viscount’s, when Ariana said, “I saw your candlestick.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The missing candlestick! I think the Herleys have it. I suspect that Mrs. Herley may have...she may have napped it!”

  He gave her an odd look. “I believe they also have the missing portrait.”

  She gasped. “Upon my word! This is shocking.”

  “It is unfortunate,” he replied, “but alas, not shocking. I have heard of worse things. You see now why I am careful of my company.” She heard a silent reprimand, implying that Ariana ought to be more careful of hers.

  “I am certain Miss Herley is above reproach,” said Ariana. “I suspect only her mamma.” When he said nothing, she asked, “What is to be done?”

  “Not a thing. I won’t press charges against your friends.”

  “You’re very generous.” She looked at him adoringly, making him chuckle, and then he leaned over and placed a small kiss on her soft cheek.

  Ariana sniffed a bit loudly.

  “Yes, I have had a drink,” he answered, guessing her thoughts.

  “Mmmm,” was all she said.

  “It is thoroughly to be expected that I will have a drink on occasion, Ariana. It has always been my habit.”

  “I understand.”

  “I do not drink myself under the table, as you well know, and I assure you it must not concern you.”

  “I am not concerned,” she responded. “I trust you.”

  There was silence a moment, while he ingested that pleasant thought. But he added, “I have no intention of letting myself be bamboozled into drinking too much again, you know.”

  She was becoming amused by his defensiveness. “I know that, sir.”

  He shifted in his seat. There was another silence, this time filled with a fair amount of tension. Coming from him. “If you aren’t concerned,” he said finally, “then why the devil am I feeling compelled to keep apologizing? I hadn’t the least thought of there being anything wrong with accepting a drink from a gentleman in his library, until I entered this coach with you.”

  Ariana was silent from sheer surprise. Finally,

  she said, “It is not my doing, I assure you. Perhaps you think you shouldn’t have accepted the drink.”

  “I don’t think any such thing!” He recalled suddenly the way his friends sometimes teased him, saying things like, “How can you stand to be in the presence of such a saint? Isn’t it tiresome trying to behave all the time?” He had always laughed off such comments, seeing as he had never found Ariana’s presence burdensome. But he did feel burdened tonight. What an irksome thing! But if she had loved him before, when he had always accepted a drink without a thought, then she would continue to love him. He didn’t have a thing to worry about. But why the devil did he feel as though he did?

  When they reached the Viscount’s house, the ball was underway. Ariana was suffering from the headache, an uncustomary happenstance causing Phillip to suggest taking her home. But it was only a mild one, she said, and her aunt and Mr. Pellham were attending. She declared herself equal to the event.

  Her hand was immediately claimed for a dance. Afterward Lord Horatio stepped forward to quickly assert his rights to the next one. “You promised me at Carlton House, both of you,” he reminded her and her future husband. As Ariana was escorted to the dance floor, Mr. Mornay was approached by Lord Alvanley. “Come and join us, Phillip, and let other men have the enjoyment of the angel for awhile.”

  “The angel?”

  “We can’t keep calling her Lady Mornay, coz it puts the real ladies into a pet, moaning how every knight or sir’s wife is called a lady and every mistress of a house fancies herself ‘lady this or lady that.’ Miss Forsythe an’t nobility and neither are you, Phillip, even if Prinny defers to you sometimes! But that’s the up and up of it. The members of our fairer sex are quite insisting upon a different term of affection for your soon-to-be wife so it’s ‘angel.’ You aren’t smarting about it, surely?”

  “Don’t be a muttonhead.”

  Alvanley chuckled. “It suits her, don’t it? By face and reputation, an angel of the first water.”

  Mornay did not demur. It was true. He had thought so himself numerous times. But he wasn’t about to make a cake of himself by discussing her that way with anyone. “Change the subject, Alvanley. Or are you so enamored of my future bride that you can’t tear your mind from her?”

  His friend smiled—and changed the subject. “Saw your new coat at Weston’s today. For the wedding, eh? It’s all the crack, to be sure! I ordered one like it.”

  Mornay said nothing. He also did not discuss fashion.

  “An’t you going to complain that it’s your new style? That I should steer away?” Still there was no answer. “Dash it, they told me you personally designed an extra inch at the wrists. I’m cinchin’ it from you, and you say nothing?”

  “Alvanley!” Mornay finally exclaimed, and the man’s eyes lit, ready to celebrate that he had at last elicited a response from his unflappable friend. “You’re wasting my time. Good evening.” Mornay turned to go.

  “Whoa, wait a minute!”

  Mornay stopped, and looked at him expectantly.

  “When’s the wedding?”

  He hesitated. “You’re not planning on coming, I hope?” But he smiled as he spoke.

  “Just want to know, my man. There’s bound to be a wager at White’s’ tonight or soon enough. Thought it would be amusing to win one.”

  “Friday next,” he answered. “You might have known if you’d heard the banns or read the papers.”

  At that moment, a few men from the card room entered the corridor. “Here he is, and with Mornay! Come, we’ve got five minutes—can we entice either of you gentlemen to join the game?” They looked hopefully at Mornay, but he said nothing.

  “I’ll consider it,” returned Alvanley, just to taunt them.

  Mr. Courtney said, “We’ve got Argyll in his cups and out of half his estate! He’ll be done up, soon. But he’s hocused. We need a witness, or he’ll challenge it later.”

  “Black-hearted coves, the both of you!” muttered Mornay.

  The man named Whipplehead took Mornay’s arm, saying, “Sir, the man insisted upon the stakes. We merely obliged him.”

  Mr. Mornay shook himself free and replied cooly, “Do that again, and I’ll hang you by the tails of your coat.” His voice had reverted to smooth-as-silk venom, and had its usual effect. Mr. Whipplehead quickly retreated behind Alvanley, who said, “Give it up, gentlemen. We’re not for it.”

  The two men shook their heads and turned back to resume their game.

  Alvanley smiled at Mornay. “Good to see you’re not all changed, Phillip.”

  Mr. Mornay said nothing, but thought suddenly that he should see what Ariana was up to. He headed to the ballroom where he looked around but did not find her. He asked the viscountess of her whereabouts.

  “Oh, but Mr. Mornay!” she said, with a look of shock. “I was given to understand that you had decided to take her elsewhere! I thought the two of you had gone!”

  His eyes narrowed. “Given to understand by whom?”

  She thought for a moment. “I think it was... it was... oh, dear.” She turned to the viscount, “My dear, what was the name of that young man who said he must take Miss Forsythe to Mr. Mornay?”

  “What? The tall young blade?”

  “Yes, the young man with the light hair, do you not recall?”

  Mr. Mornay, about ready to pop a button off his beautiful embroidered waistcoat, held his temper in check while he listened. But he clenched his fists with the effort.

  The viscount, meanwhile, was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, I know that boy.”

  “Yes, of course you know him,” she said, giving Mr. Mornay a nervous glance.

  “Wants to go into the church, don’t he?”

  “That’s it! The viscountess looked enlightened. She turned to Mr. Mornay with a reassuring smil
e.

  Mr. O’Brien. I remember now. His mother has another son, I believe, in the navy. We just talked of it tonight.” But her words trailed off, because Mr. Mornay had gone as soon as the name of Mr. O’Brien had left her mouth, and she was left speaking only to her husband.

  “I hope I did nothing amiss in handing her to Mr. O’Brien. He seemed such an agreeable and gentlemanlike sort of man.”

  Mr. Mornay resumed his search, questioning the footmen nearest the doors. One of them offered the information that a young woman of Ariana’s description had left the house in company with a tall, light-haired gentleman, not five minutes earlier.

  With a severe countenance he went directly to the street, hoping to catch her with that addlepated youth before they could go elsewhere.

  Out on the street, a few grooms and a passerby were huddled around something on the pavement. As he sent a boy to bring round his equipage, he caught a glance at the something. It was a man, and he was lying on the ground unconscious. For a moment he wanted to ignore this and go in pursuit of his wayward bride-to-be, but a tug on his conscience made him go and inspect the unfortunate lying there. If nothing else, he’d have footmen get him into the house where he’d be safe from thieves and hoodlums.

  The huddle of onlookers gave way for Mr. Mornay to get nearer the victim, and one man supplied the information that an officer had been sent for. Mornay nodded, and bent to take a good look at the poor bloke. He froze in horror for a second. It was O’Brien. A quick look around assured him that Ariana had not been reduced to the same condition, but where was she? Here was Mr. O’Brien, the man last seen with his beloved, lying unconscious on the pavement—and no sight or sign of Ariana.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lord Antoine and Mr. Harold Chesley had arrived at Burton Crescent for the Herley’s card party just in time to see Mr. Mornay and Miss Forsythe leave in his coach. Mr. Mornay saw the young men as they alit from the hackney, recognizing Mr. Chesley. Their eyes met, but Chesley knew better than to hope for a greeting from the Paragon. He averted his gaze and continued up to the house with Antoine, who stared at the Paragon and had caught a glimpse of the beautiful Miss Forsythe—and couldn’t help feeling a little fascination.