The House in Grosvenor Square

by Linore Rose Burkard

  His recent repentance of the plan to abduct the lady had only strengthened the more he thought on it. He was now above certain he could never take part in such a harebrained scheme. It was too serious an offense for his liking. Indeed, he had no stomach at all for terrifying innocent ladies.

  Earlier he had commiserated over his brother’s knavish plans with Chesley at White’s, after the two gentlemen had been smuggled into the club by a member in good standing—a thing neither of the young men could claim to enjoy. Chesley had cried, “Bravo! It’s time someone gave Mornay his comeuppance! So long as you don’t injure the lady, that is.” He took a deep draught of ale and added, “If I may serve in the business, do avail yourself of me at once.”

  Mr. Chesley had not understood that Lord Antoine was washing his hands of it. But his friend’s vehemence interested him. “What’s your complaint against Mornay?”

  Chesley paused, taking a thoughtful moment while he swallowed a mouthful of ale. “My argument concerns the lady. I detest that she has accepted him. I detest him. I will gladly help in any scheme against him. As long as Miss Forsythe remains in ignorance of my hand in it, o’course.”

  Holliwell nodded. He would keep his own determination—of having done with the business—to himself. He still liked Chesley, though. He was an amusing chap and a generous friend. More, Chesley had the connexion that had got them into Whites’—by himself Lord Antoine would be turned away at the door. He enjoyed being in the prestigious establishment, even if it was on the sly.

  Ariana clutched the seat in the thread-bare coach that was bulleting through the streets of London, heading, it appeared, toward the East End. She stared at her abductor, wondering how to attempt an escape. He was unshaven and scraggly, dressed in coarse clothing and wide black boots, and with a gristly beard covering his face. His look was not promising, but she was crying more on account of the terrible sight, fresh in her mind, of Mr. O’Brien being struck on the head right in front of her! Had he been mortally wounded? How had it all happened so quickly? And why?

  Only minutes ago she had been at a glittering ball, enjoying herself quite satisfactorily and chatting with the viscountess. Then Mr. O’Brien approached her with the startling news that he’d been sent by Mr. Mornay to return her to Hanover Square. We have only just arrived! she thought. And, how odd that he would send Mr. O’Brien as his emissary.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, politely. “But let me speak to Mr. Mornay and understand this request.”

  But Mr. O’Brien pleaded so eloquently, “I pray you, Miss Forsythe, to allow me the honour of being of service to Mr. Mornay. As you know, he and I have never been friends but he has elected to trust me in this, and I have every hope of pleasing him in it. It will constitute an excellent foundation for us to improve our acquaintance. I beg you, therefore, to allow me to do this little favour for your esteemed future husband—I am gratified that he has asked it of me.”

  How could she refuse? She was starkly disappointed that her beloved was sending her home, however, and her mind filled with questions. Was it on account of her complaint of having the headache? Did he want her out of the way so he could spend his evening at cards without a qualm? Why hadn’t he troubled himself to speak to her directly? Had it come to this, already, and they, not even married, yet?

  She finally decided that, as unusual a summons as it was, Mr. O’Brien would never have invented it, so it had to be Phillip’s wish. Thinking thus, she questioned the matter no further, but sent word to Mrs. Bentley (who was enjoying society like never before with Mr. Pellham by her side) so she would be aware of her departure.

  Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Bentley might have questioned this news. She might even have sought out Mr. Mornay to see what was what. But with her hand on Mr. Pellham’s arm, and he so cleverly leading a small circle of her friends in a discussion of the Orient and amusing them with anecdotes gleaned from his travel books, she could only manage to nod when she heard the report. She thought, If Ariana is agreeable to the idea, then I shan’t raise a dust. Her only worry was that the girl might have taken ill. Why else would she be leaving so early?

  The viscountess had given her approval because if Mr. Mornay wanted a thing done, it must be accomplished. She came away with the misunderstanding that Ariana was to join Mr. Mornay in leaving the party, as such things were bound to occur when the rooms were full, and the hearing of the lady in question compromised as hers unfortunately was.

  On the street, where a shabby black coach waited and a strange servant let down the steps, Ariana came to a halt. “This is not Mr. Mornay’s equipage!”

  The appearance of the coach made him sure, even as she spoke, that she was undoubtedly right. Unlike Mornay’s gleaming black coach of the first water, this sorry-looking vehicle was old and weathered. It filled him with confusion. He had no sooner taken Miss Forsythe by the elbow to turn her back to the house when something very hard came down upon his head, and he fell to the pavement like one dead. Ariana let out a shriek but her mouth was quickly muffled by a pair of strong hands. She was lifted into the carriage, the door hastily shut, and the equipage took off post-haste. She was not released until they had gone a few streets away, upon which she darted away from her captor, taking a seat nearest the door and as far away from him as possible. There she sat staring at him through teary eyes, and wondering what her next move ought to be.

  “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

  The man looked at her unconcernedly. “Nowt. I don’t want nowt at all with ye.” A Yorkshireman, she thought with surprise. He had very messy long hair, a sloppy hat that sat upon his head at an odd angle, and a patched overcoat. He calmly and carefully placed a pistol on his knee, and said, “Be a good lass, and ye’ll nowt get ‘urt.” He turned a crooked smile her way, revealing nasty-looking dark teeth. He wore a pair of ragged mitts on his hands, and his boots were mud-encased. His coat looked two sizes too large and had enormous pockets. Ariana remembered hearing tales of pickpockets and thieves who wore such garments to hide their stolen treasures within to escape detection.

  “If you want nothing, then why am I here?” she demanded. Her feeling of horror at what had befallen Mr. O’Brien, coupled with the unspeakable manhandling that had landed her in this predicament gave her voice an uncustomary hard edge.

  He eyed her, seemingly amused. “Ye’re wanted, my good lass, but I don’t ken what fer. It’s five bob to me, that’s what. That’s all.”

  She eyed him doubtfully. “You’re being paid five pounds to—to abduct me? Is that all?”

  With surprise that she hadn’t already understood that clearly, he said, “That’s it, right an’ tight! Jes’ doin’ me job.”

  “Your job? Do you mean, you do this for a living?”

  “I do what ah has to do, luv! No more’n no less.”

  She gripped the seat as the vehicle swung around a bend in the road. They were leaving the West End, and with a little shudder at what might lie ahead, Ariana gave her full attention to reasoning with this man, who seemed, in his own queer way, to be reasonable.

  “My good man,” she began, leaning forward to speak with all the earnestness she could muster, but stopped in surprise when he burst out in a giggle.

  “Ah, that’s ripe!” he smirked. “Me, a good man!”

  Ariana’s lips pursed in impatience. “What I mean to say,” she inserted loudly, “is that I can offer you more than five pounds. I can give you twice that amount—if you turn this equipage around and deliver me to safety.”

  This got his attention, and he raised his head with interest.

  “Ten bob?” he asked, with a strange gleam in his eye.

  “Make it twenty,” she said, in case he was not impressed already.

  “Twenty bob! Do ye have it on ye?” He eyed her suspiciously.

  “No, but I give you my word that I will get it to you at once, if you deliver me.”

  He scratched his head, pulled a dirty rag from one of his pockets an
d began wiping the pistol. He worked in no hurry. “I tell ye, luv, if I only could, I would take yer twenty bob.” He looked at her fully, then. “A pretty lass as ye are, I would take it if I could. Mores the pity, then, but I cain’t. It would be ma life for it, luv.”

  “Why on earth do you say that?”

  He smirked. “It’s that Wingate fellow. A right lord ‘e is, but there ain’t nothin’ lordly about him, s’far as I can tell.” His face took on a look of outrage and he put the gun down and cried , “E’s a right murderous blood, ‘e is!” He looked at her as if she must certainly understand this. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Nay, it’s five quid for ol’ Whiddington, no more’n no less.”

  Ariana felt a surge of alarm. Lord Wingate was a man of terrible reputation, known for running up huge gaming debts, drunkenness, and a life of such debauchery that even the jaded ton had disowned him. For a titled gentleman—a marquess—to earn this judgment had to mean his conduct had been reprehensible to the extreme.

  In addition, and this is what gave her especial pause, was that Lord Wingate’s younger brother Lord Antoine Holliwell had been forming an acquaintance with Lavinia. Miss Herley had hinted that this acquaintance might end in an event, but Mr. Mornay had put an abrupt end to it by revealing to her family his lordship’s true character, which was little better than his elder brother’s. Could her abduction be their revenge for interfering with the man’s hopes? The Herleys were not known for having a fortune, and so this seemed unlikely. Yet, what else could explain it?

  “Mr. Whiddington—that is your name, is it not?”

  He frowned. “Did ah say that? Ay, I’m a right pudding’ead! Jes’ forget that name, luv! It’ll do ye nowt good! I’m nowt the one what’s out fer ye. It’s that Wingate what wants ye, ‘e does.”

  The coach stopped suddenly, having encountered a narrow street and needing to make way for an oncoming vehicle. Ariana, without even thinking about it, jumped toward the door and yanked at the handle, but Mr. Whiddington was on her at once. He took her strongly by the arms and forced her back to her seat, saying, “Nay, luv, cain’t let ye do that! Ye wouldn’ want ol’ Whiddington to face a bullet, now, would ye?”

  The coach started off again, but Ariana, suddenly teary-eyed, said, “But you will hand me over to Lord—Lord Wingate, who is a murderous blood! I may well be facing a bullet, and it will be on your head!”

  Back on Curzon Street, Mr. Mornay came to his senses rapidly, bent down and checked that O’Brien was alive. Thank God, he was. He pulled at his coat lapels, bringing him to a sitting position. “Where is Miss Forsythe?” he asked sharply, though the young man’s eyes were still shut.

  Mr. O’Brien emitted a low moan, and moved his head slightly. Mr. Mornay shook him gently, hoping to wake him but not hurt him. His moaning grew louder.

  “Come out of it, O’Brien! Where is Miss Forsythe?”

  The young man’s face creased in thought and he put one hand to his aching head. “What? What happened?” he asked.

  “Ariana! Where is she?”

  This brought him to and he sat up abruptly, though in a great deal of pain. Holding one hand to his aching head, he drew it away and saw blood. His face took on a grave demeanour, but Mr. Mornay was at the end of his patience.

  He lifted Mr. O’Brien so that their faces were not far apart. “Tell me where Ariana is, or I’ll give you more to moan about!”

  Startled, Mr. O’Brien blinked in surprise. Everything came rushing back. “She was taken! In a coach! It wasn’t yours; it was, eh, rather shabby, but I don’t know whose it was.”

  “What do you mean, it wasn’t mine? Of course it wasn’t mine!”

  “Did you not ask me to escort Miss Forsythe home? I was told that you wanted me to escort her to the house; that you were sending your coach to convey us.” Mr. Mornay’s brows rose considerably.

  “Why on earth would I do that, you addlepate? You were told by whom?”

  O’Brien grimaced. “Not sure; Goodby was his name, I think. Mr. Goodby.”

  Phillip looked thoughtful and let him go, thinking hard. Mr. O’Brien had regained his senses enough to assess his condition and tried to get up, the throbbing in his head notwithstanding. Mornay’s coach pulled up then, and his groom hopped to the ready, lowering the steps. Mornay turned to him. “Did you see what happened?”

  “No, sir. I ‘eard a commotion but when I got round to see, I just saw a coach movin’ off. The whip said somethin’ was astir, sir.”

  The master went to speak to his driver. Mr. O’Brien staggered to his feet.

  “Can you follow it, do you think?” Mr. Mornay was asking the man atop the board. “Good. On the double.”

  Ignoring O’Brien’s presence, he made immediately for the door of the carriage, but just then Lord Alvanley—top hat, tailcoat, gloves and cane in hand—came out of the house. Mr. Mornay realized another hand might be needed. He gave way for a moment to his worst fears, and yelled,

  “Alvanley, there’s trouble, and I need a hand. Come with me.”

  His lordship saw that he was in earnest, and hurried over. “Dash it, Mornay, I’m just headin’ to White’s!”

  Mr. Mornay saw O’Brien staggering unsteadily towards him from the corner of his eye, and this, more than anything, made him feel the very life of his love might be at stake. He took Alvanley as roughly by the lapels of his very fine coat, as he had Mr. O’Brien by his moments earlier. All thoughts of not making a cake of himself were forgotten.

  “I say, Phillip! You’ve no call to—!”

  “I need your help. You’re coming with me. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  He hurried the man into his coach, feeling he’d already wasted too much time. Two other peers of the realm came out of the house just in time to witness that singular sight of Mornay accosting Alvanley. They exchanged looks of astonished delight. Getting to see Mornay in one of his tempers was considered a treat—so long as you were not the one at the receiving end.

  Mr. O’Brien was in no condition for heroics, but he hurried to follow the men, preventing the groom from putting up the steps momentarily. He felt responsible for the disaster which may have befallen the angel—er, Miss Forsythe—and he wanted to be available, by all means, to do aught he could to rectify the situation. No matter that his head throbbed and bled. He was about to sacrifice a perfectly good handkerchief to stop the bleeding and hoped it would work.

  “What the devil has got into you?” Alvanley fumed, trying to rearrange his disheveled attire.

  “Look what you’ve done to my coat! And I warrant my cravat needs tyin’ again! And where the deuce are you takin’ me?”

  “Be quiet, you imbecile, and listen a moment. Miss Forsythe has been abducted just now.”

  “What! No such thing!”

  “Yes!”

  “And I’ve got the blood to prove it,” put in Mr. O’Brien, holding out his bloodstained handkerchief for Alvanley to inspect. The man took one look and held his head back in repugnance. But his tone of indignation vanished. “Lud! What happened?”

  Mr. O’Brien told the painful story of what had happened as far as he knew it. That he had been standing around at the ball when a man approached him. He introduced himself as Mr. Goodby and continued on with a great deal of gratifying apologies for taking the enormous presumption to make his own introduction, but that it must be acceptable inasmuch as Mr. Mornay had required it of him. “He asked, in fact, if I would do Mr. Mornay a favour.”

  At this, Mornay glared at him. Mr. O’Brien cleared his throat. “Of course I was surprised that you would ask anything of me, and I should have questioned it, I suppose.”

  “Indeed,” he replied heavily.

  “I daresay I was pleased to be of service to you, sir, as wel

  as Miss Forsythe, which is precisely what I told Mr. Goodby. As a friend of Miss Forsythe’s—”

  “Get on with it,” Mornay interjected impatiently.

  “Mr. Goodby said, ‘It seems Mo
rnay has joined a fast game and wants to finish it, but he don’t relish having his bride-to-be alone out here. He begs to know, if you would be so kind, Mr. O’Brien, as to escort the angel home.’” He looked about at the men. “I should have known it was a havey cavey business, I daresay—”

  “Get on with it, sir!”

  “He said, ‘What’ll it be, lad? Will you oblige Mr. Mornay?’” He shook his head. “I asked, ‘Are you seriously suggesting that Mr. Mornay would want me to escort Miss Forsythe to her house?’ and I pointed out that she was hardly alone.

  “Well, she ain’t with him, an’ he knows you’re a friend of the family, sir!”

  “Yes, I am.” He flicked an apologetic glance at Mornay, but the man was busily scanning the streets as they passed, watching for any clue to his beloved’s disappearance. “He told me you had sent for your coach.” Mr. O’Brien recalled the innocent expression on the man as he added, “Now, may I tell Mornay that you are happy to be of assistance? Or should I say that Mr. O’Brien is unwilling to oblige? If ye’re unwilling, sir, best say it now, so’s I can pass on the tidings. What’ll it be, m’boy, eh?” With a confidential air he had leaned in towards Mr. O’Brien. “Here’s your chance to get in ‘is good graces, y’know. Not likely to have a better one! I advise you to take it right off, sir, and give the man a reason to be in your debt, eh?”

  That had clinched it. The idea of Mr. Mornay coming forward to thank him was irresistible bait, and suddenly Mr. O’Brien was agreeable to the idea. He sought out Ariana, letting it be known that he had been commissioned by her betrothed himself to take her home.

  He admitted that she had not been enthusiastic to the idea, but had no wish to displease her betrothed. He finished the story; how the wrong coach had appeared and how everything had gone black directly following the whopping blow to his head. He touched it gingerly, feeling the wet blood on his hair, and reapplied his handkerchief.