The House in Grosvenor Square

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “I want two of your best footmen outside her chamber door.”

  “I just sent two men off with Mr. Pellham—to see him safely home. He stayed here with me all this time—we prayed that Ariana would be safe—”

  “In that case, I must take her to Grosvenor Square,” he interjected.

  “Your house? Whatever for?”

  “For safety. With two of your men gone, and those who would harm her at large, I dare not risk another opportunity for them to lay hands on her.”

  “Sir, this house is every bit as safe,” she began, but her tone was weak even to her own ears. Ariana’s abduction had been a terrible fright for her, and she wasn’t feeling strong. But she raised a reasonable argument: “The servants would be thoroughly scandalized, I assure you. We can have no such thing. She is safe enough here.”

  “I cannot agree.” His look was calm, but firm. “There is nothing of consequence that can prevent her coming with me. Any reasonable person must see the wisdom in my wishing to keep her beneath my own roof under the circumstances.”

  But even Ariana did not think it proper. “It won’t answer, sir. I cannot stay at your house. I am astonished that you of all people should think it possible—”

  He turned her to face him fully. “Our wedding is in four days. I will remain in the servant’s quarters if I must, but you can and shall come to my house. Indeed, the more I think on it, I am astonished it did not occur to me, sooner.”

  She reflected on his words for a moment. “Four days. I can promise to keep to the house since you feel this strongly about it.”

  “No, I realize I suggested that earlier, but it won’t answer.”

  Ariana was tired and had no will to argue further. She saw he was determined to have his way. Mrs. Bentley said, “She will go later, when I can find a chaperon who can stay with her at your house.”

  “Why do you not chaperon her?” he asked.

  Mrs. Bentley blinked at him. “I am not well after this vexatious night, worrying over Ariana, not knowing what might befall her! I cannot abandon my house in this condition. I can only be comfortable in my own bed, I am sorry to say.”

  He looked at Ariana. “Shall we send for Miss Herley?” Remembering that he knew full well that the Herleys were in possession of two items that may have come from his house made her gratitude to him swell to a billowing peak of affection.

  “I love you!” she responded. He kissed her nose. Mrs. Bentley blinked. She had missed something of that exchange, she was sure of it. How could sending for Miss Herley have elicited such a response?

  He turned to Mrs. Bentley.

  “Thatʼs it, then. I will leave it to you to send for her friend, while I get Ariana settled in my house.”

  “YOU get her settled? I should think not!” She turned and strode to the bellpull and gave it a few good yanks. “I will send two maids with you. Harrietta is out for the day; she slept at her sister’s house last night, but at least I’ll know my niece has my own servants for chaperons.”

  “I can have my housekeeper stationed outside her door,” said Mr. Mornay irritably, for he was out of patience and wished to move things along.

  “Your housekeeper? Sir, there is no one who would accept the word of your own servant in a matter such as this. That will not answer! You must take two of our maids to stay with her.”

  “I have adequate servants—” he started to say, but Mrs. Bentley took the extraordinary measure of interrupting him.

  “If these men find that Ariana is at your house, will it not prove as easy to waylay her at some hour there, as here?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I live there.”

  It took courage, but Mrs. Bentley persisted, “But you will not be at home always.”

  “I will never leave her without a proper guard. I have more men in my household than you. “

  Ariana quipped, sleepily, “I feel as though I were the crown jewels.”

  Mr. Mornay looked at her, and his eyes softened. “You are much more valuable than they.” To Mrs. Bentley he added, “No one will expect me to take her beneath my own roof, as you have already perceived. Therefore it stands that she is safer there.”

  Mrs. Bentley had one last qualm. “I feel this arrangement is too likely to spawn rumours and suspicions!”

  “I don’t care a fig about rumours!” stated Ariana.

  Mr. Mornay met the eyes of the old lady, who cried, wide-eyed, “I am responsible for her!”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You are not yet her husband, sir!”

  “Then send for Mr. Hodgson this moment, and I shall be. He is number 15, Grosvenor Street.”

  This alarmed the lady. Mr. Hodgson was the rector of St.George’s. “There is no need for that!” Her look changed. “You will wait four more days, sir. And you will behave yourself if she is beneath your roof!”

  Mrs. Bentley sounded so severe that Mr. Mornay, who never minded when other people gave him a comb, had to smile ever so slightly.

  “You have my word.”

  Taking her hand, Mr. Mornay led Ariana from the house and into his carriage. The coachman had fallen asleep atop the board and had to be awakened. And then two maids came rushing out holding onto their caps, and with small valises. They stowed the luggage and jumped on back the board for the short drive.

  Mr. Mornay gave a sigh of relief and settled back to allow his weary future bride to rest against him. He allowed his hand the liberty of running through the strands of her hair which had come free during the evening. He let the loose strands fall between his fingers, and then slipped his arm back around her shoulders. The strangest feeling came over him, the most unusual thing, and for a few seconds he did not know what to make of it. What was happening to him? He didn’t recognize the emotion welling up. It filled his throat, it almost choked him. And then, just as he realized what the feeling was, the evidence landed on his face as a single tear fell.

  He’d nearly lost Ariana. Lost her! She might have been hurt, abused, possibly murdered! He thought of his new faith in God, and questions flew at him. Why had God allowed this to happen? Why had he got along just fine for nigh three decades with no need for a woman like Ariana, only now to be utterly shaken at thought of losing her? Was he growing weak as he aged? He blinked away the water in his eyes. Perhaps he was tired?

  No, it was more than that. Dashed if he wasn’t a love-sick puppy! He drew Ariana closer against him. She, half-asleep, smiled weakly.

  Inside the house, as he gave orders and escorted his love to the guest bedchamber, Mr. Mornay was all the time struck with a sense of vulnerability. He was almost sick with the thought of what might have happened to her. He’d been too busy to give thought to these feelings earlier, or he’d have been utterly useless! He felt as if he’d suffered a severe blow, and what was it? That just as when he was young, he was at the mercy of the love he felt for someone. For Ariana. It was a terrible feeling. Yet, she was safely beneath his roof. That was some comfort.

  It was a blow to see himself for what he really was. Not the cavalier Paragon, the confident society favorite. Not the friend of the prince without a care whom he offended—no, this man was vulnerable. This man loved deeply. And it was daunting.

  This was the man who had folded like a house of cards years before when he’d lost his family—father, brother, mother—within eighteen months. The man who had tried to swallow the pain and get on with life, only to find that in denying his grief and rage, he was rapidly losing his interest in all humanity. He made quick work of most people, deciding in seconds whether to give them his time or not, or whether they would bore, tire, or exasperate him.

  To his own surprise, his increasing irascibility had the uncanny effect of enlarging his reputation and consequence among the ton. Strange, indeed, as he had neither sought their approval, or took pains to preserve it, once given. This too only added to his aura. Couple that with a natural fastidiousness in dress and a figure pe
ople insisted upon calling handsome, and it resulted in his being the Paragon. Once spoken—and no one knew who said it first—the label stuck.

  For years he had lived this way. When he was in the mood, he spent the night about town, visiting Carlton House or other aristocratic dwellings and engaging in a bit of gaming and a bit—a very little bit—of port or other wine. He could spend evenings going from house to house in this manner—remaining long at none, giving few his attention, perhaps enjoying bantering here or there. Hostesses were delighted by his appearance and he enjoyed the greatest attentions from them, the best of everything they had to offer. And at times they offered everything.

  He didn’t know what it was which had kept him from succumbing to their offers. Or what it was which sent him to hire a hansom, if need be, to remove himself from a neighborhood where his companions had taken him and were intent on enjoying the company of light-skirts. He had a disgust of loose women. This was perhaps the best result of his teenage tragical romance with Miss Larkin. It had led him to disavow women for so long, which kept him unwittingly and unpurposefully pure for Ariana.

  He was glad now that he had not dallied with other women. Somehow it made his attachment to Ariana, this precious one beneath his roof, all the more precious. Whenever the thought assailed him that he might have lost her, that same awful feeling filled him, tightening his throat, and making him blink. He pictured Wingate, that reprobate aristocrat, impoverished in mind and pocket, and thought of what he could do to rid himself of that menace.

  No one must endanger Ariana. Least of all a dissolute, reckless peer with a grudge. He’d have him locked up and kept for trial. Hopefully he’d be sentenced to transportation. Hanging would be better yet, but it was seldom done for a peer unless treason could be proved. Yes, transportation—and only permanent transport—say, to Botany Bay, would answer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mr. Mornay could not quite come to grips with himself enough to sleep until he checked on his guest. One of the maids jumped at his knock and came towards him.

  “Is she asleep?” he asked. The girl looked back towards the bed, and Mr. Mornay followed her gaze. He nodded at the maid, who went softly to the chair she’d been resting upon across the room in a sitting area. He stopped beside the bed and peered down at Ariana, whose hair had been let down. She wore a simple night cap and a ruffled nightdress reached her neck, framing her face. Every fiber of his being needed to protect her, to settle this disquiet in his being. After the wedding he’d take her from London and she’d be safe, but there was still six days before the ceremony. Or was it only five, now? He couldn’t even think straight.

  What if he couldn’t find Wingate? What if Whiddington’s information as to the man’s whereabouts was false? While he mulled over these thoughts, Ariana stirred and eyed him sleepily.

  “Why do you look unhappy? I am safe, now.”

  He started as if wakened from a reverie, and then bent down to place a kiss on her forehead. The darkened room did not conceal the worried shadow across his face.

  She came more awake. What had brought him to her bedside? “Is something wrong?” When he looked away, his visage unreadable, she whispered fiercely, “Has something happened?” She started to rise from beneath the covers, but he said, “No, no, I promise you.” But the unusual hardness she saw in his face belied his words.

  “Do tell me what ails you, then. It is something, I can see it.”

  He stared down at her for a long moment or two. “I might have lost you.” He hated the weakness in himself which had produced an actual tear, earlier. She reached for his hand and held it tightly.

  “But you didn’t.” He returned the hard grip on her hand. She murmured, “I love you, my dear Mornay. And you must know I never doubted of my deliverance.”

  This surprised him. “Did you not?”

  She shook her head. “At moments, perhaps. But I felt God’s presence. It kept me from hysterics, I am certain.”

  “I wish I could have felt it thus.”

  “You are still new to the life of faith; it is for times such as this when our practice of knowing God, our familiarity with his Spirit can give us hope and strength. In time you will experience Him more and know the Scriptures so that remembering them can strengthen and comfort you.”

  Her words encouraged him. He took a tender leave of her, and instructed the maids not to leave Miss Forsythe alone for a single moment. He appointed two footmen outside the chamber door as well, and sent a servant to tell Mrs. Hamilton to stay with Ariana from the moment she arose. Outside the sun was rising, but the thick drapery did an admirable job of making the bedchambers as dark as possible.

  Ariana fell back into an exhausted sleep. The maids stretched their legs, and tried to rest as well. Phillip, unfortunately, could not.

  He was sorely tired, but he fell to pacing, considering his next move. He couldn’t possibly appoint more people to guard his beloved, but he remembered that Miss Herley was still to come, and realized he needed to question her. What were the young woman’s feelings regarding Lord Antoine? Had he inadvertently prevented a love match? He would wait for her arrival, speak with her, and then search out the arrogant marquis.

  Lord Wingate was furious. Whiddington and Blighter had disappeared with his coach, and now he had no help, no equipage and no Miss Forsythe. So when he came upon his brother the following morning in The Black Stag near St. Giles, he was in a thoroughly foul mood. Antoine, on the contrary, had been admitted to Miss Herley’s house the prior evening and was in a remarkably amiable frame of mind. Because he had accompanied Mr. Chesley, a family friend, Lavinia’s parents did not wish to insult the man by barring his companion from the party.

  His contact with Miss Herley had been sufficient so that he was assured of her unchanged feelings concerning him. He had, in turn, been able to make such small gestures and statements to her so that she too could be in little doubt of where his sentiments lay.

  Lord Wingate was too sensible of his recent disappointments to be much aware of his brother’s good spirits. “I’ll kill those worthless culls the moment I lay eyes on ‘em,” he hissed, after ordering a pint of ale. “They’re dead men, both of ‘em, and if you happen to lay your clappers on them before I do, then the job falls to you to do the business, Antoine.”

  The young lord said nothing, and there was no indication from his expression to give a clue to his feelings on the matter.

  “In fact,” Lord Wingate continued, “I need your help to find a new carriage. I’ve no time to lose—that wedding is in five days!” When there was still no reply he added in an acid tone, “If you’d gone along as I suggested I would have entirely better prospects today.”

  “I had other business,” Holliwell said, simply.

  “But you are acquainted with Miss Forsythe, and could have lulled her into compliance.”

  “I have no intention of lulling Miss Forsythe”—he lowered his voice and looked around to see if anyone was listening and continued, “or any other lady, to comply with your schemes.”

  “It is your bloody honour we are supposed to be defending, and your lost bride we are avenging!”

  Holliwell turned in his seat to face his brother. “If it is only on my account that we are abducting a lady of quality from a man of great influence and means, then why is it so deuced important to you?”

  Lord Wingate shrugged. “I suppose I’ve nothing better to do now that we’re both ruined and nigh well without a feather to fly on!” His appearance was stark evidence that his circumstances had been accurately described. His face, though of a handsome cut, was unshaven and unhealthy looking, and his clothing only a remnant of the finery it was.

  “You’ve been ruined for years and managed to get along. I’ve had second thoughts, sir. It is perhaps providential (if I have the slightest claim to providence) that your plan was blocked up last night. I saw Miss Herley, and my hopes are high in her regard. I am determined to have nothing more to do with knavery or sm
uggling or abducting a lady, or any other of your scatter-brained attempts to make a fortune. They never work, Julian! And if you’re taken in this, you’ll climb the ladder for it.”

  Lord Wingate’s steely grey eyes narrowed. “They’d never hang me.” He came to his feet, paced a little ways and then returned, taking the chair and coming down on it so that his arms rested atop the back, and his legs straddled the sides. He rested cold eyes upon his brother that glinted in the light filtering in through the grimy windows. “See here, Antoine. I mean to finish this. I will have revenge, and I will exact enough money from Mornay to get myself—and you, too—out of this rat’s hole we’ve dug for ourselves. Do you hear? We are noblemen of the realm, and we are not going to live out our lives in this flea-ridden ‘holy ground.’ Do you understand?”

  Holliwell heard him out, and then turned deliberately away to face his pint. Wingate shot up from the chair, and came at Antoine, who jumped to his feet. They scuffled with each other, and Julian pushed his brother so that he had him against a wall. Others in the room made sure to be out of their way, but no one seemed to think they ought to interfere. The fight was looked upon as nothing to be surprised at.

  Antoine had his back to the wall, but he hissed, “You listen to me, brother! I understand that we are depraved and deserve what we’ve created for ourselves, utterly and entirely!” His eyes were equally as fierce as his elder brother’s, and his nose flared, giving him an almost heroic look. “Miss Forsythe is Miss Herley’s dearest friend. I will not have a hand in bringing her harm! It would ruin any chance I have to win Lavinia, and I have no interest in causing such distress to a lady!”

  “You’re a dashed coward!” Julian released him and snickered, causing Antoine to glower and his nose to flare again. “I don’t mean to harm the lady as long as Mornay comes through with the blunt. And what’s more, you don’t stand a chance to win Miss Herley! Mornay called your bluff there. When will you cease to be so bottle-headed and realize when the game’s up? You’ve become a lily-liver!”