He was considering whether to notify the Lord Mayor when men started arriving. He had sent a cordial to his mistress and ordered a bracing breakfast of cold meats and coffee for her, but soon the ground floor sitting room was bustling with officials. Mr. Mornay and the doctor, Mr. Peabanks, arrived first. More food was ordered and set out on the sideboard. It was picked upon by the assembled personages and finished off neatly in no time.
Mr. Pellham, dear soul, had been reading his newspaper. When word arrived from Hanover Square, he knew only that Mrs. Bentley was unwell and required his presence. He flew into a frightful discomposure. What was her complaint? How long had she been ill? Had the doctor been sent for? The footman knew there’d been trouble, but had no answers to these questions, so that Mr. Pellham barely had a moment to locate his snuff box and shove it into a waistcoat pocket before hurrying from his house with a great deal of worry on his brow.
He made his way as quickly as his legs and cane would allow but grew more alarmed when he caught sight of several of Mrs. Bentley’s servants scurrying in all directions. Perchance his love was dying! His breath came swiftly and a sweat broke out on his head and neck. Mr. Pellham was not a man given to over much fretting, but he was certainly fretting now.
Breathing heavily, he finally reached the house. Haines, with a concerned look, took him directly to the sitting room. When Mr. Pellham saw that Mrs. Bentley was in the ground floor sitting room, this strange happenstance only added to his fears. He turned to Haines: “Will she make it, do you think?”
Haines raised his brows in surprise. “Do you mean, Miss Herley?”
“Miss Herley? Why would I mean Miss Herley? I mean your mistress, of course.”
“Mrs. Bentley was unharmed, sir.”
“Unharmed? Is she ill, or isn’t she? Why was I sent for, man, if she is unharmed, or not ailing?”
“Oh, she is ailing, sir. I daresay you will be a great comfort to her.”
Mr. Pellham was no fool, but he could make neither heads nor tails out of the conversation. He looked at Haines evenly. “Open the door, Haines.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Pellham hurried to the side of the languishing lady, whose wrist was being held up by the physician as he counted her pulse. “My dear Mrs. B, whatever is the matter?”
“Oh, Mr. Pellham! Thank God you are come! Such goings-on! You will not believe your ears!” In the ensuing minutes, he patted her free hand often while she poured out her tale of woe. Mr. Mornay had come in, trailed by the constable, the beadle, a watchman and an officer—all of whom took the opportunity of overhearing the detailed account—so that they all understood what had happened.
Mornay was able to supply the further information that Lord Wingate was definitely behind the abduction and that his brother Lord Antoine might also be involved. He quickly related all that had happened on the previous evening with Miss Forsythe.
One or two of the men were familiar with the names of Wingate and Holliwell, and the officer knew them by sight. The brothers were acknowledged to be noted bluffs, scoundrels, blackguards of the first order.
Mrs. Bentley called for the arrest and imprisonment of the impudent ruffians. She was in a rare pet. Seldom had she been so put upon as she had this day. Never had she been forced to endure such brutality! A pistol—right in her face! She had looked down the barrel expecting any second to breathe her last. And she feared to think what Miss Herley must be suffering. Oh, it was unendurable!
The doctor had also listened, allowing the lady to tell her tale, but he stepped forward now.
“Gentlemen, I beg you, allow me to see my patient privately. She must not continue to relive this distressing experience. I daresay you have all received adequate information to begin your investigations into this matter, to recover the unfortunate young lady.” (This elicited a fresh moan from Mrs. Bentley.)
There were murmurs of agreement, and wishes for her recovery, and thanks for her help. Then finally it was only Mr. Peabanks left with the lady and Mr. Pellham.
He prescribed a dose of laudanum, but the patient, though she knew it would help her sleep, was not quite ready for it. She had an illness no doctor could fight. She was sick with the thought that she had sent for Miss Herley only on account of her own selfish refusal to accompany her niece to Grosvenor Square. And harm had befallen the girl simply because Mrs. Bentley didn’t wish to endure the discomfort of staying somewhere other than her own house. She had always preferred to stay in her own home; so much so that she had not visited the Forsythe’s in Chesterton since they’d left London. But this was too vexing. She needed to know that something was being done to recover Lavinia! She needed—oh, what did she need?
She had a sudden thought. “Randolph, please summon a maid for me.”
“Of course, Mrs. B.” He went towards the bellpull.
To the chambermaid who appeared she said, “I need my prayer book. Run to my chamber and get it from the night table near my bed.” She looked at Mr. Peabanks. “Sir, I must have a few minutes with my betrothed.”
He bowed. “Of course, ma’am.” He and went out to the hall where, to his surprise, all the gentlemen who had previously been in the sitting room were now gathered. They were still speaking of the abduction, other crimes of late, what could be done to prevent such things, and who should be in charge of searching for the brothers. Mr. Mornay listened to the talk only long enough to ascertain that action was not going to be swift—unless he did something. He informed the men that he was off to search out Wingate, and left.
His intention was to follow up on Whiddington’s lead, which was that Wingate often stayed at what was called the Holy Ground of St. Giles’parish, where criminal nurseries were common and criminal minds congregated. He hoped the man had been truthful—there were numerous criminal nurseries in the city and without a proper lead, he could search for weeks without ever uncovering Wingate’s hideout—or Miss Herley.
Back in the sitting room, Mrs. Bentley looked plaintively at her future husband. “Randolph, may I ask—may I ask you to pray with me?”
Her voice was greatly subdued of a sudden, and his surprise at the change in her tone was second only to his surprise at her request. But he instantly responded. “Of course, my dear Mrs. B.” And when the maid returned with the little leather book, Mrs. Bentley took it and flipped through the leaves impatiently until she had found the collect she wanted to read. She gave him the book, and Mr. Pellham got heavily to his knees—not so easy as once it was—and there, on the floor beside her where she lay on the couch, he read from its pages quietly and with conviction. When he got to the prayer, Mrs. Bentley closed her eyes. “Hear our prayer, O Lord...”
Afterward, for the first moment since Miss Herley’s abduction, Mrs. Bentley felt an easing of her vexed spirit. A mere prayer could accomplish so much!
“Thank you, Mr. Pellham,” she said, patting his hand affectionately. “I daresay I will be able to get some rest now. I just know that God has heard us!”
“I am inclined to agree with you, Mrs. B,” he said, and he went and dragged a wing chair close to where she lay on the couch. They could both use some rest after such unnerving events.
When Dr. Peabanks had the temerity to knock softly on the door a few minutes later, and, upon hearing no response, quietly enter the room, his expression softened at what he beheld. Mr. Pellham was asleep in a wing chair adjacent to the bed, close enough so that one of his hands still held one of Mrs. Bentley’s. The lady, meanwhile, was asleep on the couch, and both souls looked perfectly peaceful. He left a sample of medicine in case it was needed, and instructions for Haines to call upon him at the first hint that his assistance might be needed.
After Mr. Mornay had gone, Frederick sent for Mrs. Hamilton. She was supposed to keep company with Miss Forsythe, which he understood to mean that she ought to join her future mistress in the guest bedchamber and personally keep her eye on the lady, as the master had wished.
“Mr. Frederick!” she exclaim
ed, after he gave her the orders. “Are you not shocked that Miss Forsythe has agreed to remain beneath the roof of this house before the wedding? And without a proper chaperon? Are you not disappointed in her character, sir?”
Mr. Frederick knew little of the abduction attempt, and he had to admit that expressed thus, Miss Forsythe’s presence in the house did sound rather questionable. But the master surely would not sanction the thing if it were not proper, and he begged to remind her that the young woman did bring two maids with her. He supposed they were companions of a sort, which made her presence more digestible.
“Bless us, she’s gone and brought her own servants already! Did I not warn you, Mr. Frederick, of her intentions? She’ll have us turned out directly, I’ve no doubt! It’s the Draper’s Asylum for me, I fear, for I am nothing but an old, decayed housekeeper.”
Frederick’s face softened, but he had not had the chance to check with the master regarding his future or any of the servants, and he could offer her no consolation.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she whispered in a confidential manner, “if Miss Forsythe turns out the lot of us, now she’s here! She won’t go back to her own house, I assure you. Whatever her pretext is, for coming here, the master, I fear, is sadly deceived in it. I daresay I will find her well and strong, and all this fuss and footmen at the door and myself in the chamber—all for what? For what I ask you? Not for her sake, I warrant! Perhaps our master realizes the thieving that’s gone on has coincided with her visits one time too often, eh? We are to keep an eye on her, indeed! What think you of that?”
Mr. Frederick’s face was troubled. “Mr. Mornay did say not to leave her alone in the house for a second.”
“Just as I say, sir! We must nail down the house now, before she carries off anything more! Trouble, trouble, trouble,” she said, shaking her head.
“But I must think she is ill, Mrs. Hamilton. The master did carry her into the house, you know, in his arms, and she has been asleep since. I daresay she has some malady or illness.”
“He carried her in? That is shocking, Mr. Frederick. Shocking, indeed! I am above certain,” she said, with great feeling, “that our Miss Forsythe may well have been foxed, sir! As I say, she is trouble for this household!”
“Surely not that,” he returned. He was recalling the incident when Mr. Mornay was foxed, and how Miss Forsythe had clearly disapproved of such a state. That was only weeks ago. Could the lady have changed so drastically in character? He doubted it.
“I am afraid the master was quite clear in that he wished you to stay in her chamber with her, nevertheless,” he said, apologetically.
“Humph!” she responded. “I’ll get my shawl and a book. Make no mistake, sir! I will do my duty, for the master’s sake—but not for hers, mind you.” She sniffed loudly. “When is the master to return?”
“Only God knows, Mrs. Hamilton. There was an abduction of a lady who was on her way here with Mrs. Bentley from Hanover Square—he has gone to be of assistance in recovering her, I think.”
“The Master gone to help recover her? Why should he do that, I wonder?” She was shaking her head and she gave Frederick one of her most severely disapproving looks. “It gets worse an’ worse. Nothing but trouble, that’s all we’ve had since Miss Forsythe appeared.”
Frederick merely nodded. “Very good, Mrs. Hamilton.” But when he turned to leave, his face remained troubled, and his thoughts were uncomfortable to the extreme. Was Miss Forsythe’s presence in the house evidence of a loose character? Why would the master wish to wed an impure? And what reason could she have for napping items from the house, when all was soon to be hers? Yet even Mr. Mornay did not trust her enough to let her roam the house alone. Worst of all, was he to lose his situation as butler after serving so long? Would Mr. Mornay, always such a strong and sensible man, give way to Miss Forsythe’s wishes to have her own staff at the expense of his own? And here they had welcomed her with such high expectations! Her sweetness of countenance, her kindnesses, were all for nought. She had no intention, alas, of becoming their mistress!
Chapter Twenty
The man who had abducted Lavinia was giving her an exceedingly strange look. He sat across from her in the carriage with his pistol on his lap, and his brows furrowed. Lavinia’s heart was racing, and she was afraid that she was going to swoon, just as Mrs. Bentley and Ariana had done. But, oh! That would leave her too much at this fellow’s mercy!
“You look different,” he said. “Remove that shawl.”
“Sir?” This was a startling request.
“Remove it, I say!” She hurried to do so, watching him fearfully all the while. When she’d revealed her dark locks, his look changed to anger.
“Who in blazes are you?”
“Miss Herley!”
“Miss Herley!” He seemed struck to the core. “Miss Lavinia Herley?”
She nodded. “And you are Lord Wingate, are you not?”
“Ah, she knows me. Indeed I am.” He started to laugh lightly, but then he turned a terrible eye upon her. “Where is Miss Forsythe?”
“At Grosvenor Square. I was to join her there.”
“Devil take it! Just my luck!” His every word made her jump so that he added, “I have no intention of harming you, so do try to contain yourself.”
“Now that you realize who I am, sir, may I hope that you will release me? There is nothing to gain by me, my family cannot pay you a ransom—”
“Not so fast, Miss Herley—I’ll have to think about this. You may be of use to me, yet. I daresay your friend Miss Forsythe will pay a pretty penny for your safe return.”
“Miss Forsythe has no money of her own,” gasped Lavinia.
“That’s my eye, she doesn’t!” He considered the matter. “But even if she does not, her future husband does. And I hear he has every intention of being exceedingly generous with his new little wife.” They said nothing after that, and Lavinia simply sat there in despair watching the streets go by, and knowing she was being taken further and further from home and safety.
When the carriage slowed to a stop, Lavinia looked out, saw they were on a narrow and dirty street, and started crying. Wingate hissed, “Be quiet, or I promise you, I’ll give you something more to cry about!” Then she heard only whispering as he disembarked and consulted with another man. He looked back in, waved his pistol at her and said, “Come along, then.”
She stood up a little shakily, but when she reached the door and went to step down, Lord Wingate took her forcefully by the arm.
“I know your brother,” she cried, hoping this might soften his manner towards her.
“Of course you do,” he replied, “Antoine is no stranger to the demimonde.”
“The demimonde? But I am, sir!”
“You mean you were,” he said, ominously.
“If you harm or abuse me, you’ll have to answer to him for it.”
By now they were entering a building which smelled strongly of liquor, smoke, and stale perfume. A few women were lounging on sofas and blinked stupidly at her. One look told Lavinia she was in a place of demireps, for sure. The ladies were bedizened with too much face powder, lip colour, tawdry costumes, and cheap-looking jewellery. A man strolled in from a corridor, appearing more properly dressed, but his look at her, settling hungrily on her flesh as though she were a piece of meat to be eaten and enjoyed, turned her blood cold.
A woman greeted Lord Wingate familiarly and gave Miss Herley a smirking look, while from somewhere inside came the sound of coarse laughter. Could this woman not see, Lavinia wondered, that she did not belong there? Could no one see the repulsion and fear on her face? Or was it simply that they did not care?
A certain young man awoke from a drunken sleep on a sofa and saw Lord Wingate moving a woman along. Heavens! It was Lavinia Herley! He came sharply to attention, seeing that she wasn’t happy. He knew Wingate and he recognized the cove with them. His brain clicked—he knew instantly what was up. Dash it, why hadn’t Wingate g
ot Miss Forsythe, as he was supposed to have done?
With an irritated grimace, Mr. Harold Chesley came to his feet, awakening the lady beside him. Before she could protest his leaving, he produced a few coins from a pocket and tossed them to her. He then strode quickly to the door. There was something he had to do.
Mrs. Hamilton dismissed the two maids with Ariana, telling them to go and ask Cook for some food. Happy for the relief, they did so unquestioningly. She took a look at the lady, still asleep—good. Circling the room quickly, she searched it as if looking for something in particular. Then with a final furtive glance at the sleeper, she pocketed a silver snuffer from a table. She went quietly to the door and opened it.
“I’ve remembered something I must do for the master,” she told the two footmen who were standing against the wall but looking at her curiously. “Let no one enter or leave this room. I shall return shortly.”
“Yes, mum.” Mrs. Hamilton disappeared down the hall and went up the servants’ stairs to their sleeping quarters. She went into Molly’s room, deposited the snuffer with the rest of her stash, and returned to the guest bedchamber.
About an hour later, for it had taken him that long to locate Lord Antoine, Chesley plopped down beside him at a small table in one of the many flash houses of the East End. The establishment was known to cater to men who had fallen from grace, those who had started out well but found themselves in “low tide” from one circumstance or another—mostly of their own doing. Mr. Chesley was not, himself, in disgrace. He frequented these houses because it was more affable to his pocketbook. Much more affordable to spend a night gaming here, say, than White’s or Boodleʾs—he simply didn’t have the blunt to compete there, much as he enjoyed those places.
The House in Grosvenor Square Page 22