The House in Grosvenor Square

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Mr. Mornay had frozen for a second, listening. His expression underwent a frightful change. He sprang to action, quickly rounding the settee, and stood there for a moment, his eyes burning with an inner fire that could never be met by anyone with equanimity. Nor did Mr. O’Brien greet it with such, now.

  His hands dropped abruptly, releasing Ariana. She immediately scrambled to her feet, collecting her wits and glaring at the patient there. But then she noticed that Mr. O’Brien’s demeanour had changed completely. Following his gaze she turned—and saw her fiancé.

  Different emotions flashed across her face in quick succession: first delighted surprise, then, with a sudden remembrance of what had just taken place, a measured sobering, a bit of a fearful look.

  Mr. Mornay, for his part, looked her over quickly, then moved toward Mr. O’Brien, who was cowering against the settee with a fearful look on his face. Mrs. O’Brien was standing silently, her hand covering her mouth, for she was as horrified as their dignified guest at what she had seen. She couldn’t say a word, though she thought surely she was about to witness the murder of her child.

  Mr. Mornay’s fists were balled, but Ariana grasped his arm.

  “He is injured! I believe he is still befogged!”

  He seemed to consider this. He glared at Mr. O’Brien silently for a few moments while he shook his head and grappled with his emotions. His lips were compressed and his eyes, if they could be said to cause injury, would have slain the invalid already. Mr. Mornay placed a firm arm about Ariana and led her quickly from the room without having said a word.

  As they passed the matron of the house, Mrs. O’Brien gave Ariana a most heartfelt look of sorrow. She was utterly, utterly afraid that Mr. Mornay might vent his wrath on the poor girl, and she felt herself to blame for leaving the two young people alone together. She herself had asked the young woman to sit by her son! She was at fault. Then she turned her mind to Peter, the sad patient. She came around the circle of furniture and looked at him. All her pity was gone, erased by the shame that filled her for his behaviour, and in its place she felt a sudden cold antipathy.

  She stared him down for a moment, shaking her head in disbelief of his enormous impropriety. Then, without a word, turned and left the room.

  He sat back against the cushions with a bit of relief—it hadn’t been so bad, after all. Mr. Mornay hadn’t accosted him. His mother hadn’t upbraided him. And, despite his failure to win her, he had actually kissed Miss Forsythe! He had kissed the angel. He would savour the memory. Or would it serve instead to remind him of his rash and ungentlemanly behaviour? He considered the matter. Soon, a slow sense of shame began to creep upon him.

  He would need to repent of what he’d done. He would also need to apologize and ask forgiveness. Exhausted, Mr. O’Brien closed his eyes. Why could he not maintain command of himself when in Miss Forsythe’s presence?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Far sooner than Mr. Pellham expected her to, Mrs. Bentley awoke groggily from her sleep. She had dreamt that Mr. Mornay had eloped with Ariana to Scotland, and that London was abuzz with crude insinuations and remarks as to what had caused the Paragon to take such an infamous step. She awoke all aflutter. Mr. Pellham, at her side, offered the information that one of the ruffians had been arrested, and—even better—that Miss Herley was safe. This news had quite a restorative effect on the lady, who suddenly sat up.

  “Let us have something to eat,” she said. But then she frowned. “Dear me! Ariana has been at Grosvenor Square all this time without a proper chaperon! How could I not think of it, sooner? Miss Herley has no doubt returned to her own home after such an ordeal. Oh, Randolph! This is precisely what I never wanted to happen.”

  She rang the bellpull. “I must to Grosvenor Square, where I shall remain if I never sleep another wink.” To Haines, who came quickly, she said, “Haines, get the coach at once. You will drive me to Grosvenor Square and then drop Mr. Pellham at his home. I will remain at Mr. Mornay’s house until further notice.”

  Haines was surprised, but of course it wasn’t his place to question a command. “Yes, ma’am.” He took the precaution of loading again the little travelling pistol that usually sat, almost forgotten, in a small recess in the carriage before setting out, however.

  Ariana did not know what to say. She allowed Mr. Mornay to scurry her to his carriage, and then, as he took his seat beside her, she looked at him searchingly.

  Does he know I did nothing to intentionally dishonour him? Does he know that Mr. O’Brien (that formerly gentle soul!) took cruel advantage of me? What is he thinking?

  “You know that I belong to you.”

  “I made it clear you were to remain at my house.”

  She swallowed, thinking about what had caused her to leave. “Your servants despise me!” Tears formed in her eyes. “They must think my presence last night in the house was scandalous!”

  He frowned. “What makes you say so?”

  She went on to tell him of their insubordination, and how unwelcome she had felt.

  “That is hardly reason to take my wishes lightly. Is this what I am to expect throughout our marriage? That you won’t do as I bid? That at the least provocation, you’ll fly up into the boughs and do what seems best to you without my approval? Against my expressed wishes?”

  “I cannot tell you how wretched I felt about Mr. O’Brien’s wound, and I had to see how he fared, though I am heartily sorry now that I did.” She paused. “I am sorry. I can and will do better. I promise you.”

  This seemed to help. “I must tell you,” he said, in a different tone, for he had just remembered, “Miss Herley has been abducted.”

  She gasped. “What? Oh, my poor Lavinia!”

  “I spent hours looking for Wingate or Holliwell, but without success.”

  “Did you? Oh, my darling!” She grasped his hand. “And to think how she adored Lord Antoine!”

  He was startled. “Did she?”

  “I believe so.” Mr. Mornay thought for a moment and rubbed his chin, but said nothing. He was wondering if the “abduction” was merely a ploy to force a marriage between them. Perhaps he’d underestimated Holliwell’s intentions toward Lavinia.

  “We’ll speak to the servants,” he said, “regarding this afternoon and see what’s what.” He fell silent for a moment and was assailed by the disturbing vision, still fresh in his mind, of Ariana rising off the sofa and away from Mr. O’Brien. “And perhaps you can explain to me,” he added, in a caustic tone, “how I came to find you in such a compromising position with that endless pest, O’Brien!”

  In no time at all Mrs. Bentley was raising her hand to the knocker at 25 Grosvenor Square. Haines prepared to take Mr. Pellham home, waiting only long enough (as any thoughtful butler would) to be certain his mistress gained entry to the house.

  Once inside, Frederick informed Mrs. Bentley of the astounding fact that neither Ariana nor Mr. Mornay were at home. Her hand flew to her heart with the thought that they’d absconded to Scotland, just as she’d dreamt! With trepidation she asked, “Do you know where they went?”

  Frederick thought quickly. It was not his duty to give the whereabouts of his master. “I cannot say, ma’am.”

  “Surely you know if they intend to be out long? What time did they leave?”

  He offered only the information that they had not left the house together.

  “Did Miss Forsythe say where she was going, or when she would return?”

  Frederick’s house of cards began to crumble. He had no loyalties to Miss Forsythe at the moment since she was soon to part him from his situation, so he said in all honesty, “I believe Miss Forsythe was going to Blandford Street.”

  “Blandford Street?” Mrs. Bentley’s face wrinkled in confusion. Oh! The O’Brien’s. She then remembered that she had sent Haines away, and now she could not go to Blandford Street herself to collect her niece. How vexatious! Why had Mornay allowed Ariana to leave the house? And apart from him, after raising such a du
st about her needing his protection! The more she thought on it, the less sense it made.

  “Will you be waiting for the master’s return, ma’am?” he asked, interrupting her ruminations. Mrs. Bentley was very tired. But Ariana was not here. No reason, then, why she might not just as well go back to her own house and get some rest. At least there she could rest.

  She returned to the street, faced with the prospect of walking home. She, Mrs. Bentley, was going to walk! Too vexing to wait for a message to reach Haines to bring the carriage back; the horses would no doubt have just been unharnessed. With a sigh, she started down the street, wondering if she ought to call upon Mr. Pellham. If I do I might have his company for the walk. But why disturb the man when I will just return to bed upon reaching my house? I do not feel well and will not feel well until my niece is securely married.

  Ariana stared at her betrothed and crossed her arms. “I was astonished by Mr. O’Brien’s behaviour! I never imagined him capable of— you don’t think—that I welcomed what he did?”

  “How does a man get that close to a woman if she does not welcome his attentions? How came you to be on that settee, Ariana? When Mr. O’Brien was indisposed.”

  She told him exactly what had happened, but only silence ensued. Even though they were sitting together, she felt they had never been so far apart. How could he think she had encouraged the man to impose on her? But the longer she sat there, the less she felt she had any right to be cross. She herself had given sway to jealousy for much less cause.

  She took his hand and turned to face him. This got his attention. She reached for his other hand. Then, holding them up, she kissed them. First one, then the other. Slowly, and with love and sorrow in her eyes, watching him as she did. She saw feelings flit across the handsome face and dark eyes, but he kept himself in check. Still holding his hands, she inched closer to him, and then raised one of his arms so she could put it around her shoulders. She scooted against his side. She leaned up and whispered. “I love you!”

  Then he turned and pulled her up against him for an embrace. Ariana clung to him as tightly as she could. Finally he kissed her and Ariana felt she’d come home in his arms. It was so wonderfully different than what she had felt with Mr. O’Brien.

  “I ought to take you to Scotland right now!’ he said, keeping her right up against him. “I dare not let you out of my sight for an instant, lest you run into some new mischief.”

  She smiled weakly. “I shan’t. I’ll be ever so careful.”

  “One more episode with you, young woman, and I shall—I avow it—I shall take you directly to Gretna Green and we’ll be married before you can blink an eye!”

  “I think I should like that.”

  This earned her an additional kiss.

  “I have property there, you know.”

  “In Scotland?”

  “My grandfather acquired it by fighting in some royal cause.”

  “Amazing! Where do you not own property?”

  “I’ll tell you where I most wish to own it.” To her curious look, he touched her below the neck, in the area of her heart.

  “Here. Here is where I most wish to own property.”

  “Foolish man.” She leaned up and kissed him. “’Tis there where you own all of it.”

  Traffic was cluttered as usual on Upper Brook Street. Mrs. Bentley kept an eye out for an opening to cross the road, for she would have to sooner or later to reach her own house. Suddenly she heard a voice calling her. A distinctly French voice. And then she saw Madame LaCroix had stepped out of her doorway and was waving at her with a handkerchief.

  Madame LaCroix had been a great beauty, and even now in her golden years was not unbecoming. She was a tall Frenchwoman living in Mayfair because her fortune had survived the Revolution—though her husband had not. Her companion Clarisse was in the room with her.

  Madame had been looking out of her first floor bow window when she saw Mrs. Bentley coming down the street. Her brows knit together. “Mon Dieu!” Madame said beneath her breath. “Clarisse,” she called, motioning her over with one hand. Clarisse came and stood beside her at the window.

  “Is that Madame Bentley?” she asked in French.

  “Oui, madame. It is she.”

  “Biensûr! How odd that she is alone and on foot. She seems to be in a hurry.”

  “Oui, madame.”

  “I must speak to her. I must know what is happening!” In a trice, Madame LaCroix hurried to her front door, opened it, and stood, waving an expensive silk handkerchief.

  “Madame Bentley! Helloooo, Madame!”

  Mrs. Bentley came to a halt. Oh, dear! Not Madame LaCroix! However will I explain my walking on the street alone? As she approached the house, the Frenchwoman went so far as to step out on the pavement to meet her.

  How provoking! Everyone knew Madame LaCroix loved to gossip, and Mrs. Bentley had no wish to supply her with fodder. But what if Madame knew something important? In fact, could it be that she might know something of Ariana and Mr. Mornay? Mrs. Bentley should have realized the great unlikelihood of this, but she was too tired to think better of it.

  Madame lived in a three-storey Georgian structure like most of the houses on Brook Street, but with the addition of a jutting bow window on the first floor.

  “My dear Madame LaCroix!” She said, as she came up to her.

  “My dear Madame Bentley!” She used her handkerchief to motion Mrs. Bentley into her home, saying, “Come in. Do come in!”

  “Alas, madame, I have no time for a visit today.”

  “But, madame! You must rest. Allow me to offer you tea. You are tired, yes? And hungry? I have just the perfect thing for you, madame!” In the next minute Mrs. Bentley found herself sitting in the lady’s opulent French-style parlour, in a well-stuffed chair, and already with a tray of French crème mints before her.

  “I long to speak with you,” said madame, which was no surprise to Mrs. Bentley for the woman always longed to speak with someone—anyone—who might share an on-dit, a secret, perhaps, or the latest news item. But on this occasion, Mrs. Bentley was hoping that madame would be the one to enlighten her.

  In addition to the mints, madame rang for a tray of delicate French pastries that made even Mrs. Bentley’s jaded tongue water. Madame was treating her with proper respect, at least. Not that this was any surprise. Mrs. Bentley’s importance in society had certainly risen to a crest since her niece had won the hand of the Paragon.

  As her hostess chattered about this and that, Mrs. Bentley began to relax. Indeed, this little break was precisely the thing, now she thought on it, that she needed in her vexed and worried state. The tea was excellent—madame had the same suppliers that she did. And somehow she ended up, between bites of very fine pastry and sips of that tea, sharing her latest errand and her recent experience. Imagine it, an abduction attempt on her niece! Then, before her very eyes, Miss Herley successfully nabbed! Mrs. Bentley herself had swooned, and she could not, in all her memory, remember having ever swooned before.

  “Oh, but of course, mon amie!” sighed madame, the very essence of understanding and concern. She was, in fact, an excellent, rapt listener. Why had Mrs. Bentley never realized it sooner? Madame could never be a gossip—she was a friend, a well-meaning, empathetic friend. She confided that, at Miss Forsythe’s terrible disappearance, “Mr. Mornay was nearly beside himself!”

  “Yes, beside himself! Of course! And what did he do?”

  “What could he do?” she asked, as if there had never been a whit of doubt regarding it. “He insisted upon packing her off to Grosvenor Square to keep her under guard to ensure her safety!” It sounded, as she told it, so very reasonable. So very like the thing any man would have done for the woman he was soon to marry.

  But the next thing Mrs. Bentley knew, the lady was exclaiming that she didn’t doubt they had eloped. This was the reason Mrs. Bentley found the house empty of its occupants, just now. This was the solution Mr. Mornay must have seen was the only reme
dy to answer such a threat—of losing his bride.

  “Oh, not at all,” Mrs. Bentley suddenly said sharply. No matter that she had suspected the very same thing herself.

  The Frenchwoman turned her head sideways and looked pityingly at Mrs. Bentley. “Oh, I think so, madame! Mr. Mornay, he does not take chances—he is a man who gets his way!”

  “And so he shall after the wedding, of course!” Mrs. Bentley did not like the direction the conversation had turned. “Mornay would never elope. The wedding is settled, and Miss Forsythe’s family will be in Mayfair any day now for the event. There is no question of an elopement!”

  But Madame LaCroix was not to be deterred. “But when Mr. Mornay sees what scandal he started, how can he not elope? And you say they are gone? And you do not know to where? I think they elope!”

  “You are severely mistaken, I assure you!” Mrs. Bentley stood up to leave.

  “Do not take offense, madame,” said the foreigner. “I think elopement is...ah...the romantic thing. Very romantic. And who could not forgive a man who fears that his bride might be snatched from him at any moment.”

  Mrs. Bentley blinked through narrowed eyes at the lady. “Your experiences in the revolution have affected your brain, madame. I assure you, there has been no elopement.”

  “But you say that Miss Forsythe spent the night at Grosvenor Square, yes?”

  “Well, yes, but—” Suddenly Mrs. Bentley saw this admission in the light of day and it seemed—scandalous! Madame LaCroix was exactly right! What did two house maids count for as chaperons? Miss Herley, who should have served as chaperon and would have shut the mouths of gossips such as madame, had never arrived. Instead she’d been abducted!

  “Madame—I must go.” The ladies walked to the front door, Mrs. Bentley suddenly in a great hurry, and Madame La Croix accompanying her, with a little, curious smile.