The House in Grosvenor Square

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Outdoors, Mr. Forsythe handed Mrs. Bentley and Ariana from the carriage. No sooner had Ariana stepped to the pavement, when a cheer went up on the street. Amazing! People everywhere craned their heads and necks to get a peek at her! She spied a man quickly sketching her appearance, and another hastily jotting notes—for the papers, to be sure.

  She had not grown accustomed to being of interest to the general population, and felt strangely humbled by it. Mrs. Bentley too was enjoying the attention, smiling all around and waving her bouquet. The rest of the family disembarked and made their way into the church. Inside, a hush fell at the entrance of the brides, and everyone craned to see them.

  Ariana saw Mr. Pellham at the head of the aisle and looked for Mr. Mornay—but could not find him. People were waving and gesturing at her from the pews, so she smiled and nodded; but where was her beloved? She saw the vicar standing with a dour expression. But why wasn’t Mr. Mornay in front like Mr. Pellham, smiling at her as the older gentleman was smiling at her aunt? Ariana tried to act as though she hadn’t a concern in the world, for surely he would be along at any moment; but it did seem puzzling.

  At that moment her father hissed, “Where is he?” There was no question of whom he referred to. “He’ll be here!” she replied, in an equally fervent whisper.

  She reached the front, where the vicar presented her to a gently smiling Princess Charlotte. Ariana curtseyed, grateful for the honour of the royal’s presence. But inside, she felt her first inkling that something might be gravely wrong. Where was her beloved?

  Mr. Frederick, about an hour and a half before Ariana and the others arrived at the church, found Mrs. Hamilton near the kitchens. He had not had a chance to dismiss her. He dreaded doing it, and wouldn’t even think of dealing with it now. There was enough to do given the mysterious disappearance of the master. He looked at her now, and suddenly thought it a good thing she was still with them.

  “I have something you must do,” he said. To her curious look, he added, “And not a word to the other servants about it!” She nodded.

  Mr. Timmons had eaten breakfast, washed and changed, looked about the house for his host, and then retreated into the library for twenty minutes of reading and prayer. He was now back to the public rooms and wanted to know where Mr. Mornay was. He felt that something was afoot. Did Mr. Mornay wish to avoid their meeting? Was he intentionally stalling?

  Mrs. Hamilton appeared. “Mr. Mornay will see you now, sir.”

  “Oh, excellent!” He was vastly relieved to find that his fears were false. He followed her down the hall with a lighter heart, looking forward to the meeting and thinking of what he wished to say to the man. Perhaps a few words on the blessedness of the estate of matrimony? The duty of husbands and wives?

  Mrs. Hamilton stopped at the door to a room he hadn’t seen yet. He readied himself for another dose of grandeur. Mornay was certainly a solid oak, he’d grant him that.

  “What room is this?” he asked, lightly, as her hand went to the doorknob. It seemed a bit out of the way, now that he thought on it.

  “An office, sir. The house has two of them.”

  “Ah.” Curious place to be received, he thought, but no matter. Mrs. Hamilton turned the doorknob. She had unlocked it herself, only minutes earlier. When she opened the door enough to stick her head in, she said, “Here is Mr. Timmons, sir,” and then motioned for the rector to enter before her.

  When he did, she pulled the door shut swiftly, stuck a key in the lock and turned it with a click of finality. Already there was a protest from within. A banging on the door.

  “I say! Open this door! What is this? Is this some kind of trick? I am a guest of your master’s!” It was no good, however. Mr. Timmons, locked in the armoury with all manner of weaponry, was stuck. He was a patient man. But this was above all. This treatment! What bothered him even more than his imprisonment, however, was what it signified.

  Mr. Mornay was up to devilish tricks. He was a blackguard! Why else bother to lock up a rector—his guest!—if not to conceal some deep infamy? Why else?

  Mr. Frederick met Mrs. Hamilton in the hall, where his face revealed an anxious state of mind. “Well?” he asked.

  “He’s in there, sir, and yowling like a tom cat,” she said.

  “Very good, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  She looked at him, expectantly. She was still nervous about the goings on with Molly and whether she had been found out or not, but being asked to lock a man of the cloth in a small inner room with no outlet was so unusual as to push her fears to the back of her mind

  “Might I ask, Mr. Frederick, why you want that cleric locked in the armoury?”

  “You may ask later, Mrs. Hamilton. Right now we need to discover the whereabouts of the master.”

  “His whereabouts? Today’s his wedding! He must be here!”

  He gave her an agonized look. “We cannot find him!”

  “Good gracious!” Mrs. Hamilton felt a rush of concern. My goodness, but she cared. She had seen, it was no use denyin’ it, that Mr. Mornay had been happier since knowing Miss Forsythe. And yet all she had been thinking of was herself! All she had worried about was her own situation! She turned concerned eyes to the butler’s.

  “Shall I call the constable, Mr. Frederick?”

  Freddy hesitated. Did they want it to go abroad that their master was missing? “I think not, Mrs. Hamilton. But I’ll send word to Mr. Brummell and Lord Alvanley. Perhaps the Duke of Grafton.”

  Mrs. Hamilton looked at him worriedly. “Well, let’s be quick about it, sir!” She turned and headed for the stairway.

  One hour before the wedding, Mr. Mornay awoke. He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. A dull pain...in his arm. No, a scorching pain. Something was amiss. He couldn’t place it at first. Something was not familiar. He sat up abruptly to find that he’d been asleep in a guest bedroom of his own house! What on earth! He rubbed his eyes a moment, and then it hit him. By Jove! The wedding! He scrambled to get up, winced at the pain in his arm, and thought, “If I’ve missed it—Oh, Lord, don’t let me miss it!

  After he’d been pressganged into Boodle's, Mornay used the Club’s amenities to send Ariana a note. It was a lame sounding note even to his own ears, but he had decided to satisfy his friends by sharing a meal, his “last supper,” as Scropes Davies called it. He fully expected to extract himself afterward and join Ariana and her family at Hanover Square. He hadn’t forgotten that he was to entertain Mr. Timmons, either. But his plans hadn’t worked out.

  The prince had indeed joined them, creating a stir at the Club, and ordering a supper that far exceeded the usual spread, which was excellent to begin with. Mr. Mornay ate sparingly, being restless—no doubt on account of the wedding. Cards were shortly produced, and no one even bothered to remove to the first floor card room. Ask the prince to move? It wasn’t going to happen.

  Phillip had a hand dealt in front of him while he was speaking to Prinny, and then numerous gentlemen appeared ready to keep him from rising from his seat.

  “Come now, Mornay, we’ll see you home in plenty of time for your beauty rest.”

  “Don’t leave me, Phillip—I’m here on your account,” the prince put in, and in such a tone that Mr. Mornay knew His Royal Highness wasn’t asking. “I haven’t played a game against you in an age,” he added, taking up his hand.

  Sometime later no one noticed when an uninvited guest came in, walked up behind Mornay, and then, without the least ceremony, began to read out his hand, card by card. He never got to finish, for he might just as well have declared his alliance with France. His action, in that room and among those men, was akin to treason.

  Mornay slapped down the cards and pushed out his chair, coming to his feet like lightning. Around him cries of indignation had broken out and already a few men had grasped Mr. Harold Chesley by the arms. Mornay’s eyes narrowed when he saw who it was, and he made a little nasty grimace. He didn’t consider the puppy worth the trouble, but his back was up. Mr.
Chesley’s infraction was grave, indeed.

  He stared at Mornay stupidly.

  “Let him go, gentleman,” Mr. Mornay said. He wouldn’t hit a man who couldn’t fight back properly. Disgustedly they released him, but just then Chesley gave way to drunken laughter, saying, “I gotcha, I gotcha this time, Mornay!”

  Phillip had drawn back his fist for the punch, but he withdrew abruptly in disgust. “He’s hocused!”

  “He is. Get him out of here,” someone murmured. The Regent was looking on with an angry scowl, and he whispered something to one of his men.

  At that moment, Mr. Mornay realized he might have been given an exit pass by Mr. Chesley. His hand had been read out, and he should be free to abandon it.

  “Sorry, Mornay, but there’s no rules to say we don’t finish the hand.”

  “There’s no rule for it because it isn’t done,” he countered. “There’s no rule to say women aren’t allowed here either, but they don’t come, do they?”

  “Bad luck,” someone else said, but they were smiling at each other knowingly.

  “Give it up, gentlemen,” Mornay said, and he stood up and straightened his coat. “And wish me a happy wedding.” He smiled fully while they finally accepted the inevitable, shook his hand, wished him luck, and made some jokes.

  Meanwhile Chesley had been roughly escorted from the room and given the boot, literally, in the hall. Someone pushed him in the direction of the staircase. “Go on, then, you lout! Stop interrupting gentlemen, or the prince will have you thrown into Newgate!”

  Back in the room, Mornay was inching toward the door, still accepting good-natured jibes, hand shakes, and friendly wishes. Just before he reached the doorway, his back to the hall, Harold Chesley had reached it from the other side. He recognized his enemy, even from behind. He knew what he had to do.

  His leering countenance took on a more sober look, though he was not by any means sober. He pulled a small pistol which was already cocked from his coat pocket. It was a miracle—if it could be called such—that the gun hadn’t gone off when he was booted from the room and sprawled along the corridor earlier.

  He aimed it waveringly at his target.

  “Lud!” someone cried. “He’s got a gun!”

  “Mornay!” yelled another.

  The report went off. There was a puff of smoke, and the acrid smell of powder, and Mr. Mornay clasped his left arm with his uninjured hand. Blood showed between his fingers and dripped along the sleeve of his very fine, brand new coat.

  When ten minutes had passed and Mr. Mornay had not appeared at the church, Mr. O’Brien made his way to Mr. Forsythe. Ariana’s father held her daughter’s beloved in high regard, but was concerned at his absence; especially because Mr. Timmons was also missing. He worried that some accident had befallen the men. He refused to give way to other speculations which would malign the man’s character.

  “Sir,” O’Brien said, when he came to him. Mrs. Forsythe made room so that he could sit beside her husband. “Do you know the reason he isn’t here?” They both knew who “he” was.

  “No. None.”

  “Sir, may I remind you that my offer to your daughter still stands?”

  “Eh?” Mr. Forsythe gave him a wide-eyed look. “That’s rather precipitous, young man.”

  “Your daughter cannot be made to suffer the humiliation which will be upon her shortly, if he does not show!”

  “No. Well, no need to fear that yet.” He added, pointedly, “Thank you for your concern.”

  “Sir—I love your daughter. My offer stands.”

  Mr. Forsythe frowned, but surveyed Mr. O’Brien. “Would she have you, do you think?”

  O’Brien’s face lightened, but he failed to answer as he could not in all honesty say she would.

  “Charles! She is in love with Mr. Mornay! This man can be of no help here!” Mrs. Forsythe whispered fiercely, scandalized that her husband would even consider the offer.

  “I am aware of that,” Mr. O’Brien said. His face took on an appearance of noble acceptance. “I will have her, knowing that. I will have her for my wife, gladly and willingly.”

  The parents’ eyes met. Mrs. Forsythe shook her head, no. Mr. Forsythe looked at Ariana standing alone and nobly trying to appear unconcerned, while behind them the murmurings of the guests grew. Even the princess looked unhappy. The vicar cleared his throat.

  “We shall commence,” he said aloud, “with the ceremony for the joining in marriage of Mr. Randolph Pellham and Mrs. Agatha Bentley.”

  Ariana swallowed, her eyes filling with tears. Mr. O’Brien’s left his seat and turned to stare up the centre aisle of the church and at the young bride-to-be. His feet began to move of their own accord for he felt he must save his beloved girl from disgrace. But Mr. Forsythe’ was behind him and pulled him back to the pew.

  “Julia,” he said, to his wife. “It is hare-brained, but go to your daughter, and tell her of this man’s offer.”

  When she reached the bride and whispered in her ear, the murmuring in the congregation went up a notch. Could it be the Paragon was not to be wed? Who was this woman joining Miss Forsythe?

  When Ariana saw her mamma, it was more difficult than ever to contain her distress. Mothers were chiefly there as shoulders to cry upon, were they not?

  “What do you make of this, my dear?” the older lady asked.

  “Something has happened to Mr. Mornay! I just know it! He would never miss our wedding voluntarily!”

  “Can you be certain, my love?”

  “I am; I am utterly certain!” Their whispers were in hushed tones, for the wedding of Mrs. Bentley and Mr. Pellham was being spoken at the same time.

  Mrs. Forsythe took a deep breath. “My dear—Mr. O’Brien wishes you to know that he is—that he will be…happy to stand in Mr. Mornay’s place.” She looked nervously at her daughter.

  Ariana’s head turned sharply and she searched her mamma’s countenance. “You cannot think—”

  “He is happy to marry you, if you will have him.” Her own features were set in a disagreeable frown at the thought, for Mrs. Forsythe was greatly fond of Mr. Mornay.

  “Mr. O’Brien is out of line!” Ariana countered firmly.

  Mrs. Forsythe’s features relaxed. But she had to tell all. “He says he loves you, dearest.”

  Ariana’s mouth set into a little pink line. “He is very bold! I will never have him, mamma!”

  “He only wishes to spare you the humiliation—”

  “He wishes me to betray the man I love!” The vicar stopped mid-sentence as Ariana had forgot to keep her voice low. There was an uncomfortable look on the cleric’s face. She mumbled, “I beg your pardon, sir. Do continue.” Mr. Hodges sniffed. His brow cleared. And he resumed his office.

  “Call a physician! Your handkerchiefs, gentlemen! Hand them over!” This from the duke. “Get him out of that coat! On the double, boys. We’ve got to stop the bleeding!”

  The Regent was in a rage, glowering while Chesley was relieved of his weapon. “Take care of him, sirs, and then deliver what’s left of him to Newgate!”

  Chesley then received a good pummeling from some of the members, alongside hearty insults such as Alvanley’s, “You muddle-headed idiot!” The malkintrash was now bleeding from a broken lip and a gash on his face.

  “He tried to kill me,” he was coughing out. “Mornay—he tried to shoot me, last night!”

  “You’re a blasted fool!” Mornay countered. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have.” The others looked curious so he added, “He knew Wingate’s whereabouts, but wasn’t forthcoming with his information.”

  “That makes him twice as guilty—you filthy turncoat!” said one man, kicking him in the shins.

  “That’s enough,” Mornay said. They had peeled his coat away, and to keep it free of blood, his waistcoat. Rather than forcing his arms up to remove his fine linen shirt, the buttons of which ended midway down the chest, they simply cut off the sleeve by virtue of someone’s swo
rd. The wound was visible only for the merest second while various handkerchiefs were applied with force to stop the bleeding.

  Meanwhile a physician visiting the club with a member had been located. He rushed in carrying a small leather bag.

  “Make way, gentlemen,” cried Grafton. The doctor came and looked at the arm. He prodded the wound with a small instrument, much to Mr. Mornay’s discomfort, who winced at each touch.

  “Give the man some laudanum, for pity’s sake!” Alvanley cried.

  “I shall in a moment,” replied the physician. But he looked at the prince and announced, “He's merely been winged, Your Royal Highness. No major arteries severed. Providence has smiled upon your friend.” He paused for cheering all around. “If we can keep him from infection, I daresay Mr. Mornay will be as good as new soon enough.” The men cheered again, and toasting began, and when a constable arrived to haul the prisoner off for Newgate, there was more cheering and toasting.

  The corridor outside the room was beginning to attract a crowd, though no one understood for certain what had happened. Scropes and another man took on the service of barring entry to anyone except the law or medical men.

  The doctor made to give his patient laudanum, but Mornay refused. “I need a clear head, thank you.”

  “He’s getting married tomorrow, sir! I say, double the dose for him!”

  The doctor looked concerned. “Are you really being wed tomorrow?” At the nod from his patient, he added, “I daresay you will need to rest a great deal to recover properly. I must advise you to put off the ceremony if that is possible.” A loud cheer followed this advice, but Mr. Mornay was shaking his head.