The House in Grosvenor Square: A Novel of Regency England (The Regency Trilogy Book 2)

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “Do not,” said her beloved, “continue in this vein. I am in no mood for it, for one thing, and if you’re implying that I am not to be trusted with my future bride I would say that you have no idea what I can or cannot be trusted with. And if you persist in conjecturing, I shall take it as an accusation—in which case you might as well ask to meet me on the field.”

  “Sir. Mr. O’Brien is befogged from his injury and not himself.”

  “Thank you, Miss Forsythe, but I am in my right mind. I only speak on your account.”

  “ʾTis on her account that you are able to speak at all,” was the instant reply.

  Ariana was too raw from fright and worry to countenance the burgeoning argument a moment longer. “Gentlemen, I beg you both, peace!”

  The ensuing quiet minutes, where only the sound of the carriage wheels and the pounding of the horses' hooves were heard, she greeted with relief. Mr. O’Brien had been forced to withdraw his indignation, but was even now eying Mr. Mornay with stubborn remorselessness. Ariana was surprised at his bravado, but knew it was hopeless.

  She placed a hand on her beloved’s sleeve, and his hand quickly covered hers. This little movement awakened Mr. O’Brien’s fears—or was it jealousy? Once again he had to say, “I shall be pleased to send a servant to return with you, Miss Forsythe, if you would allow it.” Since his family only had one manservant, a parlourmaid and a cook, this was truly the voice of desperation.

  Mr. Mornay sighed with annoyance. “What are you thinking, sir? You do a disservice to Miss Forsythe that is completely beyond the pale. No matter what you think of me, you must recognize this lady’s good sense and character.”

  “He means no harm,” said Ariana.

  Mr. Mornay had an instant rejoinder to this, which at most times he would not have failed to deliver himself of. The look on her face, coupled with his recent scare of losing her, caused him to keep it to himself, however, and so he only nodded stiffly and vowed silently not to speak another word to the man if he could help it. And he was very practiced at helping it.

  Mr. O’Brien was grateful that Ariana had championed his cause. His distrust of Mornay was acute at the moment but it was a relief to know that he would soon be at his own house, despite his dislike of leaving her alone with the man. His head ached terribly, as it had all night.

  When they arrived at Blandford Street, Mr. O’Brien turned to Ariana and said, “I am eternally grateful that you are safe from harm, Miss Forsythe. I wish you a safe return to your own house.”

  Mr. Mornay said, “Out!” between gritted teeth.

  O’Brien left that way, in disgrace with Mornay, with himself, and soon, he feared, with most of society. They would likely share the view that he was a fool. He had seriously been considering giving up fashionable society in any case. It had brought him a deal of heartache, of which every encounter with Miss Forsythe was a fresh reminder. And it cost a great deal to be accepted. He had no chance of saving enough money for a fine equipage if he continually frittered it away for the latest style of topcoat and boots. So perhaps it was a good thing, this night’s business. Of course he wished, for Miss Forsythe’s sake, that no ill had befallen her. But she had come through unscathed. She always did, didn’t she? Then he thought of little Beatrice, and her pretty, childish ways.

  The girl had rashly promised to marry him without his asking her. He had no intention of holding her to a childish passion. Best if he put her out of his mind, in fact. If he could forget about Beatrice, then his contact with Ariana would be brought to a minimum. After the wedding, there was little likelihood that would see her again in any case. Not for a long time, perhaps.

  He could no longer retain even the slightest romantic hopes of her, but he couldn't help that he reveled in her presence. Why was it so difficult to give her up entirely? He must concentrate on his vocation, the living that had been promised to him.

  When he shortly afterward dropped off to sleep in his bed, having been helped by their one manservant, Edwards, with his clothing, it was with true-to-his-soul weariness. He was still in pain, but he managed a single feeble prayer for Miss Forsythe’s deliverance from Mornay, followed by a heartfelt wish to learn to forget her, utterly and entirely.

  Little Beatrice, in her white chemise and stockinged feet, crept back to the chamber she shared with Alice, and quietly took her place beneath the covers. Alice had not awakened at sound of her brother’s return, but Beatrice had heard the noise and risen to investigate. She sighed now; satisfied that she could truly sleep. Mr. O’Brien was returned home, and in his bed.

  All was right once again with the world.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the Regent’s apartments at Carlton House, the prince was reclining on a lounge chair as comfortably as was possible considering that he was suffering a terrible case of the gout. His foot was wrapped in cloths so that it appeared many times its natural size, and was elevated, in hopes of easing the pain, by a pile of pillows propped securely in place. The Marchioness of Hertford sat in a small chair at his head, feeding him spoonfuls of broth.

  Princess Charlotte had received word from the Regent that she was not to further an acquaintance with Miss Ariana Forsythe. In response, the princess sent word that she needed to speak to him urgently. As he did at times, he responded that she must not come that day—he was unwell, unable to receive visitors, in no state of mind to countenance a discussion of any sort, and likely to be taking laudanum, which would render him totally useless to her.

  On rare occasions the princess defied his wishes, showed up at his house, and demanded to be seen. It was little known that Princess Charlotte, while equal to state tasks with equanimity and grace, could also behave in the most shockingly spoilt manner. She was terribly emotional at these times, in fact, and even her father, a master at displaying emotion himself, could barely constrain her.

  On this day Her Royal Highness was fully prepared to stage a tantrum if the situation warranted it. She appeared at Carlton House demanding an audience with her father. She knew one of her ladies had brought the parental stricture against her, as the princess had been so indiscreet as to have freely spoken in favour of Ariana Forsythe and of her particular wish to further her acquaintance with the future wife of the Paragon. This, she was sure, had been reported to her father just at the time when he had been feeling greatly abused by Mrs. Tiernan, a thing he felt Miss Forsythe must be to blame for.

  After putting off the inevitable encounter with his daughter for as long as he could, the prince gave leave for his servants to allow her in.

  The princess came swiftly into the room with determined long strides. She curtseyed to her father and looked at Lady Hertford pointedly, until that woman got reluctantly to her feet to curtsey to the princess. The two were not friends.

  “Sir,” she said to her father, after thanking him for seeing her. “I am deeply grieved that once again you have seen fit to forbid my acquaintance with a young woman of quality! May I ask why you treat me as a child? I am of sufficient age to wed, but yet not given leave to choose my friends. How is that just or fair, sir, I ask you?”

  The Regent was in no mood for another scene involving his daughter, but he asked, knowing full well whom she was referring to, “What friendship have I denied you?”

  “Miss Forsythe! Miss Ariana Forsythe who is to marry your friend, Mr. Mornay! I am sure one of my ladies let it out that I desired to further our acquaintance and I would like nothing better than to dismiss her directly—”

  “Except that I won’t allow it.”

  “No, of course not. I may not choose my friends, I may not choose my ladies, I will likely not get to choose my husband!”

  “You are England’s princess,” he said, reminding her that her life was one of sacrifice to her country, without having to say so. They had had such discussions before. Numerous times.

  “And you are the Regent, and yet I daresay I see little of sacrifice in your life!”

  “Do you speak to me
thus?” he asked, making as if to sit up in anger, only the pain in his left foot was so severe that he ended up collapsing back down in a paroxysm of pitiful moans. The princess was one of the few things in the Regent’s life that he could exert a most determined control over, and he wasn’t about to give that up easily.

  “Leave us!” he snapped at her. “You are evidently in one of your moods and I refuse to see you. I will call for you when I deem the time appropriate.”

  “Sir!” she said, her tone low and strong. “What harm is in it for you if I take tea with Miss Forsythe? I fail to comprehend how this could be displeasing to you, or why it should concern you at all!” In truth, it was not so much the loss of Miss Forsythe as it was the loss of so many things, so many times, in so many battles of will against her father, that irked the princess. Why could she never win?

  “Everything about you concerns me,” he replied. He looked at Lady Hertford, who instantly fed another spoonful into his mouth. He squeezed her hand and gave her a short smile. The princess looked on, fuming. But she had a thought.

  “My lady,” she said, getting that woman’s full attention. “Can you think why my father has forbidden me to see one of our most famous saints?”

  Lady Hertford sensed she was being baited. With a look to her royal admirer, she slowly replied, “Are you asking me to question your father’s authority?”

  “As his friend, maʼam. Can you believe for a moment that he will be served by alienating Mr. Mornay from his circle?” That point was so striking to her mind that the princess turned back to her father. “Does Mr. Mornay comprehend that you hold his lady in such a thought? Does he know, Sir, that you are forbidding me to keep an acquaintance with his future wife?”

  “I care not what he knows!” he shouted vehemently, as though he might have banged his fist upon a table if he’d been in position to do so. Yet the very force of his pronouncement tended to belie the words he spoke.

  The princess began to slowly circle the room, thinking. She stopped and asked him this, “I have heard you say that Mr. Mornay would make a fine addition to your cabinet—if only he had a heart for it. Have you since changed your opinion of him, then?”

  “No. I believe he would. How is this to the point?”

  “The point is your own best interest, Sir. You are in need of true friends in your government. I cannot see anything but trouble between you and Mornay if you alienate his wife—the whole world knows he dotes on her. There was talk you meant to ennoble him at one time.”

  The Regent was listening, almost with a smile.

  “You do begin to remind me of myself,” he said, raising his glass to her. She nodded, accepting the dubious distinction, and added, “In fact, if you think on it, with this Parliamentary session nearly over, would it not be advantageous for you to do so now? Strike while the iron is hot, and all that? The lords are itching to return to their country seats, I hear; and, with his popularity, who will dare speak against him?”

  Lady Hertford had to smile. Her smiles were not warm, but in this case, it warmed the heart of the princess. She knew she was making an inroad.

  The Regent made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ve not even broached the subject with him. ʼTis out of the question.”

  “What title did you have in mind for him, Sir?” Lady Hertford was curious.

  The Regent hesitated. “Oh, a baronetcy, I suppose. See if it raises a dust.”

  She looked at the prince. “That might flatter him, but it wouldn’t put him in the house.” The Regent explained: “I’d follow it with a barony if there’s no strenuous objections.”

  “There will always be strenuous objections when men see another man profit,” said the lady, “but I daresay you can manage them.” The intended flattery was well received.

  But then the Regent frowned. “The Whigs will surely oppose me in it.”

  Lady Hertford fanned herself. “Why not encourage him to seek election to the Commons?”

  “He’d never do it. Mornay try to appease a crowd? Exert himself to win favour? Devilish unlikely!” He followed this a moment later with, “Blast it all, the Whigs oppose everything I do! Everything I want to do, in any case.”

  “I daresay Mr. Mornay could worry about the Whigs, if need be. He does have a way of getting things done.” Lady Hertford seemed to like the idea of creating him “Sir Phillip.” She was also pleased with the fact that Mr. Mornay had never shown a sympathy, publicly anyway, for the Regent’s wife, the Princess of Wales. It might be very advantageous to see him in the House on the prince’s side. He was an intelligent man, capable of swaying a vote if need be. Indeed, quite capable.

  Later that day the young princess happily instructed her secretary to make room on her calendar for tea with Miss Forsythe. A card must be sent to Hanover Square, directly. Or was the wedding, perhaps, too close? She was informed that there remained only five days until the event was to take place. On second thought, Her Royal Highness gave different instructions on what sort of correspondence to send Miss Forsythe. It was a singular idea, and would no doubt draw criticism from some corners. But Princess Charlotte smiled at the thought. She so rarely got to do things of her chusing, and merely for amusement.

  She had decided to attend the wedding.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After the O’Brien’s manservant, Mr. Edwards, had helped Master Peter into bed, he went to his mistress’s chamber and knocked firmly at the door.

  Mrs. O’Brien came awake with alarm and pronounced, “Who is it? Come in!”

  When Edwards, an old man, approached with a look of apprehension, her fear grew. “What is it, Edwards? What has happened!”

  “‘Tis Master Peter, ma’am. He has taken a blow to the head, I believe.”

  “Goodness gracious!” She hurried out of her bed and, grabbing her robe from a chair as she passed, and wriggled into it while walking hurriedly to her son’s room. Edwards had closed the bed-drapes but she opened them with temerity and held the servant’s candlestick over her son’s head. She gasped and covered her mouth in horror.

  “Send for the doctor.”

  “The apothecary, ma’am?”

  “Not this time, I want a real medical man. Call for Doctor Henderson. He’s a bit further and much dearer, of course, but I trust him.” The old man nodded in a sort of bow and turned to go.

  “Edwards—”

  He looked back at his mistress expectantly.

  “Use all haste!”

  When the door shut quietly behind him, she was on her knees beside Peter’s bed, with her head bowed and her hands clasped in prayer.

  Mr. Mornay suddenly realized that Ariana might not be safe at Hanover Square. Tonight’s business had been proof that she was truly in serious peril. How could he allow her to be out of his sight after this event?

  He was still supporting her with one arm. He kissed the side of her face, and then her forehead. “I haven’t prayed with such difficulty since the night I gave myself to God for the taking.

  O’Brien was praying, too, I could tell. But I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him, much less pray with him.”

  She pulled herself apart from him. “You missed an opportunity! Prayer is powerful when believers unite in it. Remember our Lord’s words, “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”

  “I’m afraid I was not at my best. I’m still not. I’m feeling positively venomous, and if anyone dares cross my path again tonight—”

  “Shhhh.” She put a finger to his lips. “All is well, now.”

  He kissed her finger, and then claimed her hand. He said, “Not quite. Not until I’ve settled with Wingate over this business.”

  Her eyes widened. “Yes, Wingate. The man who hired Whiddington!”

  “I’ll see him about this.”

  “Oh, pray, don’t! He called him a murderous blood! I couldn’t bear it if something should happen to you—”

  “Not another word,” he sa
id, soothingly. “Nothing for you to fret about. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” He stroked the side of her face.

  But Ariana was not put at ease. “Turn him over to the authorities. Let them manage it.”

  She was so sweetly earnest, so close—and he had almost lost her. He bent his head as if to kiss her, but she said, “Mr. O’Brien was right. We should not be together like this.”

  “Yes, by Jove, he was right! I’m sure that’s why I was ready to box his ears for it. I can hardly stand this any longer!”

  Ariana bit her lip, torn between wanting to giggle and wanting to throw her arms about him.

  He gave her a sideways look. “Forgive me. I haven’t fully recovered from my fear of losing you.” She put her head against him, while he added, “Until I see to this business, I must have your word that you won’t leave your house.”

  “Not at all? I cannot promise that.”

  “Not without two footmen, then. In fact,” he said, thinking it over, I’ll send some men. Or hire extras, for the purpose.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “After tonight, anything could be afoot, Ariana. I don’t know yet what Wingate has in mind or why he dares to involve you. It’s considered thoroughly poor form, you know, to involve a woman in a man’s quarrel. But he’s got no principles and so there’s no telling what could result with him. I will do whatever is necessary to see that you are not in harm’s way again.”

  Staring at her earnestly, he said, “To think I could have lost you.” He kissed her again, and as they pulled up to her aunt’s house, Ariana was kissing him back.

  Though dawn was approaching, Mr. Mornay insisted upon seeing Mrs. Bentley. There was no need to wake her, though, for the lady appeared at the top of the steps.

  “Oh, thank God!” she cried, hurrying rapidly down. “My dear!” The old woman embraced Ariana and then stepped back to put her hands around the girl’s face. “Thank God! You are unhurt?”