The House in Grosvenor Square (18 page)

This time Molly nodded more confidently.

“I don't believe it. He would never hire you on.”

“The mistress asked him to, mum.”

“The mistress—do you mean, Miss Forsythe?”

“Ay.”

“Does she know you took her letters?”

“Ay, mum.”

This jarred with what Mrs. Hamilton believed of Miss Forsythe. It smacked of, well,
kindness
and didn't suit her mental image of the future mistress of 25 Grosvenor Square at all.

“Well I suppose in that case, she may even be planning to keep you on.” Mrs. Hamilton's words seemed to be meant for herself, as though she were thinking aloud.

Molly did not understand them, in any case. Why wouldn't Miss Forsythe plan to keep her on? She certainly hoped she did! She had no reason to believe otherwise, as she had not heard Mrs. Hamilton's prediction, and no one considered a scullery maid of enough importance to repeat it to her.

After thinking for a moment, Mrs. Hamilton said, “Well in any case, I am going to keep a sharp eye on you, missee!”

The maid curtseyed. “Ay, mum.”

“That will be all.” Mrs. Hamilton took a slow sip of her tea, thinking hard. Her plans for using the girl would have to change. No matter. She was sure Molly would still come in handy. In fact—her eyes lit with a thought— she would come in very handy, indeed.

L
ord Antoine could not believe, now that he thought on it, that he had ever seriously entertained the thought of abducting Miss Forsythe. He'd always been a bit crass in his attitude toward women—frequenting East End flash houses with their ready supply of demireps could do that to a man— but certainly he never wished to harm a lady. And Miss Forsythe was a lady, indeed. Abduction, moreover, was a serious business, and he had to make it clear to Julian that he would have nothing more to do with it.

He thought back to the day when the whole nasty plot had been hatched. His brother, Lord Wingate, had come upon him unexpectedly as he had been nursing a wound in his favorite pub, The Whip. It was the worst sort of wound a man could sustain, he felt. He had hoped to marry Miss Lavinia Herley. The Herleys were not so wealthy that they could cover his debts, but Lavinia's dowry was not so small to be beyond temptation either. Besides, and perhaps most importantly, the Herleys had not been aware of his family's sinister reputation and had welcomed the young man into their midst as the best of suitors. It had been unfair and vexing to find that the Paragon had spoken against him, dashing his hopes, turning the Herleys into the same sort of cold and affronted individuals most members of the
ton
were when it came to his family.

These weren't the reasons that he had risen up against Mr. Mornay's fiancée, however. The thing that had catapulted him from a life of selfishness and debauchery into one of possible felonious crime—attempting to abduct a lady of quality—was that Lord Antoine
liked
Lavinia. Indeed, he missed her terribly. Not only was she bubbly and bright, the very opposite of his own morose disposition, but she enjoyed being with him. She found
him witty and funny. And he liked amusing her. Indeed, he liked himself more in her presence than at any other time!

She was good for him, that's what.

Still it was with dismay that Holliwell had realized he had feelings for Miss Herley. He, a rogue, a rake, no less than his brother and father before him, had feelings for a gently bred young woman of no measurable consequence, except that she counted Miss Ariana Forsythe as her friend. It was daunting. It was unprecedented. It was…liberating! It meant that he had the capacity to love a woman—a simple thing, perhaps, for some, but a matter he'd nearly concluded was outside of his capabilities.

So, instead of thanking the Paragon for ensuring his release from further doings with the middle-class Herleys, Lord Antoine found his meddling unforgivable.

When he mentioned his woes, over a bottle of brandy that day in the pub, Lord Wingate, in a generous mood, vowed to get revenge for his brother's sake. They commiserated over the lost opportunities they had been deprived of: a dowry, a family connexion that would not harm their own (as if anything could further harm the family name), the progeny that might have resulted from the union, and finally the pleasures of matrimonial life (which neither of them had a clue about because their own sire and dam had not lived together since their conception). No matter, it was felt to be a major loss upon their sensibilities, and nothing but a good revenge would answer.

By the time a second bottle of the potent libation had been consumed, the brothers were feeling more brotherly than they had, perhaps, in all their lives. Lord Wingate, as the elder, felt especially protective of his younger sibling, and together they hatched a plan. They would get at Mornay through his weakest point, which happened to be Miss Forsythe. Exactly what they would do with Miss Forsythe once they had managed to get hold of her was not entirely clear. But the Paragon had deprived Lord Antoine of his intended bride, and so they must of necessity do the same to him.

Perhaps they would put her on board a ship bound for America. Perhaps Botany Bay. Perhaps they would hold her for ransom. Who knew? Who cared? The object at hand was simply to get her.

Lord Antoine remembered Mr. O'Brien was a friend of Miss Forsythe's. He was a trusting sort of soul—a real cat's paw. He might be useful in their cause.

It was Mr. Chesley who informed his lordship of the Viscount's ball,
and Lord Antoine, though he no longer had a heart for felonious crime, who told his brother. He did it to silence him. To get him off his back. He also told him that he, Antoine, would have no hand in setting a trap for the lady on this night. He would be busy, he said, crashing the card party at the Herley's. He did not add that he had no desire or intention of waylaying Miss Forsythe upon any occasion or that he would henceforward refuse to help his brother if he persisted in that endeavour. He would face that confrontation another time.

Far too soon, it seemed to her, Ariana was collected by Mr. Mornay and was saying her goodbyes.

“I am so much better now!” Beatrice declared. “May I dare to call upon you, do you think?” She looked back at Mr. O'Brien. “I am sure Mr. O'Brien shall drive me to see you!”

Mr. O'Brien coughed lightly. He did not often use the family carriage in Mayfair as he preferred walking for his health, but he said, “Of course.” It would be a good excuse to see Ariana again.

Ariana hesitated. Mr. Mornay, who stood beside her, said, “Perhaps in a few days. If your aunt sees the least evidence of ill health, I suspect you'll get a thorough combing that will leave your ears ringing.”

Mrs. O'Brien added, “Beatrice will be accompanying me and the girls home now, as my son, I believe, is also going to the Viscount's tonight. Your sister will get the rest a young gel should and, I am sure, be fully recovered by the date of your wedding.”

Ariana thanked her heartily.

No sooner had the couple started off for the Viscount's, when Ariana said to Mornay, “I saw your candlestick.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your missing candlestick! I think the Herleys have it. I'm not certain, but I suspect that Mrs. Herley may have…she may have
napped
it!”

He then gave her an odd look, causing her to ask, “What is it? Do you know something of it?”

“I believe they may also have the missing portrait.”

She gasped. “Upon my word! This is shocking!”

“It is unfortunate,” he replied, “but alas, not shocking. I have heard of worse things occurring. You see now why I am careful of my company.” She
heard a silent reprimand, implying that perhaps Ariana ought to be more careful of hers.

“I am certain Miss Herley is above reproach,” Ariana said. “I suspect only her mama.”

When Mornay said nothing, she asked, “So, what is to be done?”

“Not a thing. I won't press charges against your friends.”

“Thank you!” She looked at him adoringly, and he leaned over and placed a small kiss on her smooth, soft cheek.

Ariana sniffed a bit loudly.

“Yes, I have had a drink,” he answered, guessing her thoughts.

“Mmmm,” was all she said. She hadn't actually meant to imply anything but found his remark rather interesting.

“It is thoroughly to be expected that I will have a drink on occasion, Ariana. It has always been my habit.”

“I understand.”

“I do not drink myself under the table, as you well know, and I assure you it must not concern you.”

“I am not concerned,” she responded. “I
trust
you.”

There was silence for a moment, while he ingested that pleasant thought. But he had to say more. “I have no intention of letting myself be bamboozled into drinking too much again, you know.”

She was beginning to find his defensiveness amusing. “I know that, sir.”

He shifted in his seat. There was another silence. This time it was filled with a fair amount of tension. Coming from him. “If you aren't concerned,” he said finally, “then why the devil am I feeling compelled to keep apologizing? I hadn't the least thought of there being anything wrong with accepting a drink from a gentleman in his library until I entered this coach with you.”

For a moment Ariana was silent from sheer surprise. Finally she said, “It is not
my
doing, I assure you. Perhaps
you
think you shouldn't have accepted the drink.”

“I don't think any such thing!” He thought suddenly of the way his friends sometimes teased him, saying things like, “How can you stand to be in the presence of such a saint? Isn't it tiresome trying to behave all the time?” He had always laughed off such comments because he had never bothered to behave any differently in Ariana's presence than elsewhere. But now he suddenly felt he ought to. What an irksome thing! Then again if she had loved him before, when he had always accepted a drink without a thought,
then she would continue to love him. He didn't have a thing to worry about.
But why the devil do I feel as though I do? Bother!

When they reached the Viscount's house, the ball was underway. Ariana's hand was immediately taken for a dance.

Lord Horatio stepped forward and quickly asserted his rights to the next one. “You promised me at Carlton House. Both of you,” he reminded her and her future husband. His friend could only nod and smile.

As Ariana was escorted to the dance floor, Mr. Mornay was approached by Lord Alvanley. “Come and join us, Phillip, and let some other men have the enjoyment of the angel for a while.”

“The angel?”

“We can't keep calling her Lady Mornay, coz it puts the real ladies into a pet, moaning how every knight or sir's wife is called a ‘lady' and every mistress of a house fancies herself ‘lady this' or ‘lady that.' Miss Forsythe is not nobility and neither are you, Phillip, though it ain't a secret that even Prinny defers to you sometimes! But that's the up and up of it. The members of our fairer sex are quite insisting upon a different term of affection for your soon-to-be wife. So it's ‘angel.' Come, you aren't smarting about it, surely?”

“Don't be a muttonhead.”

Alvanley chuckled. “I knew as much! And you have to admit, by face and reputation, you are marrying an angel of the first water!”

Mornay did not demur. It was true. He had thought so himself numerous times. But he wasn't about to make a cake of himself by discussing her that way with anyone. “Change the subject, Alvanley. Or are you so enamored of my future bride that you can't tear your mind from the topic?”

His friend smiled—and changed the subject. “Saw your new jacket at Weston's today. For the wedding, eh? It's all the dash, to be sure. I ordered one like it.”

Mornay said nothing. He also did not discuss fashion.

“Ain't you going to complain that it's your new style? That I should steer away?” Still there was no answer. “Dash it! They told me you personally designed two extra inches at the wrists! I'm cinchin' it from you, and you say nothing?”

“Alvanley!” Mornay finally exclaimed, and the man's eyes lit, ready to
celebrate that he had finally elicited a response from his unflappable friend. “You're wasting my time. Good evening.” Mornay turned to go.