The House in Grosvenor Square (19 page)

“Whoa, wait a minute!”

Mornay stopped and looked at him expectantly.

“When's the wedding?”

He hesitated. “You're not planning on coming, I hope?” But he smiled as he said it.

“Just want to know, dash it. There's bound to be a wager at White's tonight or soon enough. Thought it would be amusing to win one.”

“Friday next,” he answered. “You might have known if you'd heard the banns or read the papers.”

At that moment a few men from the card room entered the corridor. “Here he is, and with Mornay! Come! We've got five minutes. Can we entice either of you gentlemen to join the game?”

“Not tonight,” Mr. Mornay replied.

“I'll consider it,” returned Alvanley, just to taunt them.

Mr. Courtney said, “We've got Argyll in his cups and out of half his estate! He'll be done up soon. But he's hocused. We need a witness before he's done up, or he'll challenge it later.”

“Black-hearted coves, the both of you,” muttered Mornay.

The man named Whipplehead took Mornay's arm, saying, “Sir, the man insisted upon the stakes! We were merely obliging him.”

Mr. Mornay shook himself free and replied cooly, “Do that again, and I'll hang you by the tails of your coat.” His voice had reverted to smooth-as-silk venom and had its usual effect.

Mr. Whipplehead quickly retreated behind Alvanley, who said, “Give it up, gentlemen. We're not for it.”

The two men shook their heads and turned to head back to resume their game.

Ariana.
Mr. Mornay wanted to see what she was up to. He headed back to the ballroom and looked around but did not find her. He asked the viscountess of her whereabouts.

“Oh but, Mr. Mornay!” she said, with a look of severe shock. “I was given to understand that you had decided to take her elsewhere. I thought the two of you had gone!”

His eyes narrowed. “Given to understand by
whom
?”

She thought hard for a moment. “I think it was…it was…oh dear.” She
turned to the Viscount, “My dear, what was the name of that young man who said he must take Miss Forsythe to Mr. Mornay?”

“What? The tall young blade?”

“Yes, the young man with the light hair. Do you not recall?”

Mr. Mornay, about ready to pop a button off his beautiful embroidered waistcoat, held his temper in check while he listened. But he clenched his fists with the effort.

The viscount, meanwhile, was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, I know that boy.”

“Yes, of course you know him,” she said, giving Mr. Mornay a nervous glance.

“Wants to go into the church, doesn't he?”

“That's it!” The viscountess looked enlightened. “Now I know.” She turned to Mr. Mornay with a reassuring smile. “Mr. O'Brien! I remember now. His mother has another son, I believe, in the Navy. We just talked of it tonight.”

Mr. Mornay had gone, however, as soon as the name of Mr. O'Brien had left her mouth, and she was left speaking only to her husband.

“I hope I did nothing amiss in handing her to Mr. O'Brien. He seemed such an agreeable gentlemanlike sort of man.”

Mr. Mornay continued his search. It was a footman, upon hearing him asking of Miss Forsythe, who offered the information that she had left the house in the company of a tall, light-haired gentleman not five minutes earlier.

With a severe look on his countenance, he went directly to the street, hoping to catch her with that addlepated youth before they could go elsewhere.

Out on the street, a few grooms and a passerby were huddled around something on the sidewalk. As he sent a boy to bring round his equipage, he caught a glance at the thing on the sidewalk. It was a man, and he was lying on the ground unconscious. For a moment he wanted to ignore this and go in pursuit of his wayward bride-to-be, but a tug on his conscience made him go and inspect the unfortunate lying there. If nothing else, he'd get him into the house where he'd be safe from thieves and hoodlums.

When the servants and other passersby saw him coming, they immediately gave way for him to inspect the person and told him that an officer had been sent for. Mr. Mornay nodded and bent over to get a look at the
victim. He froze in horror for a second. It was Mr. O'Brien. A quick look around assured him that Ariana had not been reduced to the same condition, but what on earth had happened? Here was Mr. O'Brien, the man last seen with his beloved, lying unconscious on the pavement, and there was no sight or sign of Ariana.

L
ord Antoine and Mr. Harold Chesley had arrived at Burton Crescent for the Herley's card party just in time to see Mr. Mornay and Miss Forsythe leave in their coach. Mr. Mornay saw the young men as they alit from the hackney, recognizing Mr. Chesley at once. Their eyes met, but Chesley knew better than to hope for a greeting from the Paragon. He averted his gaze and continued up to the house with Lord Antoine, who stared at the Paragon and had caught a glimpse of the beautiful Miss Forsythe—and couldn't help feeling a little fascination. His recent repentance of the plan to abduct the lady had only strengthened the more he thought on it. He was above certain he could never take part in such a scheme. It was harebrained and too serious an offense for his liking. Indeed, he had no stomach at all for terrifying innocent ladies.

It didn't help that at White's, as he commiserated with Mr. Chesley about his brother's plans, the young man had replied, “Bravo! It's time someone gave Mornay his comeuppance! If I may serve in any way, do, I beg you, avail yourself of me at once!” Mr. Chesley had not understood that Holliwell was washing his hands of the business. But his friend's vehemence interested him. “Are you only the man's enemy, or do you have aught against the lady too?”

Mr. Chesley paused, taking a thoughtful moment while he swallowed a good amount of ale. “My argument with the lady is that she has accepted the man. I detest him. I will gladly help in any scheme against him. As long as Miss Forsythe remains in ignorance of my hand in it, o' course.”

Holliwell nodded. He would keep his own determination—of being done with the business—to himself. He still liked Chesley though. He was an amusing chap. More, Chesley had a membership to White's, something
Antoine did not, and he liked the chance to be in the prestigious establishment, even if it was on the sly.

Ariana tried not to fall from her seat in the threadbare coach that was bulleting through the streets of London, heading toward the East End. She stared at her abductor and wondered whether she should attempt an escape from his clutches or not. He was not particularly frightening in appearance. That she was crying was more on account of the terrible sight, fresh in her mind, of Mr. O'Brien being struck down right in front of her! What if the man didn't survive? How had it all happened so quickly? And
why
?

Only minutes ago she had been at a glittering ball, enjoying herself quite satisfactorily and chatting with the viscountess. Then Mr. O'Brien had approached her with the startling news that he'd been sent by Mr. Mornay to take her back to Hanover Square.
We have only just arrived, but he wants me to go home?
Her first thought had been to find him and verify the matter.

But Mr. O'Brien's plea had been so eloquent. As he approached Ariana and the viscountess, he said, “I pray you, Miss Forsythe, allow me this honour, not only for your sake but for Mr. Mornay's. As you know he and I have never been friends, but he has elected to trust me in this, and I have every hope of pleasing him. It will constitute an excellent foundation for us to improve our acquaintance. Allow me to do this little favour for your esteemed future husband—I am gratified that he has asked it of
me
.”

How could I have refused?
She was starkly disappointed that her beloved was sending her home, however. Her mind filled with questions.
On what account? Does he want me out of the way so that he can spend his evening at cards without a qualm? Why wouldn't he himself come to speak to me? Has it come to this already, and we not even married yet?
Hearing the news from Mr. O'Brien had to mean it was Phillip's wish—Mr. O'Brien would never invent such a thing. So she questioned the matter no further. She merely sent word to Mrs. Bentley (who was enjoying herself as never before in society since Mr. Pellham was at her side), and left with Mr. O'Brien.

Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Bentley might have questioned this news. She herself might even have sought out Mr. Mornay to see what was what. But with her hand on Mr. Pellham's arm, and he so cleverly leading a little circle of her friends in a discussion of the Orient and amusing them
with anecdotes gleaned from his travel books, she could only manage to nod when she heard the report. Thinking to herself,
If Ariana is agreeable to the idea, then I shan't raise a dust,
her only worry was that the girl might have taken ill. Why else would she be leaving so early?

Hearing the matter, the viscountess had also given her approval. If Mr. Mornay wanted a thing done, it must be accomplished speedily! She came away with the misunderstanding that Ariana was to join Mr. Mornay in leaving the party, as such things were bound to occur when the rooms were full and the hearing of the lady in question very compromised as hers unfortunately was.

At the curb, where a shabby black coach waited and a strange servant let down the steps, Ariana felt a sudden suspicion and cried, “This is not Mr. Mornay's equipage!”

“Are you certain?” Mr. O'Brien asked. The appearance of the coach made him sure, even as he asked it, that she undoubtedly was right. Unlike Mornay's gleaming black coach of the first water, this sorry-looking vehicle was old and weathered, with scratches and dents on its side. He had no sooner spoken, however, when something very hard came down upon his head, and he fell to the pavement like one dead. Ariana let out a shriek, but her mouth was quickly muffled by a pair of strong hands. She was lifted into the carriage, someone hastily shut the door, and the carriage took off posthaste. She was not released from the man's grip until they had traveled down a few streets, upon which she darted to a seat nearest the door and as far away from her captor as possible. There she sat staring at him through teary eyes and wondering what her next move ought to be.

“Who are you and what do you want with me?”

The man, unshaven and scraggly, looked at her unconcernedly. “Nowt. I don't want nowt at all with ye.” He had very messy long hair, a sloppy hat that sat upon his head at an odd angle, and a patched overcoat. He calmly and carefully placed a pistol on his knee and said, “Be a good lass, and ye'll nowt get 'urt.” He turned a crooked smile her way, revealing nasty-looking dark teeth. He wore a pair of ragged mitts on his hands, and his boots were mud-encased. His coat looked two sizes too large and had enormous pockets. Ariana remembered hearing tales of pickpockets and thieves who wore such garments to hide their stolen treasures within to escape detection.

“If you want nothing, then why am I here?” she demanded. Her feeling of horror at what had befallen Mr. O'Brien coupled with the unspeakable
manhandling that had landed her in this predicament were giving her voice a hard edge that was not customary to her.

He eyed her, seemingly amused. “Ye're wanted, my laidy, but I don't ken what fer. It's five bob to me, that's what. That's all.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “You're being paid five pounds to—to abduct me? Is that it?”

Surprised that she hadn't already understood that clearly, he said, “That's it, right an' tight! Jes' doin' me job.”

“Your job? Do you mean you do this for a living?”

“I do what ah has to do, luv! No more 'n no less.”

She gripped the seat as the vehicle swung around a bend in the road. They were leaving the West End of town, and with a little shudder at what might lie ahead, she gave her full attention to reasoning with this man, who seemed, in his own queer way, to be reasonable.

“My good man,” she began, leaning forward to speak with all the earnest-ness she could muster but stopped in surprise when he burst out laughing.

“Ah, that's ripe!” he smirked. “Me, a good man!”

Ariana's lips pursed in impatience. “What I mean to say,” she inserted loudly, “is that I can offer you more than five pounds. I can give you twice that amount—if you turn this equipage around and deliver me to safety.”

This got his attention, and he raised his head with interest. “Ten bob?” he asked, with a strange gleam in his eye.

“Make it twenty,” she said, in case he was not impressed already.

“Twenty bob! Do ye have it on ye?” He eyed her suspiciously.

“No, but I give you my word that I will get it to you at once if you deliver me.”

He scratched his head, pulled a dirty rag from one of his pockets, and began wiping the pistol. He worked slowly, in no hurry, and then said, “I tell ye, luv, if I only could, I would take yer twenty bob.” He looked at her fully. “A pretty lass as ye are, I would take it if I could. More the pity, then, but I cain't. It would be ma life for it, luv.”

“Why on earth do you say that?”

“It's that Wingate fellow. A right lord 'e is, but there ain't nothin' lordly about him, s'far as I can tell.” His face took on a look of outrage and he put the gun down and cried, “'E's a right murderous blood, 'e is!” He looked at her as if she must certainly understand this. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Nay, it's five quid for ol' Whiddington, no more 'n no less.”

Ariana felt a surge of alarm. She remembered that Lord Wingate was a
man of terrible reputation, known for running up huge debts, gambling, drinking, and living a life of such debauchery that even the jaded
ton
had disowned him. For a titled gentleman—a
marquess
—to earn this judgment had to mean his conduct had been reprehensible to the extreme.

In addition, and this is what gave her especial pause, was that Lord Wingate's younger brother Lord Antoine had been forming an acquaintance with Lavinia. Miss Herley had hinted that this acquaintance might end in an event, but Mr. Mornay had put an abrupt end to it by revealing to her family his lordship's true character, which was little better than his elder brother's. Could her abduction be their revenge for interfering with the man's hopes? The Herleys were not known for having a fortune, and so this seemed unlikely. Yet, what else could explain it?

“Mr. Whiddington—that is your name, is it not?”

He frowned. “Did ah say that? Ay, I'm a right pudding 'ead! Jes' forget that name, luv! It'll do you nowt good! I'm nowt the one what's out fer ye. It's that Wingate what wants ye, 'e does.”

The coach stopped suddenly, having encountered a narrow street and needing to make way for an oncoming vehicle. Ariana, without even thinking about it, jumped toward the door and yanked at the handle, but Mr. Whiddington was on her at once. He took her strongly by the arms and forced her back to her seat, saying, “'Nay, luv, cain't let ye do that! Ye wouldn' want ol' Whiddington to face a bullet now, would ye?”

The coach started off again. Ariana, suddenly teary-eyed, said, “But you will hand me over to Lord—Lord Wingate, who is a murderous blood!
I
may well be facing a bullet, and I haven't the least idea why!”

Back on Curzon Street, Mr. Mornay came to his senses rapidly, bent down, and checked to be certain O'Brien was alive. Thank God, he was.