The House in Grosvenor Square (20 page)

Mr. Mornay pulled at Mr. O'Brien's coat lapels, bringing him to a sitting position. “Where is Miss Forsythe?” he asked sharply, though the young man's eyes were still shut.

Mr. O'Brien emitted a low moan and moved his head slightly. Mr. Mornay shook him gently, hoping to wake him but not hurt him. His moaning grew louder.

“Come out of it, O'Brien! Where is Miss Forsythe?”

The young man's face creased in thought, and he put one hand to his aching head. “What? What happened?” he asked.

“Ariana! Where is she?”

This brought him to, and he sat up abruptly, though in a great deal of pain. Holding one hand to his head where it ached, he drew it away only to see his own blood. His face took on a grave demeanour, but Mr. Mornay was at the end of his patience.

He lifted Mr. O'Brien so that their faces were not far apart. “Tell me where Ariana is, or I'll give you more to moan about!”

Startled, Mr. O'Brien blinked in surprise. Everything came rushing back.

“She was taken! In a coach! It wasn't yours. It was, eh, rather shabby, but I don't know whose it was.”

“What do you mean, it wasn't mine? Of course it wasn't mine!”

“Did you not ask me to escort Miss Forsythe home? I was told that you wanted me to escort her to the house, that you were sending your coach to convey us.”

Mr. Mornay's brows rose considerably. “Why on earth would I do that? You were told by whom?”

O'Brien grimaced. “Not sure. Goodby was his name, I think. Mr. Goodby.”

Phillip looked thoughtful and let him go, thinking hard. Mr. O'Brien had regained his senses enough to assess his condition and tried to get up, the throbbing in his head notwithstanding. Mornay's coach pulled up then, and his groom hopped to the ready and lowered the steps. Mornay turned to him. “Did you see what happened?”

“No, sir. I 'eard a commotion, but when I got round to see, I just saw a coach movin' off.”

A footman, who had elected to come along out of sheer boredom and who enjoyed a good game of cards while waiting for his master's return, piped up. “The coachman said somethin' was astir, sir.” The master went to speak to his driver.

Mr. O'Brien staggered to his feet.

“Can you follow it, do you think?” Mr. Mornay was asking the man atop the board. “Good. On the double.”

Ignoring O'Brien's presence, he made immediately for the door of the carriage, but just then Lord Alvanley—top hat, tailcoat, gloves, and cane in hand—came out of the house.

Mr. Mornay suddenly thought another hand might be needed. He gave way for a moment to his worst fears and yelled, “Alvanley, there's trouble and I need a hand. Come with me.”

His lordship saw that he was in earnest and hurried over. He said, “Dash it, Mornay, I'm just headin' to White's!”

Mr. Mornay saw O'Brien staggering unsteadily toward him from the corner of his eye, and this, more than anything, made him feel the very life of his love might be at stake. He took Alvanley as roughly by the lapels of his very fine coat as he had Mr. O'Brien by his moments earlier. All thoughts of not making a cake of himself were forgotten.

“I say, Mornay! You've no call to—”

“I need your help. You're coming with me. Any questions?”

“No.”

He pulled the man along roughly and pushed him into the coach, feeling he'd already wasted too much time. Two other peers of the realm had come out of the house just in time to witness that singular sight and looked at each other in astonished delight. Getting to see Mornay in one of his tempers was considered a treat—so long as you were not the one at the receiving end.

Mr. O'Brien was in no condition for heroics, but he hurried to follow the men aboard, preventing the groom from putting up the steps momentarily. He felt responsible for the disaster which may have befallen the angel—er, Miss Forsythe—and he wanted to be available, by all means, to do aught he could to rectify the situation. No matter that his head was still throbbing and bleeding. He was about to sacrifice a perfectly good handkerchief to stop the bleeding and hoped it would work.

“What the devil has got into you?” Alvanley fumed, trying to rearrange his disheveled attire. “Look what you've done to my coat! And I warrant my cravat needs tyin' again! And where the deuce are you takin' me?”

“Be quiet, you imbecile, and listen a moment. Miss Forsythe has been abducted just now.”

“What! No such thing!”

“Yes!”

“And I've got the blood to prove it,” put in Mr. O'Brien, holding out his deeply darkened handkerchief for Alvanley to inspect. The man took one look and pulled his head back in repugnance.

“Dash it! What happened?” Alvanley's tone of indignation had vanished, and he sounded downright contrite.

Mr. O'Brien told both men the story of what had happened as far as
he knew it. That he had been standing around at the ball when a man approached him. He introduced himself as Mr. Goodby and continued on with a great deal of gratifying apologies for taking the enormous presumption to make his own introduction, but that it must be understood as acceptable inasmuch as Mr. Mornay had required it of him. He asked if he, Mr. O'Brien, would do Mr. Mornay a favour.

Mr. O'Brien was understandably surprised that Mornay would need a favour, first of all, and that he would ask it of him. But perhaps he liked the idea of being needed by such a personage. Perhaps he felt it suited him, as a friend of the family, to be the one to whom the Paragon might ask a favour. Besides, did not good manners require that he be as helpful as he could? So in a moment, he announced that he was at Mr. Goodby's service and asked what he could do for him.

“Well, it seems Mornay has joined a fast game and wants to finish it, but he doesn't relish having his bride-to-be alone out here. He begs to know if you would be so kind, Mr. O'Brien, as to escort the angel home.”

“The angel? Oh, yes—Miss Forsythe?”

The man snickered. “Of course, Miss Forsythe, yes. What'll it be, lad? Will you oblige Mr. Mornay?”

“Are you seriously suggesting that Mr. Mornay would want me to escort Miss Forsythe to her house? And,” he added, looking around meaningfully, “she is hardly what I could call ‘alone.'”

“Well, she ain't with him, an' he knows you're a friend of the family, sir!”

“Well, yes, I am.” Mr. O'Brien was flattered by that. But he suddenly came to. “Look here, sir, Mr. Mornay knows I have not brought my equipage. I cannot think he would want me—”

“O' course he knows that, sir, as you say. He's sending word for his coach to be brought round directly, and he's given instructions that you may use the coach afterward to go to your own house or, if you like, to return here to the ball. Now, may I tell him that you are happy to be of assistance? Or should I say that Mr. O'Brien is unwilling to oblige? If you are, best say so, so's I can pass on the tidings. What'll it be, m' boy, eh?” With a confidential air he leaned in toward Mr. O'Brien. “Here's your chance to get in 'is good graces, y' know. Not likely to have a better one! I advise you to take it right off, sir, and give the man a reason to be in your debt.”

Well, that was putting things in a new light. The idea of Mr. Mornay coming forward to thank him was irresistible bait, and suddenly he was
agreeable to the idea. He sought out Ariana, letting it be known that he had been commissioned by Mr. Mornay himself to take his bride-to-be home. He admitted that Ariana had not been enthusiastic to the idea, but had no wish to displease her betrothed.

Mr. O'Brien finished the story; how the wrong coach had appeared and how everything went black directly following the whopping blow to his head. He touched it gingerly, feeling the wet blood on his hair, and reapplied his handkerchief.

Lord Alvanley was troubled, but after a few moments of thought, he said, “Hey! It might be someone playing a trick, you know.”

“Would a trickster have nearly done me in?” Mr. O'Brien lowered his head sufficiently so that the blood-reddened, nasty-looking gash could be seen in the lamplight.

Mr. Mornay took his first real look at the injury and grimaced. “You'd best be taken home where your mama can do something for you.”

“No, sir!” His energetic reply drew their attention. “I am to blame in this matter, and I will not go to my house until I know that Miss Forsythe is safe.”

Mr. Mornay looked appraisingly at him. “You'll be little good to us in your condition. In any case, because we haven't a clue as to the whereabouts of my fiancée, I think it better we leave you out of the business.”

“I must insist that you do not,” he replied looking very grave. For the first time since their acquaintance, Mr. Mornay felt the slightest twinge of respect for the young man. Perhaps he had some bottom after all. The matter was dropped.

The coach halted and the groom jumped down, came round, and rapped urgently on the door. He had been atop the board with the coachman just in case he might spy anything giving a clue of Miss Forsythe's whereabouts. He had seen her on many occasions and could recognize her—if they could find her.

Alvanley opened the door.

“Beggin' pardon, sir, but where do you want us to search?”

“Head toward the East End!” Mr. O'Brien cried in exasperation. He felt it did not take a man of much education to realize that most of the criminals in town came from that region of the metropolis.

The others looked at him in surprise, and Mr. Mornay felt his second little twinge of respect for the boy.

The groom looked to his master who said, “Do it.”

M
r. Whiddington eyed Ariana uncomfortably. Apparently he hadn't considered that he might be delivering a young woman of gentle birth to her death. But he shifted in his seat and then said, “Lor', I ain't supposin' it's a bullet 'is lordship's wanting to put into you, if ye' get ma meanin'.”

She gaped at him, horrified. The thought turned her lovely white face a deep red. Her countenance dropped so completely that Mr. Whiddington, seeing her response, said, “Oh, that's how it is, eh? You are a young'un. Well, I don't see as I quite got the choice there, now, do ah?”

“Of course you do! Lord Wingate might have picked a hundred other men to do his dirty work for him, but he chose you on account of your being available, that's what! It was your choice entirely, and I pray God you suffer for it!” She felt terrible as soon as the words left her lips, but Mr. Whiddington seemed, if anything, more uncomfortable than ever.

“Nay, ye needn't bring
Him
into it!” he muttered with a deep scowl. And then in an irked tone repeated, “Ah do what ah needs to do for me livin'! No more 'n no less!”

Ariana felt a sudden hope. “I shall pray to God this very minute for my deliverance!” She closed her eyes on the spot, tried to envision herself sitting in the pew at St. George's on a Sunday, and began a prayer, speaking loudly to impress her hearer with the words.

“Almighty God, we thank and praise Thee for Thy great might and power. For Thy omniscience! That Thou
seest
all! And
knowest
all!” She had decided to pray in the formal speech that the Anglican church used, even though her parents had always modeled the use of everyday language like
the Methodists, sensing instinctively that it would better impress her audience.

She peeked one eye open to see that Mr. Whiddington had indeed given her his full attention and was sitting there with a look of utter horror on his face.

“Nay, there's no call for that sort o' thing!”

“Of course there is!” she interjected, returning at once to her prayer. “We know, O God, that Thou art just and wilt do with us as we deserve on that great and coming day of judgment!”

“Oh now, did ye have to go and say
that
?”

Ignoring this, she added, “I heartily ask your forgiveness for
my
wrongdoings, O Lord.” She peeked and saw Mr. Whiddington now in a serious slump, his face quite dejected. His only sound was a low, drawn out, “Oh.”

She then began to pray in earnest. Lord Wingate had taken the trouble of tricking her into leaving the safety of the house, forcing her into the carriage with this vulgar ruffian, and had cruelly injured Mr. O'Brien. What, then, could he have in mind for her, except some horrible fate too unspeakable to contemplate? She forced her mind to focus on Mr. O'Brien and prayed very hard for his welfare. It gave her some peace to pray for someone other than herself, for it helped keep her mind from any thought of what might come. When Mr. Whiddington once again placed his pistol upon his thigh, holding it with one hand, it distracted her.

But his face was still dejected, filled with sorrow, in fact. There was just enough dim light from the glim he had with him to see faintly. The coach had very small windows, and she could not even see a street sign—nothing well enough to know their whereabouts. She eyed the pistol. She was in dangerous hands, indeed.

She thought of Mr. Mornay and how he would wish to protect her—if he knew! Oh, but he probably didn't.
Why didn't I verify that he wanted me to leave without him? He has never requested such a thing before. Why was I so willing to believe this of him?

Feeling herself ready to cry, she began to pray again, more fervently than before. It was the only way of keeping her emotions in check. She suddenly decided to try once more to sway the man with the one thing he most definitely wanted—money. With a curious look at him, she ventured, “I suppose you aren't interested in earning fifty pounds? This nasty business can still be avoided, and God Himself will look favourably upon you if you grant me your aid.”

The man looked over at her, but she could not make out his countenance. Then he grunted. “'Ow do you ken ought about God? We go back a long ways, ma pretty mort, and I got a long list o' things He didna like!”

“We all do, Mr. Whiddington. But God is forgiving.” Her calmness of manner impressed him more than her words. She seemed so utterly and entirely certain of what she was saying.

There was another silence and then a bitter guffaw. “Your list ain't nowt to the likes o' mine, depend upon it! I cain't be 'elped! An' I gots to do what I gots to do!”

“That is nothing to the point,” she returned, as calmly as before. “You mistake the matter. Size, quantity, quality, manner or matter of wrongdoing—it makes no difference to whether He can forgive you, sir! If you do the littlest misdeed you may as well have done the worst—either one keeps us from heaven!”

He was listening but with a look of doubt and suspicion. “Then it's all spades for me, luv—and for everyone else too! We're all done up!”

“We would be, you're absolutely correct, but for Christ who died for us. He died for
you
, sir! He
died
for you! He died to pay for every sin, big or little. Again it makes no difference to God, Christ's forgiveness covers all!” She stared at him accusingly. He seemed to have a conscience for God. He knew, somewhere in his being, he knew it was true. He wasn't ignorant. She felt no pity, just a cold anger. Suddenly just a cold anger. “You are giving yourself to a life of misdeeds when you might find mercy and help and forgiveness and
heaven
after all! How
can
you be so…pigeon-headed?”

Her large eyes were visible to him in the dark. They were filled with such indignation and righteous anger that for a moment Mr. Whiddington wanted to drop his head in his hands. Oh, why was this dratted bleached mort managing to render him useless? He was rapidly filling with self-reproaches so violent and unavoidable that his entire being was shaken. She was destroying the great wall he had carefully put in place to remove him from just such thoughts!

Other than removing his hat or cap when passing a gospel shop, he had managed for quite a long time to keep
Him
out of his thoughts altogether. Why did this laidy, so innocent-looking, indeed a right white ewe, have to remind him of all his sins? And then it hit him, and he felt alarm to the bottom of his holey boots.

“Ye're the Black Spy, ain't cha!”

“The
what
?”

“Old Nick! Old Harry. The devil 'imself!”

“Oh, don't be such a gull!” Ariana was finding herself saying the strangest things—
pigeon-headed, gull
—words she never used. Soon she'd be speaking “St. Giles' Greek,” if she wasn't careful. “Would I be telling you to mend your ways and that God will indeed forgive you utterly, if I were?”

“Ay,” he answered flatly, “'coz I cain't do it! Yo'r 'ere to torture me with it!”

“Of course you can't. Not on your own, but you won't be on your own. All you need do is ask for God to help you, and He will. There's nothing impossible about it!” She was really out of patience with him. “If you indeed wish to repent and have a home in heaven, then you must abandon your lawless ways. And I suggest you start right now!” She saw he was listening, giving her his curious but wary attention. So she added, “All you must do, right this minute, is
stop
being a vessel for evil. Do not take me to Wingate! Take me, first of all, back to the West End, and I, in turn, will see that you are rewarded handsomely. I'll…I'll find you a situation!”

“What,
me work
? I ain't never worked a day in me life!”

Impatiently she responded, “You, Mr. Whiddington, have had to work your entire life! Scrimping and scrounging. Napping other people's articles and effects at peril of your life. Then selling them to rogues for less than they're worth, no doubt.”

“Eh, 'ow'd you ken that?”

“It's what you do, sir. It's what hundreds of you do.”

He looked at her darkly, weighing her words. “What sort o' situation?”

Ariana stared at him, thinking for a moment. “I could take you on! You will be a man-of-all-work. Surely you are capable of helping cook, or—”

“In the
kitchens
?
Me?
” He wrung out the words to great effect, and his face took on a look of such abhorrence and aversion that Ariana saw her mistake and hurriedly added, “The stables then! The fields. Whatever you like, Mr. Whiddington!”

His countenance lifted at those words. “I kin drive a coach,” he offered, his eyes revealing a faint light of hope.

“We may need another coachman!” Her words were more encourage ment.

“Or I—I could be one o' those fancies, what 'angs on the back o' the carriage.”

“A footman! Of course!” She smiled at him.
So he sees himself wearing livery, does he?
“Mr. Mornay's livery is splendid! Crimson and gold. You'll look
so
—” Here her words died on her tongue, for what could she say? Handsome? That would be flummery. His was not the sort of physique that was favoured for footmen to begin with, being quite large of girth. His calves alone were absurdly unfit. Footmen in the best households were often hired by the look of their calves. They had to look good in the old-fashioned knee breeches and waistcoat, which livery required. Finally she said, “Dignified!”

He smiled, revealing a lopsided grin. She breathed a sigh of relief.

The carriage pulled up to the curb just then, and he said, “Wait 'ere, ma good mort!” The man then got out of the carriage and she was left alone.

Ariana strained to look out the window and was daunted to see they were in a little side alley in a seedy neighborhood. There were doxies standing about, eyeing the carriage with hardened, sullen looks. Ariana sat back quickly when the gaze of one fell upon her. Her headdress alone would inform anyone that she was a change from the usual fare of women on that street.

Fortunately Mr. Whiddington returned in a trice. The carriage began moving while he sat down heavily across from her. Then she heard the sound of flint striking stone and watched as he lit the lamp and extinguished the glim.

With the better light, she could see all the more why the man would have agreed to nap a girl for a mere five pounds. His clothing was ratty, the boots worn, and his unkempt hair scraggly. He had a large, bulbous nose, and his skin was reddish and unshaven. His eyes were deep in his face, rather large, and looking at her just as curiously as she was studying him.

Perhaps more so. His eyes lighted on the area above her chest, and she realized he was staring at her necklace, probably wondering how large a sum it could fetch him. It was an emerald surrounded by little diamonds, a gift from Mr. Mornay after his return from Chesterton.

“'Ow do ah ken ye'll keep yer word, if I bring ye back, eh?”

The carriage was turning around! She began taking off her necklace and said, “If I do not keep my word, you may keep this.”

He received it with glowing eyes, held it up closely for inspection and then shoved it down deeply into a pocket of his voluminous coat.

“Since I do mean to keep it and appoint you a footman,” she said, “you will return it to me when you don your livery.”

He nodded. “Agreed.”

“And now you will kindly give me your weapon.”

He looked at her askance with great alarm. “No such thing!” A sheepish
look. “Beggin' yo'r pardon.” But his face was pained. “But I cain't do that! Give up me barkin' iron?”

“Mr. Whiddington, I shall return it you when I've been delivered to safety. And then I will buy it from you. As a footman you'll really have no need of it.”

“No
need
?” he was incredulous. “I know the blokes what naps coaches, and they all got barkin' irons, mum! Aye, a footman needs 'is bull dog, all right.”

Ariana blinked. “A bull dog?”

He held up his pistol. “Me barkin' iron, mum.”

Ah, well. That was a thought! She would speak to Mr. Mornay on the matter.

He was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “O' course, bein' a fancy 'anger-on won't buy back me skin from 'is lordship! That cove'll be devilish puckered when he finds out ah've bilked him! What good is the fancy duds to me if I was to have my throat slit afore mornin', eh?”

This was alarming. The man was already having second thoughts. “I assure you, Mr. Whiddington, Lord Wingate will be brought to justice,” she hastily replied, “and he won't have the satisfaction of having made you a cat's paw!”

Mr. Whiddington slowly digested this point and then agreed with a hearty, “Ah-men to that, luv!” But then he added, “But lordships are never brought to justice! We ken that, all right.”