The House in Grosvenor Square (21 page)

“Oh, you don't know my fiancé,” she returned calmly. “This one will be.”

She would instruct him later on how to address her properly. No footman could call their mistress “luv” or any other such thing.

The light in the coach was still on, and suddenly another carriage came abreast of theirs, as if trying to pass them. Only instead of passing it remained side-by-side. It was precarious, and Whiddington's coachman tried to rid himself of the unwelcome neighbour by speeding up. The other coach did likewise. The carriage was beginning to sway, and Ariana and her captor were forced to hold onto their seats, their heads bobbing with the suddenly violent movements of the vehicle. The noise from the other coach's horses was loud, and Ariana had to yell, “What is happening?”

In response Whiddington cried, “That lunatic whip'll have us feedin' daisies yet!” They both hung on grimly. Little by little the other coach was forcing theirs to the side of the road. Whiddington blew out the light and had to place his hands against the side of the coach for support. Ariana
gripped the worn cushion of her own seat in order to remain upright. The carriage rocked as it dodged the other coach, which with seeming indifference appeared bent on causing a collision.

A loud report suddenly pierced the air. Ariana gasped.

Whiddington stuck his fat face at the tiny coach window just as the other vehicle finally drew ahead. The carriage immediately slowed down, and Ariana sat back with relief. She was no longer frightened of Mr. Whiddington, but this episode had given her new frights. Also she was anxious to get back to the viscount's to see her beloved, to find out how Mr. O'Brien fared, and, perhaps most of all, to simply revel in being
safe
again. What if this other coach was Lord Wingate's?

They continued to slow down, which further mystified and frightened her. Whiddington seemed to know what was afoot. “Blast! We're gettin' comp'ny!” Whiddington sat back in his seat and cocked his pistol. Then to Ariana's surprise, he dug into an inner pocket and pulled out another one.

“Come 'ere, luv, and sit behind me,” he said. Suddenly her abductor had become her protector.

“Do you think it's Wingate?” she asked in a fright.

“Cain't say. 'E's ridin' a wave, if it's 'im,” he replied, for he had noted that the coach was a real bang-up specimen, far richer than the one they were in, which
was
Wingate's.

“'Ere,” he said, keeping his eyes steadily on the door of the coach. They could hear footsteps on the street, rounding the vehicle.

“Ah 'ave yo'r word on those fancy duds, eh?”

“I promise you! Upon my word!”

“Awright then.” He pointed his pistol so that it faced the coach door.

In the next moment, the door of the carriage was pulled open from the outside and Mr. Mornay, with a thunderous expression, appeared holding a pistol. When Ariana saw him, she jumped at Whiddington's right arm, the one nearest her, screaming, “Don't shoot!” But it was too late. A report rang out, loud and leaving a cloud of smoke in its wake. Ariana's scream turned to, “
Nooo!
”

Whiddington had used the weapon in his left hand just as she screamed for him not to. The shot was excrutiatingly loud. Ariana's mind instantly filled with horror at the thought that her beloved had just been killed. And so despite all the hardiness and resourcefulness she had displayed since being taken and despite the fact that she had never done so before, she fell at once into a faint, slumping senselessly to the side.

F
reddie always waited up for the master. He had little to do in the middle of the night, however, so he sifted through the morning's mail, which he had left in a pile on Mr. Mornay's desk. Already there were letters from Christ's Hospital, Bridewell Hospital, Bethlehem, and St. Bartholomew's. Just yesterday he had carried letters on the silver salver to his master's study. Those letters were from such places as St. Thomas's Hospital, the National Benevolent Institution of 1812, the Orphan Working School, and the London Orphan Asylum at Clapton. He had longtime standing orders to cover all postage when necessary, but he would make it a point to see Mr. Mornay on this matter. Never had so many charitable solicitations been seen in the house! The family, of course, had always supported St. George's in Middlesex, the local poorhouse, and even Westminster Hospital here in London. But the recent influx of requests—for he was certain that's what they were—was entirely beyond the pale.

Haines, at Hanover Square, was experiencing a similar puzzling onslaught of mail. A sudden stampede of letters, most of them addressed to Miss Fosythe. Haines too could hardly help but notice that the letters were nearly all from charitable institutions—more letters than he'd remembered arriving at Hanover Square before. It started suddenly one day and to date showed no sign of abating.

Today there had been letters from Guy's Hospital in Southwark, London Hospital on Whitechapel Road, St. Luke's, Small-Pox Hospital, and even from an ophthalmic hospital in Moorfields! Yesterday's deliveries had origins such as the London Fever Hospital, Lock Hospital, the City of London Lying-in Hospital on City Road, an infirmary for diseases of the skin, located on Blenheim Street, an infirmary for diseases of the lungs on Artillery Street
in Bishopsgate. Why were they all targeting Hanover Square? It mystified him.

Much as he hated to endanger Miss Forsythe's mail, he would have to inform the mistress. Most of these letters came with postage to be paid on receipt. Normally he paid all such expenses without question. In this case it wouldn't do. Letters were coming in the early and late mails. Some days there were three deliveries, and it was adding up. Surely Mrs. Bentley would not approve.

“Hold your fire!”

“Stand down!”

“You're outnumbered, sir!”

The firm voices of the men outside the coach were daunting. Mr. Whiddington, shaken because his shot had not landed where he had aimed it, namely at the forehead of the man who had swung open the carriage door with such force, slowly lowered his weapon. He pulled his other arm loose from the weight of the laidy who had swooned against him. If it had not been for that, he would have rapidly followed his first report with another, but she had prevented it.

He saw two pistols pointing in at him and said, “Awright then,” in a voice that conveyed his ire.

Mr. Mornay, with one leg on the steps and holding his pistol so that its barrel pointed squarely at Whiddington's heart, said, “Get out!” His manner, look, and tone were all sufficiently awesome so that Mr. Whiddington rose to do as he was told. Mr. Mornay quickly shouted a second order, “Put your weapons on the floor!”

Whiddington stopped, set the guns down, and then moved past the severe-looking bloke on the steps. As he exited the coach, he noticed that the coachman was already bound at the wrists and was wearing a mean-looking expression. The coachman was a fellow rogue known as Blighter, so named for his foul odour. Even among those for whom being odoriferous was not uncommon, Blighter's stench was thought to be so severe that it was capable of causing a blight.

“Why'd ye stop, ye greenhead?” Whiddington hissed at Blighter.

“I did me best!” Blighter spat out, following it with a real spit of some dark substance. “We'd 'ave capsized for sure, if I 'adn't.”

Mr. O'Brien took out his last handkerchief, rolled it up, and tied
Whiddington's hands behind his back, like the other man's. “On your knees!” he said to the men, using a tone of authority that became him. The ruffians dropped down.

Meanwhile inside the carriage, Alvanley watched as Mr. Mornay picked up Ariana and sat down with her in his arms. Sitting across from the two of them, Alvanley, a man of endless surprises, handed Mornay what looked like a little nosegay of cloth bound with ribbon. “Smelling salts,” he said.

“Obliged.” Mornay's brows were raised with surprise, but he took the little package and held it under Ariana's nose for a second.

She came to with a short gasp and a sudden start. One hand flew to her head. She grimaced, but then seeing her beloved, she threw herself against him. “Oh, Phillip! I thought—I thought you'd been killed!”

He was holding her equally tightly. Alvanley, with a little smile, turned his back on the couple to give them privacy.

Mr. O'Brien glanced into the carriage and saw that the angel was unharmed. He sighed with relief but felt his aching head all the more.

Ariana and Mr. Mornay finished a passionate kiss. “Come, let me get you to safety,” he whispered to her.

She rose with his help, surprised to find herself feeling shaky and woozy. He helped her from the carriage with one hand and then tucked her arm inside his. Ariana could just make out Mr. O'Brien. “Oh! Thank God! I thought he may have been killed too.”

As Mr. O'Brien turned his head, she knew at once that he had been hurt, but his presence meant that it could not have been too severe. He was looking vastly relieved, standing there with the rogues on their knees beside him. Lord Alvanley was holding a small torch, his face a study of fascination and enjoyment. He was delighting in the opportunity of being witness to such a momentous event involving Mornay and his angel. He would have excellent fodder for conversations in the highest drawing rooms of the
ton
for weeks. All of his pique at Mornay's earlier bullishness had vanished.

Mornay turned to Alvanley and said, “Take their coach and drive these men to the magistrate. Tell him I want them taken directly to the hulks.”

“Not the hulks!” shouted Whiddington. Every criminal was imbued with a fear of the hulks. They were retired war vessels that were in perpetual dock. Originally opened to ease overcrowded prisons, they housed those awaiting transport—and never closed. They were cramped, dark, filthy, miserable places, and many prisoners didn't survive them to be moved on to a permanent place.

Whiddington's voice got Ariana's attention. She turned to see him again and remembered that she had made an agreement with the man. “Oh! My dear sir, Mr. Whiddington was helping me!”

“What?” Mornay looked at her in surprise.

“Really, dearest! I promised him a situation for his help. You can see we were heading back to the West End. He agreed to return me to safety in return for a situation with our staff!”

The coachman heard Ariana's words and sneered at Whiddington. “Well, are you not the turn-cat!”

“I'm not a cat's paw at any rate!”

“Yes, you are—to that mort!” He nodded toward Ariana.

“She's a right gentry mort!” returned the other.

“Hold your tongues!” It was Mr. O'Brien, to his credit, who interfered.

Mornay glanced back at the malkintrash and tried not to grimace. “He nearly killed me,” he said to Ariana calmly.

Alvanley added, “If your betrothed hadn't jerked his head aside before you could say ‘Jack Robinson,' he'd a been a goner!”

Ariana shuddered and drew closer to him, at which he covered her hand with his other, but she said, “We thought you might be Lord Wingate in pursuit!”

“Wingate? Whatever for? Is he in this?”

“He hired Mr. Whiddington to take me! But I convinced Mr. Whiddington to work for me,” she said earnestly, making Mr. Mornay smile at her and shake his head.

“So I'm not the only one you can beguile, eh?”

She smiled. “I prayed a great deal too.”

“So did I.”

Alvanley had overheard this remark and his eyes bulged for a moment. Then he chalked it up as something his friend had to say to please his bride-to-be. There wasn't the least possibility, to his mind, that Mornay might have meant it.

Suddenly Whiddington nodded at Mornay and cried out, “I gots to speak to the fine bloke—alone!”

Mr. Mornay turned, saw Whiddington looking at him, and said, “Very well. Put him in the carriage.”

After O'Brien told him to rise, he walked back to the coach, stopping by Ariana to say, “I 'av yo'r word, mum?”

“You do!” she assured him, even as Mr. O'Brien pushed him along. After
Mr. Whiddington had entered, Mr. Mornay hopped in and sat across from him but kept his pistol at the ready.

“See, guvnor,” Whiddington said, wary of the pistol, “I didna want to deliver the little white ewe! She's as sweet as a saint, so 'elp me, God!”

“But you took her from safety—you took her from me. You also nearly killed our companion with that blow to the head.”

“That was nae me, m'lord!”

“Governor will do,” he said sardonically.

“Well! I 'av to make me livin', same as you,” he said, trying to sound reasonable.

“Yes, and you'll go to Newgate—or the hulks for how you've chosen to do so.”

This got him mad. Whiddington made a move as if to dig in a pocket, but Mornay said, “Ah, ah, ah,” and held his pistol up.

Ariana now climbed up into the carriage and sat near Mornay. She tried to speak, but Mr. Whiddington cut her off with, “It's no good, mum. 'E won't 'ear me at all.”

She turned to her beloved, who only glanced at her, wanting to keep an eye on his foe. “I gave him my word,” she said, watching his face.

Mornay continued to watch the other man but said, “Giving your word to a man who has abducted you is completely understandable—but not binding.”

“To me it is!”

“He deserves Newgate at the least—if not for today's work, then for many another, I'm quite certain.”

“But people can change! He wants to! He wants to wear livery!”

The raised brow. He had to turn his face and give his love a look of incredulity. “That's not possible,” he said firmly.

“Why not?”

He shook his head. “You don't realize what you're asking. This man would have access to our house. Our very lives could be at stake. I can't do it. You know I want to please you, but I'm afraid that in this case, it would be sheer lunacy.”

Whiddington interjected, “I ain't done nothin'. I was returnin' the laidy to ye.”

Mr. Mornay said, “I'll see you to a compromise.” He looked quickly at Ariana, who was listening intently.

“Yes?” she said.

“I'll give him his freedom. With the understanding that if he dares to come near you again in this life, it will be the end of it.”

Whiddington looked visibly relieved. It was a disappointment but far better a prospect than City College, as they called Newgate, or even worse, the hulks.

Ariana frowned and looked sadly at Whiddington. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I meant every word I spoke to you.”

He looked away uncomfortably. She felt so guilty that she had to say something else. Something to cheer the man. “You may keep the necklace.”

“What?”
Mr. Mornay saw her bare neck and knew immediately what she was offering him—a costly piece of jewellery, which he had bought for her only a sennight ago. Ariana clapped a hand over her mouth. Then, knowing that Phillip would surely try to get the necklace back, she turned to him again, took hold of his arm, and put her face nearer his. “Darling,” she wheedled, “we must let him keep it! I promised that if he did not become a servant, he could keep it.”

His mouth was set in a firm line. Even her use of the word
darling
did not soften his resolve. Instead he called to Alvanley, who was standing out-side nearby.

When Alvanley opened the door, Mr. Mornay said, “Call O'Brien to escort Miss Forsythe to my coach, while you guard the other man. I will join her shortly.”