The House in Grosvenor Square (22 page)

“Phillip!” she cried. “I gave my word! Pray, be reasonable. The man must have some reward—he was bringing me back to safety. Lord Wingate will cut his throat for it! He quite deserves it.”

Mr. Mornay, with his eyes on the prisoner, murmured dryly, “I'm sure he does.”

Lord Alvanley by now was taking Ariana from the coach, easily overpowering her and leading her gently but firmly from the vehicle. Mr. O'Brien stood at the bottom of the steps, keeping his eyes on the other fugitive, but poised to help Alvanley if necessary.

Ariana did not have much fight in her. She was ashamed at the behaviour of her betrothed and of her inability to keep her promises to Whiddington. But she'd been through quite a lot, and at least she was safe now. She accepted Mr. O'Brien's arm without a word and allowed him to hand her up into Mr. Mornay's coach. Inside she sank gratefully onto the cushions and took some deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

Finally she looked over at Mr. O'Brien, who was watching her with a rapt expression.

“I am greatly relieved to find you well, sir.”

“Miss Forsythe, you cannot be nearly as happy as I am to find you so.”

Then she noticed that some of his hair was matted with blood, and she sat up with a gasp. “Oh, you
are
hurt!”

“It's stopped bleeding,” he said, but he couldn't help but to enjoy her concern.

“I was praying very hard for you,” she confided, “after we took off, leaving you like that.”

“As soon as I came to my senses, I was praying for you,” he admitted, not looking at her.

He rubbed his hands together and played with the fringes of his sleeve while he said, “I felt dreadful about having put you into such a position. It was all my fault, I'm afraid.”

“Your fault? That there is such evil in the world? No, I cannot blame you,” she said gently.

He looked fully at her and shook his head. “I should never have believed that Mr. Mornay would ask a favour of me—I should have known better. It was my vanity entirely that persuaded me to credit the idea.”

“Vanity is forgivable, Mr. O'Brien.”

“It is a twin, Miss Forsythe, of pride.” They looked at each other. “And pride, we both know, is what occasioned Lucifer's fall. I am as guilty of pride as the next man, who, I daresay, has much more to be proud of than I!” He spoke a little bitterly, and it touched Ariana's heart. She was distracted by her concern for Mr. Whiddington but tried to give her attention to Mr. O'Brien. He did not deserve to blame himself for what had occurred.

“
Dear
Mr. O'Brien,” she said, leaning forward in her seat. He looked up, from where he had begun to hold his head in his hands, thoroughly ashamed of himself for his role in the events of the night—and noticed how earnestly beautiful Ariana looked.

He raised his head.

Back in the East End, Lord Wingate, that tall, thin, ne'er do well of an old ne'er do well family, was pacing while he waited at an appointed place for the return of Whiddington—and Miss Forsythe. He might have been a
remarkably handsome man except that his life of debauchery, coupled with his meanness of character, served to lessen the natural appeal of a well-shaped head and fine features. Instead of the proud nobleman he should have been, he was merely a “beau-nasty,” a slovenly, gaunt shadow of a man, with few reminders, either in his person or apparel, of having had prior wealth.

His eyes, narrow but sharp, scanned the dark street. A carriage or two went by from time to time but not his own. He went back to pacing. Where the devil was Antoine? Despite what he'd said earlier, Julian was certain his brother would appear. After all if their scheme worked, Antoine stood to gain as much as he did.

As the minutes passed and no coach arrived, Lord Wingate could endure it no longer. He slammed his fist against the nearest building and cried out, “Where is that deuced Whiddington? The devil, but something's gone amiss!” He wondered if that man, O'Brien, hadn't been gullible enough for the scheme to work. But then wouldn't his men have been back by now? He cursed himself for sending idiots to do his own work. He should have known better. He wouldn't make the mistake again.

Sitting across from Whiddington, Mr. Mornay fixed him with a steady stare. “The necklace,” he said, “let's have it.”

“Y'or mort promised it to me!”

“Unfortunately it is me you are dealing with now, not her. Hand it over.”

“Will ah get nothin' from ye then?”

“I've already said, you'll get your life. Your freedom.”

“Free to be done in by Wingate!”

“The company you keep, sir, is your own doing.”

“When I was seein' ma way to save yer mort!”

“Hand it over.” He cocked his pistol.

Mr. Whiddington dug deeply into an inside pocket of his voluminous coat. He was keeping a disgruntled eye on Mr. Mornay as he did so, searching around with his hands. Finally his face lightened, and he pulled out—not the necklace, but yet another pistol! The men's eyes met in a deadlock for the merest split second. Mr. Mornay had sensed that something was afoot, watching him intently. Immediately upon glimpsing the pistol, Mornay kicked out his foot, knocking Whiddington's hand that held the gun. The
gun fired and went flying, the bullet missing Mr. Mornay's head by only an inch.

The horses, meanwhile, had been stamping impatiently. This rude, startling noise sent them into enough of a panic to take off pell-mell, whinnying in alarm. Mornay's groom was holding the reins to prevent just such an occurrence, but he was surprised nearly as much as the horses. He could not contain his hold on them. The force of those two frightened animals overpowered him, and he had to give up, releasing the ribbons before he was pulled along to his death. With deep remorse, he watched as the vehicle disappeared quickly from sight on the dark road. There was no coachman, no one in charge of the horses, and his master was inside. Moreover, the shot may have meant Mr. Mornay was in danger—or worse.

Inside the vehicle, Whiddington dropped all pretense of bravado and hid his head in his arms shouting “Don't shoot! I didna mean to shoot it! I was nae goin't shoot ye!”

Alvanley watched the rapidly disappearing carriage with a look of surprise—and then unbelief—on his face. Good heavens! Mornay was in that coach! He looked at a loss for a moment, but his eyes settled on his friend's coach, and he quickly handed a pistol to the groom saying, “Guard this cove with your life! We'll be back for you. You have my word!”

He hurried over to the coach and jumped up without using the steps, shouting to the coachman, “After them!” But when he landed inside and had closed the door, he turned—and was struck dumb with a shock of a different sort.

That dandy-prat O'Brien was holding the angel in his arms!

To make matters worse, when the coachman took off abruptly, Mr. O'Brien found himself pitched forward, so that he fell upon the cushion and was practically on top of the lady.

Alvanley glared. While Mr. O'Brien scrambled to gather himself, Lord Alvanley noticed Miss Forsythe's mantle had been removed! There it was on the floor, as though discarded with great haste. Once Mr. O'Brien had managed to move away from Ariana, Alvanley could see that she lay unconscious on the cushion but was slowly sliding toward the floor. O'Brien picked her up and sat her on the seat, letting her rest against him. He quickly put an arm around her to keep her from slumping forward onto the floor.

As her head fell against his shoulder, he looked protectively at her but then back at Alvanley, who was still glaring at him. Mr. O'Brien gave a great sigh of relief. “I thought she'd been shot! She's fine,” he said and almost laughed.

Alvanley regarded him warily. “I should think not! What the deuce made you consider elsewise?”

“I didn't realize she'd swooned! I heard the report, and then she fell against me directly. I thought she'd been shot!”

“Well, now you know she wasn't. I say I think you should unhand her, sir.”

“She's out cold! I dare not.”

“What happened to her?”

“Fainted, I daresay, after hearing the report. Poor creature. She's been through so much tonight. But I can't tell you how relieved I am that she hasn't taken a bullet! She gave me a bang-up fright.”

Alvanley felt for his smelling salts but remembered he'd not got them back from Mornay earlier. “Dash it!”

“So who fired the shot?” O'Brien asked.

“I haven't a clue. I heard it like you, and then those deuced horses took off as though all hell was at their backs!”

Mr. O'Brien's eyes filled with understanding. “With no whip?”

“No whip.” Alvanley paused and added, “Unless it's a ghost driver! You'd think those horses never heard a pistol before!”

“And Mr. Mornay?”

“He's in there, all right, with the fat one. Let us hope we can catch up and that he hasn't overturned!”

Mr. O'Brien was silent a moment. “Mornay might have been shot then.”

Lord Alvanley faced the young man. It was a thought he had shared but had no wish to believe. “Don't get your hopes up,” was all he replied, with another glance at Ariana.

Mr. O'Brien felt little affection for Mr. Mornay, but this was unworthy of him and his eyes flared with anger.

Alvanley continued, “'Tis more likely the other fellow that was shot, if anyone was. Let us hope it is so!” His eyes fell on Ariana once more. He hated to think of facing her if something terrible had occurred. He looked back at O'Brien. “Why's her mantle on the floor?”

Startled, Mr. O'Brien looked down and picked it up, putting it gingerly beside her. “It fell, I suppose.”

“Not by itself.”

Mr. O'Brien felt the hair stand up on his neck. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

“What did you do when Miss Forsythe fainted, sir?”

“I do not care for your tone, sir.”

“Answer the question, sir!”

“I thought she was shot! I told you so! I was looking to see if she'd been wounded!”

In a caustic tone, Alvanley replied, “Which is why you were cinching her clothes.”

Mr. O'Brien was almost speechless. “I was looking for the wound, sir!” There was a pause, while neither one spoke. Mr. O'Brien's eyes flicked back over Ariana, still propped up in his arm. “She fell over directly following the sound. How was I to know she had merely swooned?”

“That is a poor excuse for manhandling Mr. Mornay's betrothed!”

Suddenly Mr. O'Brien was inclined to agree.
What a thick pate I am!
What an idiot to remove her mantle.
But he'd been so worried. His only thought was that he had to find the wound, to know how badly she was hurt.
Why didn't it occur to me that she might have fainted?
With a growing discomfort, he realized how things must have looked to Lord Alvanley. It had all happened so fast, and he'd had no time to think about propriety or how things would look.