The House in Grosvenor Square (51 page)

The doctor looked concerned. “Are you really being wed tomorrow?” At the nod from his patient, he added, “I daresay you will need to rest a great deal to recover properly. I must advise you to put off the ceremony if that is possible.” A loud cheer followed this advice, but Mr. Mornay was shaking his head.

“I'd sooner
die
!”

Oddly this brought an abrupt silence. For the first time, Mornay's friends realized he was in love. He wasn't just getting married to beget an heir as many men did. Mornay—in
love
!

The very thing he had feared to reveal—that he was terribly and deeply in love—surfaced now unwittingly. Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed.

“Scropes, this is all your fault,” someone said.

“What! Not at all!”

“It is! That deuced game was your idea!”

“We should never have waylaid him. Let's face it, gentlemen.”

“I said we hadn't ought to!” shouted another.

Alvanley's face lit up with a thought. “I say, can you fix his arm up all pretty? We'll see him home. It's not too late for him to catch his beauty rest, and he'll be patched up enough for the wedding.”

Mr. Pellham took Mrs. Bentley's hand. They were facing each other, and Mrs. Bentley wore a wobbly smile and had watery eyes. She knew Mornay had not appeared yet, and she should have been up in the boughs over it but was not. She couldn't be, for she simply had no room in her heart at the moment. She was too busy cementing her relationship to Randolph Pellham. She was being married!

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” The two
heads bent together momentarily, and a loud murmur of approval resulted in the church. When they turned around to face the onlookers, people began to clap. The princess stood up clapping, and so of course everyone else followed suit. Ariana was clapping, but her mouth was compressed in a hard line as she tried to control her distress. Tears built up and blurred everything, and she hastily wiped at her eyes, but it was no use. She could no longer control it. Mr. Mornay had changed his mind or some such thing!

My lord! My lord! Why hast thou forsaken me?
It was perhaps an overly dramatic bit of Scripture to fall upon, and yet she felt forsaken, indeed.

T
he pain of poking around for the bullet convinced Mr. Mornay that he would have to accept the laudanum. Or drink himself under the table. He took a dose of the physic. It did nothing to relieve the pain, though he did feel somewhat less tense. When the doctor was prodding inside the wound to actually remove the solid intruder, Mornay's other arm, his right, suddenly shot out and stopped him, grasping the man tightly.

“
Sir!
Have a care!” he said through gritted teeth.

The man paused, swallowed, looked around at the other men, and said, “He's getting another dose. If he doesn't have it, he'll kill me before I've finished.”

Mornay took it too, which spoke eloquently in itself of how much the procedure hurt.

Nevertheless, with that and a bracing glass of port that he was heartily enjoined to accept—by his friends, not the doctor—he was taken home rather less in his own power than he had hoped to be.

It was going on four o'clock in the morning, and the servants, even the usually fortitudinal footmen, were asleep! The house was quiet! Alvanley joked that they should descend upon the butler en masse and give the man a fright he'd not soon forget for his lassitude. But Mornay muttered, “To bed, genelmen, to bed.” He was acting foxed, to be sure. Must have been the drug.

They found the bedchamber—what they took to be his bedchamber, at any rate—and got the man into bed. Grafton was still along and said, “Hey, ought we not to leave the servants a note about what has befallen their master, do you think?”

“He hasn't lost his tongue, Your Grace!”

“Right. Well, draw the curtains. Let's leave him to rest.”

When they were assembled outside, Lord Alvanley said, “Which one o'us is going to make sure he doesn't sleep past his wedding, eh?”

“Don't be a gull, the man's got servants! Surely they'll take care o' that!”

Grafton nodded. “Right.”

It all flooded back to Mornay while he dragged himself from the room and went toward his own chamber. He'd been shot by that pigeon-head Chesley, after which his friends had no doubt had to bring him home and— best and worst of all—his wedding was today, but he'd slept late! When he strode painfully into the room, Fotch's eyes opened as wide as saucers, and he jumped to his feet.

“Sir!”

“Why the deuce didn't you wake me? Don't you know what day this is?” He strode into the room before Fotch could change his expression from amazement to relief, but it was short-lived. Mr. Mornay was a sorry sight. The Paragon, wounded like a soldier, was wearing half a shredded shirt, no cravat, no coat, and no waistcoat. The clothing he did have on was garishly blood-stained. If Fotch had not been a man of a stout heart, he might well have grown faint at the horror of it.

“Sir! Your arm! If I might be allowed to say how sorry I am!” He followed his master into the adjoining dressing room.

“Thank you. How much time do I have?” Mr. Mornay sat down and held out one muscular leg. His buff leather pantaloons were ruined by drops of dried dark blood, and his boots would need a good cleaning. Fotch immediately got before him and began to remove the boot.

“The wedding begins in fifty-four minutes, sir.” When he'd taken the boots off, he darted to the bellpull and gave it far more jerks than necessary to call for help—desperate times, desperate measures! Soon the sound of hastening footsteps was heard approaching.

Frederick appeared first. When he saw his master, he sighed with relief and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. And then he saw the bandaged wound on his arm. His eyes bulged. He turned to a maid. “Send for the family doctor on the double!”

“No need for that,” his master said.

Frederick said to a footman, “Get a bath up here at once!”

“There's not enough hot water for a bath, sir!” said the maid.

“I want it brought now! To the devil with hot water!” This was a severe oath to leave the lips of the butler, and both servants turned abruptly to do his bidding. “And do send for the doctor,” he called after them.

“Freddie, are you my butler or my mother? I said no doctor!”

Fotch also wanted very much to have the doctor take a look at the injury—the bandaging was brown from dried blood, and Mr. Mornay's colour was pale. “Did you just get in, sir?” He was still trying to figure out what had happened.

“No. I was in the guest bedchamber.”

“You!” Freddie and Fotch exchanged surprised looks. “My word, there all along!”

“Yes, and not my guest apparently. He never showed, eh?”

“Mr. Timmons, sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Timmons!”

Freddie cleared his throat. The master looked at him in amazement. “Well?”

“He is here actually, sir. He fell asleep apparently, waiting for you to come in.”

“But not in the guest bedroom, or I should have had company. So where was he?”

“In the parlour.”

Mornay gave a breath of a laugh. “So our guest slept in the parlour, and I slept in the chamber that should have been his.” He closed his eyes tiredly. “Fotch, you know I must hurry!” Fotch
was
proceeding slowly, being gentle and careful instead of aiming for speed, as he usually did.

“I won't have time for a bath,” he said.

Fotch, clearly scandalized, exclaimed, “But sir! Your wedding!”

Two footmen carried in a tub, followed by other servants with buckets of water. Fotch felt the water in one and then eyed the footman with surprise, who said, “Mr. Frederick told us to hurry. We hurried.”

When the servants had gone, Fotch said, “Come on then. We've got a wedding to get you to.”

Mr. Mornay was one handed and needed an arm to steady him as he got into the tub. No sooner did his foot and leg hit the water than he cried, “Aah! This water is freezing!” He began to pull his leg out again, but Fotch and Freddie stopped him.

The valet said, “Ah, sir, we didn't have time for a hot bath, did we?”

“Don't patronize me, Fotch! I'll have your situation!”

“Yes, sir,” he said, hiding his smile. He and the butler gently pushed their master into the unwelcoming water.

Ariana faced the newlyweds to her right, hoping that her face showed only happiness for them, not distress. She smiled at her aunt, trying valiantly to hide her own turmoil, but Mrs. Bentley was aware of Mr. Mornay's absence, and her eyes grew wide when she saw that he had still not appeared.

Mr. O'Brien was there suddenly, and Ariana turned to him in alarm, ready to give him a set-down. He moved past her, however, and went up to the vicar.

Ariana's aunt whispered into Mr. Pellham's ear, and they waited there in front of the church instead of proceeding down the aisle. She moved toward Ariana, as though she merely wanted an embrace from her relation, when in fact she wanted to know if there might be an explanation that her niece knew of.

There was no way the coat was going to fit over the injured arm. Fotch and Freddie's attempts to make it do so resulted in involuntary exclamations from its owner—which at any other time of his life would have been laced with various epithets and oaths controlled now only on account of his newfound sense of religion. The bandaging was simply too bulky for the perfectly fitted sleeve.

“Sir, you can be married without a coat.”

“Don't be absurd! Is that blasted doctor coming or isn't he?”

A sound at the door at that very moment reached their ears, and Freddie went to investigate. Mr. Wickford had arrived. When he entered the dressing room, Mornay said, “I need a new dressing, and it must be undetectable so that I may wear my coat today.”

The man blinked saying, “What happened to the arm, sir?”

While Fotch speedily undid the snowy shirt and removed it, Mr. Mornay explained that he'd been shot at Boodle's by a man too deep in his cups. Fotch and Freddie swallowed nervously and exchanged glances once more. At Boodle's? One of the most exclusive men's clubs in town! And shot? My word! Thank God no worse harm had come to the master!

The doctor took out his equipment and asked for clean cloths, which were speedily supplied. The servants' attention was drawn to the wound, which Mr. Mornay himself could not fully see since Chesley had shot him from behind. He was well aware of the man's progress, however, and shot out remarks accordingly: “I don't need you poking in the wound! The bullet was removed by a man at the club! Have a care, Wickford! I cannot be bleeding at my wedding!”

“Your wedding, sir?”

“Yes, for which I am late this very minute. I need the smallest wrapping possible so I can wear my coat. And hastily done, if you please!”

“Sir, it must be sufficiently covered and with enough pressure to keep the bleeding stopped.”

“My coat sleeve will supply it. I assure you, my tailor is incomparable at fitting sleeves.” A good tailor did indeed fit a man's coat to the width and length of his arms for a snug fit. He did not make allowances for the odd chance that his client might suffer a bullet. It would supply some pressure.

The doctor, however, did not look happy. He eyed the servants for support, but they only shook their heads. He had best appease their master.

In a short time, the Paragon was looking much improved. He was clean and freshly shaved. He wore a beautiful snowy-white shirt, a cravat, and a fine waistcoat worthy of the Regent. His coat was successfully coaxed over the wound but not without discomfort. The greater bulge of the bandaging faced the back, which thankfully Mornay could not well see. Fotch assured him of its being undetectable—with his fingers crossed behind his back.

Dark fitted breeches, white stockings, shoes, and a new black hat completed the outfit.

“Freddie, where is Timmons? I've forgot all about him! We must be off. See that he's ready.”

Freddie's face balked. He too had forgot all about him. “Sir, there's something about Mr. Timmons you'll need to know.”