Haines, at Hanover Square, was experiencing a similar puzzling onslaught of mail, a 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 than he remembered arriving at Hanover Square before. 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 “Opthalmic Hospital” in Moorfields. Recent deliveries had origins such as the London Fever Hospital, Lock Hospital, the City of London Lying-in Hospital on City Road, and An Infirmary for Diseases of the Skin, located on Blenheim Street, and an Infirmary for Diseases of the Lungs, on Artillery Street in Bishopsgate. Why were they all targeting Hanover Square? It mystified him.
Though it was 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. 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 that his shot had not seemed to land where he 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 lass 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.”
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 look and tone were sufficiently awesome so that Mr. Whiddington rose to do as 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 with his hands up. As he exited the coach, he noticed that the coachman was already bound at the the wrists and wore 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 him.
“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, who fortunately carried a second handkerchief with him, took it out, 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 rare 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, until she came to with a short gasp and a sudden start. Seeing her beloved, she threw her arms around him.
“Oh, Phillip! I thought—I thought you’d been killed!”
He was holding her equally tightly. Alvanley, with a little smile, exited the carriage. Mr. O’Brien’s worried countenance saw Alvanley’s and he knew that the angel was unharmed. He took a breath of relief. But felt his aching head all the more.
Ariana and Mr. Mornay finished a passionate kiss. “Come, let me get you to safety.” She rose with his help, surprised to find herself feeling shaky, but he took her back into his arms and carried her out. Ariana spotted Mr. O’Brien. “Oh, thank God! I thought you may have been killed, too.”
He nodded at her, but still felt responsible for the whole affair and looked away. She saw his injury in passing, but his presence meant that it could not have been too severe. He glanced back at her with relief in her eyes, standing with the rogues on their knees beside him.
Lord Alvanley held a small torch, his face a show of excitement. He was delighting in the opportunity of being witness to such a momentous event involving Mornay and his betrothed. He would have excellent fodder for conversations in the best drawing rooms of the ton. All of his pique at Mornay’s earlier bullishness had vanished.
Mornay turned to him. “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, who, like all criminals was imbued with a fear of them. They were retired war vessels that were in perpetual dock. Originally opened to ease overcrowded prisons, they housed those awaiting transport—but never closed. They were cramped, dark, filthy, miserable places, and many prisoners didn’t survive them to be moved on to a permanent place.
“City College will do,” muttered Blighter darkly, using the colloquial term for Newgate.
Mr. Mornay set his love on a cushion in his coach, but Whiddington’s voice had got Ariana’s attention. She remembered that she had made an agreement with the man.
“My dear sir, Mr. Whiddington was helping me!”
“What? Who is Whiddington?” He looked at her in surprise.
She motioned out at the big man on his knees.
Mr. Mornay’s expression became guarded, as though she was addlebrained.
“Really, dearest! I promised him a situation for his help. You can see we were heading back to the West End! He agreed to bring me back to safety in return for a situation on our staff!”
The coachman, hearing that, sneered at Whiddington, “Well, aren’t you the turn-cat! A real active citizen.”
“I’m no cat’s paw, at any rate!”
“Yes, you are—to that mort!” He nodded towards Ariana.
“She’s a right gentry mort!” returned the other.
“Hold your tongues!” It was Mr. O’Brien who intervened.
Mornay glanced back at the malkintrash, and tried not to grimace. “He nearly killed me,” he said, calmly.
Alvanley had come alongside and added, “If your betrothed hadn’t jerked his head aside before you could say Jack Robinson, he’d a been a goner!”
Ariana shuddered; but she explained, “We thought you might be Lord Wingate!”
“Wingate? Whatever for? Is he in this?”
“He hired Mr. Whiddington to abduct me! But I convinced him to work for me instead,” she said, earnestly, making Mr. Mornay smile at her, shaking 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 overheard this remark and his eyes bulged for a moment; then, he chalked it off 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.
At that moment Whiddington cried out, “I gots to speak to the fine bloke—alone!” Though three “fine blokes” were present, everyone knew he meant Mr. Mornay.
Mornay said, “Very well; put him in the carriage.”
O’Brien bade Whiddington rise, but as the big man walked back to the coach, he called out, “The lass gave me ‘er word, she did!”
“I did!” Ariana assured her beloved. Mr. O’Brien cried, “Come on, then,” and pushed him along. After he’d entered the other carriage, Mr. Mornay left to join him. At the door he hopped up and sat across from him but kept his pistol at the ready.
“See, guvnor,” Whiddington said, wary of the pistol, “I didna want tʼ deliver the little white ewe! She’s as sweet as a saint, so ‘elp me, G-d!”
“But y
ou 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’lor!”
“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. He made a move as if to dig in a pocket, and Mornay said, “Ah, ah, ah,” and held up his pistol.
Ariana felt much recovered, left the coach despite Alvanley’s protests, and headed resolutely to the shabbier vehicle. She could stand the suspense not a moment longer—she’d given her word and had to make sure Mr. Mornay honoured it. She went and sat beside him.
Mr. Whiddington said, “It’s no good, lass; ‘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. He 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 certain.”
“But people can change. He wants to,” she pleaded, softly. Then, “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. “Realize what you’re asking. This man would have access to our house. Our very lives could be at stake. I can’t allow 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’ your little lamb 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 his.”
Whiddington looked visibly relieved. It was a disappointment, but far better a prospect than City College 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. “Keep the necklace.”
“What?” Mr. Mornay glanced at 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 and get the necklace back, she turned and took his arm and leaned up into his face.
“Darling,” she wheedled. “We must let him keep it. I promised, if he did not become a servant, that 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 opened the door of the vehicle.
“Call O’Brien to escort Miss Forsythe to my coach, while you guard the other man. I will join her shortly.”
“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 try to 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 led a reluctant Ariana from the coach, easily overpowering her and leading her gently but firmly from the vehicle. Ariana did not have much fight in her. She was disappointed at the behaviour of her betrothed, and ashamed 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 plush cushions. 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.”
She couldn’t help but to look at his hair, matted with blood. “Oh, you are hurt!”
“It’s stopped bleeding,” he said, enjoying her concern.
“I prayed 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 got 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, but shook his head. “I should never have believed that Mr. Mornay would ask a favour of me—I should have known better. It was vanity 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.” He spoke a little bitterly, and it touched Ariana’s heart. She wondered if Phillip was being fair to Mr. Whiddington, but she tried to keep her attention on 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 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, narrowed 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 appeared, Lord Wingate could endure it no longer. He slammed his fist against the nearest building and cried out, “Where in Hades 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.”
“Look ʼere, yer ʼonour. Yer 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 oversized, voluminous coat. He was keeping a disgruntled eye on Mr. Mornay as he did so, searching aroun
d with his hands. Finally, his face lightened, and he pulled out—not the necklace, but 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, he shot out one well-booted foot, knocking Whiddington’s hand holding the gun. The weapon fired and went flying.
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, nor was he equal to the force of two frightened animals. He had to release 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 with a felon. Moreover, the shot may have meant Mr. Mornay was in danger—or worse.
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 he 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 Mornay’s 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 shock of a different sort. There was that dandy-prat O’Brien, and demned if he wasn’t holding the angel in his arms! To make matters worse, when the coachman took off abruptly, Mr. O’Brien now found himself pitched forward, so that he fell upon the cushion and was practically on top of the lady.
The House in Grosvenor Square Page 17
