He flew to her side, and took her hands in his. “I’m here!”
“What is it?” she asked. “Am I sick?”
“Just a little,” he replied, hoping his lie would calm her. Or was it the pounding of his own heart he sought to relieve?
“Mrs. Mornay,” said Mr. Speckman. “Are you in pain?”
She had to close her eyes for a moment. Think. Think. Was she in pain? She was hot. Her throat ached. Actually, her legs and arms were aching too. And she was thirsty, very, very thirsty. She nodded.
“Where is your pain?” he asked.
“My head,” she said, in a whisper. After a pause, the doctor said, “Only her head?” He was surprised. “That is good.”
But she whispered again. “My throat. Legs…my arms.”
Mr. Mornay studied the man’s face, and took him by the arm to move away from the bed. “Is this the same fever the Tallers have?”
Mr. Speckman sighed. “It appears so, sir. I am sorry to say.”
“In that case, what is your best treatment?”
Mr. Speckman studied the woman upon the bed, and his face was creased in thought. “There is only so much we can do, sir.”
“I do not want to hear what you cannot do,” he replied. “Tell me what you can do.”
Mr. Speckman took a deep breath while he quickly searched his mind. “We can keep her warm and meanwhile bleed some of the noxious elements out of her, I daresay.”
“Then do so.” Mr. Mornay’s face was such that Mr. Speckman was glad to have something he could do. He prepared the instruments and then stood up to face Mr. Mornay. “I think it best if you leave the room. My assistant will help me.” Another man who had come with the doctor nodded his head. “Do what is necessary,” Mr. Mornay said, “but I’ll stay.”
Frederick stopped Fotch in his tracks. “We must inform the family. You must ride to the vicarage and tell them.”
“I, sir?” Fotch looked bewildered. “I am no horseman, Mr. Frederick!” He had ridden perfectly well with his master when searching for Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien the other day, but he said nothing of that.
“Nor am I!” he replied.
“Send a groom,” said the valet.
“Where are they? I think they’ve flown the nest! As soon as they heard, the dashed coves!”
“The stables!” said Fotch. “There’s always an extra hand to be had there.”
“Go and send one, then.” Mr. Frederick had the undoubted authority to have Fotch do so, but the valet hesitated, grimacing. “I need to help the master, Mr. Frederick.”
“This is the best help you can give him right now, Fotch.” They eyed each other for a moment, and then Fotch slowly nodded his agreement. He went to find a groom.
“My lord.” The butler held out a letter upon a salver, and Lord Horatio took it, murmuring, “Thank you, Prescott.” The servant bowed his head and left. Horatio glanced at the note, his heart suddenly set aflutter by the seal upon the dark wax. It was from Anne! Instead of reading it, he shoved it into a pocket of his waistcoat, and tried to look utterly carefree.
“Aren’t you going to read it, sir?” his father, the Marquess of Stratham, asked. They were sitting at table eating breakfast, and all the occupants turned and looked at him curiously. “Just a note from an acquaintance, sir,” he replied, “which I’ve no doubt will entreat me to some club or other today.”
“Well, you’ve had enough of clubs, sir!” responded the father in a gruff tone. He had paid a considerable sum in gambling debts for his son recently. He was prepared to allow the boy a good measure of diversion at cards, particularly as he had been forced to dash his hopes of that abominable Miss Barton—but enough was enough. No second son had ought to cost him so dearly as that which he had been forced to part with of late.
Horatio patted his mouth with a napkin, and then laid it aside his dish. “Indeed, sir. No fears on that account. I have given it out that I am all laid up, and no one who wishes to be paid his winnings should hazard my company for any game of chance.”
“Very good, sir,” his father said approvingly. He exchanged a look with his wife. They’d been concerned for this son of theirs since the ruined love affair with that deuced woman, but all seemed to be ending just as they wished. He had not mentioned her name, not sat about pining and sighing as he had done a month ago; and he seemed to be going forth in society with less cares upon him than he had done since meeting Miss Barton, near three months earlier.
It was no more than to be expected, of course. Second sons knew that they had to marry a woman of sufficient means; Five hundred pounds a year was not going to keep Horatio in style, that was certain. He simply had to do better for a wife, there was no way around it.
Lord Horatio, taking a last sip of coffee, put down his cup, and then stood, excusing himself. “I think I’ll go now, Mother; sir.” He nodded at each, in turn.
“Go and find yourself a wife,” muttered his father. “It’s high time, sir.”
Her ladyship’s brows went up exceedingly, for she was amazed that her husband would say such a thing to Horatio—so recently dashed in his hopes of one.
“I recall asking your permission on just that head only lately,” he replied, trying not to grimace.
The marquess studied his son with cool, suspicious eyes, while he chewed his toast and kippers. “Find one I can approve of, sir, and then it is done. I’d best not hear of that…er…Barton woman again,” he added, glancing at the pocket where the letter had been hurriedly stashed.
“I have no clue where Miss Barton has gone to, if you must know, sir, and I daresay you have no need to worry on that account!” His tone was woodenly bitter.
“Good!” He kept staring, coldly now. “Let it remain so.”
As soon as he was safely in his own chamber and alone, Lord Horatio pulled out the letter and tore it open. He starting reading, and his face grew creased with worry; he ran a distracted hand through his hair, his eyes filled with tumbled thoughts. Anne, with child! No wonder Barton had taken her off so abruptly! But—a child—his child! This changed everything.
He’d done his best to put her out of his mind, but he’d known all along it was a hopeless business. He did not want to forget Anne. She was so good, sensible, and full of kindnesses and wise advice. She wasn’t like the flighty girls he met daily in drawing rooms and ballrooms. Girls who cared chiefly about their attire, their status, and the number of admiring beaux they had. Anne was so much older in her mind; she would make some man a wonderful wife; she would be a doting, caring mother. Dash it, he wanted her to be his wife!
He finished reading the letter. By Jove—she had a parson who would marry them if he got a special license—capital! This settled it. No amount of his parents’ disapproval could erase the fact that she was carrying his child. No amount of anger on their part would now suffice to keep him from his object: he would marry Anne Barton. Directly. He could hardly wait to be off.
He cursed his own impatience and melancholy, which had sent him on a spree of late-night gaming, and in the process emptied his pockets of all ready cash. He’d overspent his stipend as it was. But he must get a special license.
His heart was beating strongly with such thoughts—he’d be going against his father’s express will in the matter. But did not duty and honour require that he take responsibility for this child? How could it be right that one’s duty at home did not mirror doing what was most honourable? His father would see his next actions as tantamount to treason to the family, whereas he would be making his past sins right. Perhaps the parson helping Anne would speak to him, too, and help him find peace with himself. Life was certainly getting complicated! But he knew what his next move had to be, and he must force himself to focus only on that.
He began to rummage through all of his belongings, every pocket in every piece of clothing in the room, every drawer and box and space where he might gather some coins or banknotes carelessly forgotten from some other day. He would need every shil
ling, every last tuppence. He’d get the license. Get to Middlesex. And then, God willing, marry Anne. The thought filled his breast with a wild hope.
Twenty-One
Just as Lord Horatio was making his way, with long determined strides, toward the door of the house, his father appeared in front of him in the hall. “You’re in a dashed hurry, sir!” he barked. The look on his face was formidable, and Horatio stopped in surprise. His recent determination of marrying Miss Barton was all in his thoughts, and his face took on a guilty look. Did his father know his plans? How could he? But the marquess astonished him by breaking out into a grin, slapping him on the back, and saying, while handing him yet another note, “The prince wants to see ye, m’boy! Now that’s the kind of company I like you among! Can’t get any higher than His Royal Highness, eh?”
The marquess had become all amiability, having read the note intended for his son out of curiosity. “Get ye off to ’im, m’boy! And send His Royal Highness my deepest compliments, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Horatio replied, valiantly trying to smile. He was not a stranger to summonses from Carlton House, but they had become scarce of late. Ever since the princess’s death, the Regent had done less entertaining, less carousing, less socializing altogether. Horatio hadn’t seen him in person in quite some time, in fact. He wondered what on earth was behind the summons—and today of all days! Just when he’d found his purpose and was chafing at the bit to get it done.
When he was finally seated in a lavish drawing room in the palace, ornate even by aristocratic standards, he felt a mild anxiety. Dash it, why did the prince want to see him? Why was he anxious about it? It wasn’t as though anyone else knew about Miss Barton’s condition—or did they? But his thoughts fled as he heard the approach of his host, and in moments he rose to his feet to bow before His Highness.
“Take a seat, take a seat,” the prince said, coming and sitting across from the young man. His attendants took their places against the wall and assumed the stoic faces of statues, while the Regent asked about Horatio’s family. The prince did not look well; his size had continued to burgeon, and his clothing looked too tight. His face had folds of heavy skin upon it, and it seemed that the loss of his daughter the year before had aged him grossly.
He leaned in toward his guest. “I daresay you are aflutter with curiosity as to why I’ve summoned you.”
Horatio tried not to swallow, but felt himself on edge. “Indeed, sir.” He forced a smile.
“Here it ’tis,” he said. “I must ask a favour of you. I have sent some young ninny as my ambassador to Phillip Mornay, and all to no purpose. He sends me a letter about ‘hopes.’” He paused and looked at Lord Horatio as if that young man should certainly comprehend the meaninglessness of mere hopes. “I wish to present Mornay with a viscountcy; I want him in the House before the next vote on my income, if you must know.”
Horatio nodded, a quick relief flooding his veins that the topic was nothing to do with him or Anne Barton. “Still putting you off, is he?”
“I do not know if he is putting me off; I don’t know what he’s up to, dash it! I haven’t had a word from him these past six months! My ministers have all the paperwork ready and I need only for him to come and accept the title. Won’t take long to decide on the actual title, much less his coat of arms. Deuced unfriendly of him to keep me waiting, to say the least! Does not the man recognize an honour when it is presented to him?”
“I suspect, sir, that Mr. Mornay is occupied in his domestic responsibilities.”
“If he is, then he is far too occupied at them! No man should be a slave to his own house! Least of all the Paragon!” He paused, allowing Lord Horatio to nod sympathetically.
A manservant entered and placed a tray of some cordial beside the Regent. There were two glasses, which he proceeded to pour. The prince took his impatiently, while the servant held one out to Horatio, who gladly received it as his throat was dry from nerves. The Regent put back his head and emptied his glass, smacking his lips afterward. Horatio took a good sip, thinking of emptying the glass as his host had done, but the prince said, “Here’s the thing: The man I sent is—a Mr. Tristan Barton.”
Lord Horatio, still holding up the glass, opened his eyes in shock, and practically choked on his drink. He began to spit and cough in response, while the prince, looking on sharply, asked, “Do you know him?”
Horatio, recovering, put down his glass and said, “Er, Mr. Tristan Barton? Not friendly with him, but I know who he is.” Did he know him, indeed! Anne’s brother!
“Well, I sent him above a month ago, and he sends me ‘every hope’ that Mornay will oblige me in this, but—” here he turned and studied Horatio as before—“I smell a rat in it. I have had no correspondence from Mornay, the Lord Chancellor waits upon his reply—and I want the thing done. I want you, sir, to call upon your old friend and see what’s what. I should have used you to begin with for this, now I think on it.” He looked squarely at the young lord. “What say you?”
Horatio was meanwhile trying to suppress his surprise and amazement at such a request. Here he had been planning to throw his luck to the wind, buck his father’s wishes, and go to Middlesex and marry his bride. He had intended on seeing Phillip anyway! He, too, needed the man’s help. Now he would be on a royal mission, and have his father’s approval for the trip! It was propitious.
He controlled every urge to show his true feelings, and asked, “Why’d you send such an innocuous puppy as Barton? He’d never carry the day.”
“I sent him for lack of a better man who would agree to hide in the country for me and groom Mornay to his duty—Barton was eager to please; even let a house there; I’d no doubt of his willingness to do his best.” The prince sounded a bit dubious, however.
“Ah, so that’s how it is. I’ll find my way to Aspindon directly, Your Royal Highness. I’m sure I can sound the depths of our friend’s thoughts upon this subject, and to your satisfaction. I daresay I can possibly convince him to return with me to London. He is overdue for a stop here, in any case. I can’t remember the last time I was at Grosvenor Square!”
“Exactly!” agreed the prince. “I knew you should help me! You have my sincerest thanks, Horatio,” and his eyes were fixed steadily upon the young man in a look that said he would remember the favour. “If you succeed in this, I will consider myself indebted to you, sir.” This statement was paramount to saying that he would have the right to ask a favour of the prince at some future time. But Horatio realized there would never be a more needful time for him than right now. He hadn’t done his part to help the prince, yet, but he would do it. Did he have the courage to ask the ruling prince for help in his cause, today?
He stared at the royal figure sitting across from him, a man who had certainly had his share of petticoat problems, and thought that he could. He must try, at least. He cleared his throat and gathered his wits about him. “Your Royal Highness,” he began. “There is a young woman, who happens to be the sister of this Mr. Barton…”
The Regent’s eyes filled with surprise—and understanding. “Indeed?” and he slowly smiled. “Pretty, is she?”
Lord Horatio’s face became pensive. “She’s lovely, sir.”
The Regent was silent a moment.
“Now I understand why you almost had an apoplexy!” He eyed the younger man affectionately. “Your father won’t appreciate my interfering in his family,” he said, catching on at once that if a second son was asking for his help, how things stood. “And little good it would do me, if I gain Mornay’s vote only to lose the marquess’s.” His expression was not promising. “I’m not sure there is anything I can do for you in this.”
Horatio’s face fell. “I see your difficulty, sir.” He fell into silent contemplation of the matter for a moment. There had to be a way…“Your Royal Highness!” He had a sudden idea. “If one of Lady Hertford’s most respectable friends were to put Miss Barton forth as a prize, at some event with my mother the Countess in attendance,
it would certainly lessen the blow to the marquess when I marry her.”
“So you’re determined upon it, are you?”
“I am. Her family is respectable, just not ancient or rich enough to suit the marquess. The right word from the right hostess would smooth things over for us, sir.”
The Prince rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one hand. “You mean, to pretend that your Miss Barton has a fortune or some such thing? And we need not supply that fortune, only allude to it.”
“Even if she was spoken of as being good ton, sir! It would do the trick, I think!”
The Regent made his decision. “Done! Now be off with you to Middlesex, and get me Mornay! He must learn the ropes of the House before anything important to me arises.”
“Yes, thank you, Your Royal Highness!”
When Fotch entered the stables, he found the groom brushing down the master’s favourite horse, Tornado. Mr. Mornay broke the black stallion himself, two years earlier, and thus it obeyed him beautifully, but he was testy for anyone else. He neighed at the intruder, and lifted his front legs about a foot off the floor, in protest.
“There now, easy boy,” said the groom, looking at Fotch in surprise.
The mission was explained, with all due sorrow and exclamations of concern over the mistress being said by both men; but Fotch made it clear that the news had to be delivered speedily, on the double. After he left, the groom, a man by name of Rudson, was preparing to close the stall door on Tornado when it occurred to him that there was no faster horse in the master’s stable than this one. Why not take him? He’d always wanted to ride the animal; and Tornado knew him. He’d been the groom at Aspindon and at Grosvenor Square for years. And what better reason for him to presume upon riding the master’s horse than to alert others regarding the condition of the mistress? This was important. Finally, and this was the strongest reason yet for him to use the master’s mount: Mr. Mornay would never know. He wasn’t about to leave his wife’s side—not at a dire moment like this.
The Country House Courtship Page 25
