The House in Grosvenor Square: A Novel of Regency England (The Regency Trilogy Book 2)

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Alvanley glared.

  While Mr. O’Brien scrambled to gather himself, hastily attempting to stand up, Lord Alvanley noticed Miss Forsythe’s mantle had been removed! There it was, on the floor, as though discarded with great haste. Mr. O’Brien moved away from Ariana, so that Alvanley could see she lay unconscious on the cushion but was slowly sliding toward the floor.

  “She’ll fall!” he cried, to Alvanley. He 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 again. He looked down at her protectively and then back at Alvanley who was still glaring at him.

  Mr. O’Brien sighed with relief. “I thought she’d been shot! She’s fine,” he said, and almost laughed. He continued, weak with relief, and perhaps nervous exhaustion, “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 un-hand, her, sir.”

  “She’s out cold! I dare not.” He added, looking at her blondee head, “Poor creature, she’s been through too 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!”

  “Where’s Mornay? And 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.” He 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. His eyes flared with anger, but Alvanley continued, “ʾTis more likely the other fellow was shot, if anyone was.” His eyes fell on Ariana; 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!” He hesitated. “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 with dismay. “I was looking for a wound, sir!” There was a pause, while neither one spoke, but Mr. O’Brien’s eyes flicked back over Ariana, still propped up in his arm. “When she fell over after the report, I assumed… Well, how was I to know she’d merely swooned?”

  “That is a poor excuse for man-handling Mr. Mornay’s betrothed. Women swoon, sir!” His voice was hard, and he pronounced each word distinctly as though he was addressing a pigeon-head.

  Suddenly, Mr. O’Brien was inclined to agree. What a thick-pate he was! 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 hadn’t it occurred to him 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. He’d had no time to think about propriety or how things would look.

  After they’d heard the report, she shot up from her seat—he thought she wanted to leave the coach to investigate. He put out a hand to prevent her but instead of moving towards the door, she collapsed against him. Right into his arms. His fevered brain immediately knew she’d been shot! Why else would she have jumped at the sound, only to collapse directly after?

  In a panic, his only thought was that she was injured—possibly mortally—and he had to do something to help her. It was such an alarming, terrible thought that all he could do was investigate, hoping to save her. He heard the other coach take off, but could think only of the tragical beauty in his arms. In a great deal of trepidation he lay her down and undid the fastenings of her mantle. He had tears in his eyes. But there was no blood on her gown, nothing on the bodice—all was white, beautiful, her skin unmarred by a wound. Thank God!

  But he had to be certain, and he turned her over, pulling the outer garment off the rest of the way, dropping it thoughtlessly to the floor in his haste. And there—no blood! Nothing! Her gown, perfectly clean. He was ecstatic. He pulled her impulsively towards him to lay her upon the cushion; yet he was holding her in his arms with vast relief when the door was pulled open and there stood Lord Alvanley, scowling in at him like a man come upon a thief.

  The same scowl he was directing at him, now.

  Mr. O’Brien knew himself innocent of evil intentions. But he certainly felt like a fool.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mrs. Hamilton tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The day had been distressing on account of more workmen in the house, more changes being made to what, in her opinion, had been near perfection to begin with. It made her shudder to see a man with a tool prying a lovely dado from the wall, or removing a piece of elegant sculpture, or—worst of all—using a paintbrush to obfuscate a work of classical art to prepare it for a new one! She felt each change as an assault, for they served to remind her that SHE was coming, and that SHE would be getting rid of Mrs. Hamilton who would end up, still and all, at the Draper’s Asylum for Decayed Housekeepers.

  No matter that the artwork in progress was beginning to appear—astonishingly—equal or even superior to its predecessors; or that the new sculptures were masterful. All that mattered was that her life was being ruined.

  She gave up trying to sleep, lit her bedside candle, and holding the sconce in front of her, made her way down the stairs. Reinforcing her earlier discomfort, Mrs. Hamilton walked through the rooms, empty of workmen now, and looked at the sorry state of affairs. Sheets draped much of the floor and furniture in the main rooms. Plaster shards had not been completely removed from areas of work, and familiar statuary was gone. In some places the new piece had not yet arrived, and so the area looked eerily empty—needy, like her. There was an odour of paint and plaster which added to her feeling of unrest. The trembling shadows cast by her small flame made the rooms look even more unfamiliar. It was disheartening.

  Yet as she moved from one room to the next, Mrs. Hamilton knew that despite the dishevelment in the house and even the coming mistress, she would hate to leave. She felt almost panicked at the vision of herself being ousted, thrown on the street, no doubt! A small voice reminded her that Mr. Mornay was a generous master; he would be fair, give a few months extra wages at least, if his new wife wanted to be rid of her. But small voices had little power against dark thoughts during a dark night. Change was coming. The evidence was all around her. She could see it and smell it.

  She ought to have begun spreading word that she would need a new situation—to avoid Draper’s, if nothing else. But she was convinced she would never secure so good a situation again, and applying elsewhere seemed a sad waste of effort.

  With a sorrowful eye, she traversed the rooms where work was being done and looked for anything amiss that she could report to the master. She wandered down to the kitchens and saw Molly at work, as she was supposed to be. It was the fate of the sculler
y maid that she had to be one of the first servants to rise in the morning, have water ready for Cook, for washing, and so on.

  Mrs. Hamilton turned and went to the stairs, hardly knowing her destination. On the first floor she saw the footman outside the master’s bedchamber asleep in an upright position against the wall. She popped into the chamber and quietly opened a few drawers, looking for something small. She found a pile of guineas and took them, and a gilt-encased timepiece. She stopped afterward in the parlour, took a porcelain figurine, and then finally proceeded to Molly’s room. When she appeared again and returned to her own chamber, she had left all the stolen items in the place she had long ago found for hiding them. It was the perfect spot, and if they were found, by chance, Molly alone would be blamed. Molly, who already had a history that proved her a thief. It was providential.

  “Raise your hands!” Mr. Mornay's blazing eyes shone out even in the dark. Whiddington's shot had once again missed his head by a hair. He shot out a hand and grabbed the pistol that had fired after he'd kicked it out of the man's hand, put it in a coat pocket and repeated the order. He still held his own pistol in his other hand, keeping it pointed at the criminal.

  Whiddington dropped all pretense of bravado and hid his head with his arms, shouting “Don’t shoot! I didna mean to shoot it! I was nae goin’t shoot ye!” Looking meek and trying not to give way to dismay, he peered up at the fine bloke. He knew the horses were running wild with no whip atop the board, felt the precarious rocking of the carriage on the road, and finally did as directed, holding up both hands to show they held no weapon.

  “Now give me your coat.”

  “Me coat?” This, with a deep grimace.

  “Your coat, directly! You’ve likely got more weapons in it.”

  Both men had to hold onto the cushions just then, as the carriage began swaying. The horses, still running in a blind panic, were precipitously close to the edge of the road. If they didn’t straighten their course, the carriage could overturn or end up in a ditch. Mr. Mornay knew there was danger, but didn’t know what to do.

  Whiddington began to remove his coat with an exceedingly unhappy countenance, taking his time about it. While he was doing so, the horses began slowing. They were either growing tired or their terror had worn off. Mr. Mornay noted it with relief and could see from the back small window that another coach was coming fast on their heels, probably his own equipage.

  As soon as Whiddington gave him his coat, Mornay tried to quickly feel the pockets to determine if there was another weapon. But there were so many bulky items and even extra patch pockets to hold more that he could not tell for certain without emptying the contents. He chose instead to open the carriage door and toss the coat into the night. As soon as he did, he remembered the necklace! Dashed if he hadn’t forgotten all about it!

  Whiddington watched his coat disappear into darkness with an expression that was reminiscent of a man having an apoplexy. Mr. Mornay stayed near the door, preparing to jump out to grab the reins the moment the horses slowed sufficiently. This prevented the huge man from jumping out himself to recover his great coat and its contents. Mornay’s pistol was the thing that stopped him, though it might have been the death of him had he done it.

  They were quickly losing speed, now.

  “I am going out to manage the horses. If you run for it, I will shoot you.”

  “Whatcha want me for, guvnor? You got yer lass.”

  “We have further business, sir. Stay put.”

  Mornay marveled that the team had kept to the road—perhaps there was an advantage in using older horses. Long years of use made them keep to it by habit. In any case, it was with relief that he finally could jump out and then run alongside the carriage ‘til he had got the reins in hand. He brought the team to a full halt, and quickly found a tree to tie the reins to. He needed to get back to Whiddington before that man could escape, for he hoped he would lead him to Wingate. The only way to truly put an end to the business would be by settling the dispute between his lordship and himself—if that were possible.

  Mornay’s coachman drew the vehicle up behind the other and stopped. He saw his master with great relief. Inside the equipage, Alvanley and O’Brien were in the dark, literally.

  “If Mr. Mornay has been shot,” O’Brien said, ominously, “it may be that we’re about to face an armed ruffian.”

  Alvanley thought to see if Mornay kept a pistol in the coach. He groped beneath the seats and found the box and opened it. “Dash it! It’s empty!” They heard the sound of footsteps and gave each other helpless looks of apprehension when the door opened and there stood—Mornay.

  “Thank God!” exclaimed his lordship, pulling forth a very white handkerchief to swipe his brow. Mr. O’Brien was relieved as well but had unwittingly pulled Ariana closer to his side, protectively. Mr. Mornay revealed that he was holding Whiddington by the scruff of his shirt. He pushed him forward and into the carriage. He then jumped up himself, his shoes landing on the floor with a hollow thud. He looked little worse than usual from the night’s work. His neat cravat was barely askew; his shoes, though slightly mud-encased still looked elegant. His breeches were spotless. His gaze fell on Ariana, whose head rested against Mr. O’Brien’s shoulder, and his eyes narrowed.

  He handed Alvanley the pistol, motioned at O’Brien to move, and then took the unconscious girl into his arms, and sat down with her upon his lap.

  “She swooned, sir. At sound of the shot.”

  Mornay looked fleetingly at Lord Alvanley who shrugged and frowned, as if to say, “I don’t know anything.” But aloud he said, “That was a deuced business with the horses! Thought you were in the devil's own scrape, there!”

  “Here’s the thing,” Mornay said, “I threw this man’s coat out of the carriage when we were still moving, for he has endless weapons in it.”

  Here Mr. Whiddington grumbled in his gruff voice, “I gots to make me livin’, right and tight!”

  Mornay continued, looking at Whiddington with disdain. “But Miss Forsythe’s necklace is in one of its many pockets.”

  “I gots to make me livin’!”

  “How far back do you suppose it to be?” Alvanley asked.

  “Not so far that you shan’t find it.” He looked at O’Brien and Alvanley. “Take the lights and the servants and start looking, if you would.”

  Alvanley was suddenly in a chipper mood. “We’ll find it for you, I warrant.” He gave the pistol back to his friend. “Keep an eye on this beastly fellow.”

  The two men left the carriage. Mr. Mornay looked squarely at Whiddington. It was cold, and he was tired to the extreme, but he had Ariana, and that gave him renewed energy.

  “Tell me all you know about Lord Wingate. Where can I find him?”

  Forty minutes later Mr. Whiddington was a much happier man, having his coat back, although he had lost the necklace. Mr. Mornay had revived Ariana, but his next concern was to get her to safety so he could pursue Wingate.

  He released Whiddington, keeping his word to give him his freedom.

  “We left your footman with the other cove,” Alvanley reminded him. “I'll take that blasted shabby coach back to pick them up.”

  Mr. Mornay handed him a pistol. “Then you can escort the malkintrash to the magistrate. Tell him I recommend Newgate.”

  Alvanley eyed Mr. O'Brien, who was a sorry sight due to his injury and exhaustion. “Shall I take him?” he asked Mornay, nodding at the young man.

  Mornay stared at O'Brien and a flood of mixed feelings beset him. But his better nature won and he said, “No. We'll get him home where his mamma can nurse him.”

  “I'm off, then,” said his lordship.

  Mornay eyed his friend. “Much obliged, Alvanley.”

  Lord Alvanley felt a small thrill, suddenly realizing he'd never been the recipient of real gratitude coming from the Paragon. Though they were longstanding friends, it was something.

  Ariana tiredly rested her head against her beloved’s shoul
der. Her earlier slight headache had developed into one of prodigious proportions.

  Mr. O’Brien asked, “Are you quite well, Miss Forsythe?”

  “I will be,” she breathed, snuggling closer against her betrothed. She hadn’t even bothered to lift her head to speak. But she could see that Mr. O’Brien did not look well. “How are you? Does your head ache?”

  “I expect I shall need some rest, and then be as good as new.” He was not sure of this at all, and Mr. Mornay, eying his head, had to wonder. But the young man was kind not to worry Ariana, and he had to appreciate that.

  “Be sure to call a doctor to clean the wound properly,” she instructed.

  “My mother will be content at nothing less, I assure you.”

  When they reached the West End, Mr. O’Brien became obsessed with the thought that he would be leaving Miss Forsythe alone in a carriage with Mr. Mornay. It irked him.

  “It would be most efficient for you to take Miss Forsythe to her house, first. You may leave me anywhere you wish afterward. I will find my way to my house, I assure you.”

  There was a long silence. Even Ariana, who loved to jump in and rescue people from awkward statements or situations when she could, found herself speechless. For some reason the real motive behind his suggestion seemed embarrassingly obvious. She did not relish what she instinctively felt would be a harsh response from her fiancé, but she could think of nothing to answer for it.

  “That won’t do, Mr. O’Brien, as you well know,” Mr. Mornay answered, finally. His voice was light and lazy, as it tended to get when he was annoyed, but not at the breaking point.

  Mr. O’Brien swallowed, but he glanced at Ariana, and continued, “Sir, if you were not betrothed, I think it would be less objectionable—”