The House in Grosvenor Square (23 page)

He and Ariana had been commiserating over the night's events when suddenly they both heard a very loud report close by. Ariana shot up from her seat. Mr. O'Brien thought she was going to try to leave the coach to investigate and immediately put out a hand to prevent her. But instead of moving toward 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 yet 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 laid 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! It hadn't gone straight through her!

But he had to be certain, and so he turned her over, pulling the outer
garment off the rest of the way and 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 up against him, 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.

M
rs. Hamilton was tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The day had been distressing on account of yet 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 her. Mrs. Hamilton feared ending up, still and all, at the Draper's Asylum for Decayed House-keepers.

No matter that the artwork in progress was beginning to appear as though it might be superior to its predecessors or that the new sculptures were indeed masterful. It truly didn't matter. All that mattered was that her life was being ruined.

She gave up tossing and turning, 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 the familiar statuary was gone. In some places the new piece had not yet arrived, and so the area looked eerily empty, lacking—
needy
. There was an odour of paint, of plaster, and this too added to her feeling of unrest. Incompleteness. The trembling shadows, cast by her small flame, made the rooms look even more unfamiliar, and it was disheartening.

Mrs. Hamilton kept thinking how she would hate to leave, how it was
such a shame that things had to change. She started to feel almost panicked at the thought of being ousted, thrown on the street, no doubt. A small voice reminded her that Mr. Mornay would certainly be fair, give a few months' extra wages or better, if his new wife wanted to be rid of her. But small voices had little power against dark thoughts during the black of night.

She could see that change was coming. She could smell it. She could
feel
it.

She ought to have begun spreading word that she would need a new situation—to avoid Draper's if nothing else! She was pessimistically positive that she would never secure so good a situation again, and that thought only added to her resentment.

With a sorrowful eye, she traversed the rooms where work was being done and looked for anything amiss that she could possibly report to the master—if he ever got home. She hadn't heard him come in yet, and it was nigh dawn. She wandered down to the kitchens and saw Molly at work, as she was supposed to be. It was the fate of the scullery maid that she had to be one of the first servants to rise in the morning and prepare water for cooking, washing, and so on. But Mrs. Hamilton then turned and went toward the servants' sleeping quarters. On the way she popped into the master's bed chamber and opened a few drawers, looking for something small. She found a pile of guineas and a gilt-encased timepiece and took them. 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.

“Hand me the pistol!”

Mr. Whiddington, looking meek and trying not to give way to dismay, 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 did as directed.

“Now give me your coat,” demanded Mr. Mornay.

“Me coat?” Whiddington said 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 small back window that another coach was coming fast on their heels, probably his own equipage.

As soon as Whiddington gave up his coat, he quickly felt inside 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 and preventing the huge man from jumping out to recover his great coat—and its contents. Mornay's pistol was the only thing that stopped him.

They were quickly losing momentum 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 yo'r laidy.”

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

It was a small miracle that the team had kept to the road—perhaps there was an advantage to using older horses. Long years of being driven made them keep to the road by habit. In any case, Mr. Mornay was relieved when he finally was able to jump out, run along 'til he caught the reins in hand, and bring the team to a full halt. He quickly looked for a tree to tie them to so that he could get back to Whiddington, in hopes the man could 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 and felt a great deal of relief. Inside the equipage, Alvanley and O'Brien were in the dark, literally. Who had been shot earlier? Was it their companion?

“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. Then the door opened and there stood Mornay.

“Thank God!” exclaimed his lordship, pulling forth a very white hand-kerchief to swipe his brow. Mr. O'Brien was relieved as well, but he had unwittingly pulled Ariana closer to his side protectively. Mr. Mornay revealed that he was holding Whiddington by the scruff of his shirt and then pushed him forward and into the carriage. He then jumped up himself, his shoes landing on the floor with a hollow thud. He looked rather the worse for wear from the night's work. His neat cravat was askew, and his polished footwear downright muddy. His gaze fell on Ariana, whose head had fallen against Mr. O'Brien's shoulder, and his eyes narrowed.

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

“She swooned, sir! At the 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! Gave us quite a fright for you!”

“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, deep voice, “I gots to make me livin', right and tight!”

Mornay continued, “But Miss Forsythe's necklace is in one of its many pockets.” He glared directly at Whiddington when he mentioned the pockets.

“I gots to make me livin'!”

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

“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 Mr. Mornay saying, “Just 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.”

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 and pursue Wingate.

“We left your footman with the other cove,” Alvanley reminded him. The second footman drove the rogue equipage, and they turned round and went to collect them. Afterward Mr. Mornay released Whiddington, keeping his word to give him his freedom. He sent Alvanley with a pistol and one of the servants to give Blighter a personal escort to the nearest magistrate.

His eyes focused upon Mr. O'Brien. The young man was a sorry sight due to his injury. Further, he looked exhausted. He'd see him home, do the same for Ariana, and then go after Wingate.

Ariana rested her head against his shoulder, trying to rest. She had a prodigious headache. Mr. O'Brien tried not to stare at Miss Forsythe, but he had to ask, “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?”