The House in Grosvenor Square (17 page)

Mr. Mornay was thinking that he must make it known among his friends that Ariana was not to be trifled with—neither now nor after the wedding. Many married women from his class, for some reason, were known to have illicit affairs, a few with the Regent himself. A mere scent of a scandal around a woman's name before marriage would ruin her completely. After marriage it was almost expected that she would eventually look to other men for her entertainment, just as most men also were unfaithful. But of course it would not, could not, be so for Ariana and him.

He followed the man of the house through a large double door, along a narrow corridor, across a drafty passageway, and into the library. It was more cozy than luxurious, evidently a room much used by the family, but Mr. Mornay took little notice. Just to be excused from attendance in the main card room was pleasure enough.

He tugged at his watch fob, checked his watch, and made a mental note to be in the coach with his beloved in no more than one hour. As Mr. Herley retrieved two glasses from the inlaid cupboard and chose their beverages from the bottles of port, wine, sherry, and brandy, Mr. Mornay walked idly about the room. He perused the bookshelves and paintings with mild interest. Stopping abruptly, he noticed that they had a small portrait of George III, exactly the same as the one that had recently gone missing at his own house. Curious.

He moved closer. By Jove, but if it wasn't very like! He wanted quite strongly to take it from the wall to examine it minutely, but good manners forbade that action.

When his host came over and handed him a glass with an amiable,
“Cheers—to the ladies,” he received his beverage with a polite nod and raised it for the toast. After the first sip, he turned to the small painting and remarked, “'Tis a good likeness of the King. Is it an original?”

Mr. Herley placed his gaze on the portrait. He gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. “To tell the truth, sir,” he said, his face colouring, “the place was furnished when we bought it. Because it is my wife's concern, the quality of the paintings and furniture and what…I couldn't tell you.”

“May I look at it?”

The man gave a flourish with one hand, surprised but pleased that he owned something that had struck the interest of the Paragon. Mr. Mornay took it from the wall carefully and then turned it over. There, in an upper corner, were the initials, “M.M.” He frowned. He didn't recall the portrait having initials. He had only learned of the portrait after a servant had found it among his mother's possessions during an annual deep cleaning. Frederick had seen it in the boy's hands and plucked it from him before he could replace it to the trunk where it had lain, forgotten, for who knew how long. He'd been quite pleased when the master, after looking thoughtfully at the portrait for a few moments, had thanked him for finding it and told him to put it in a prominent place in the first parlour.

Of course the servant had no idea that Mr. Mornay had instantly seen the picture as a nacky way to hector the Regent on his next visit. Nothing was more certain to raise a dust than for Prinny to think his friend was entertaining sympathies for the king! Publicly, of course, the prince took pains to appear as the loving son. But in private and with his friends, it was no secret he and his father shared little love between them, and the onset of his father's illness was a welcome circumstance for a man who lived in constant need of padding his purse. As Regent he enjoyed a greater income but still overspent what monies he had—at least there was no one to reproach him for it as gallingly as his father had often done in the past.

Looking at the painting, Mr. Mornay had to concede that the initials on the back fit his mother's married name, Miranda Mornay. But had the portrait from his house borne such initials? Was this his property or wasn't it? Why couldn't he remember? Also there must be many such portraits of the monarch in existence. As he stood there thinking, Mr. Herley had to smile with the thought that this prime fellow was an evident admirer of the king. He liked him the better for it.

Not wishing to be too hasty, Mr. Mornay carefully examined the wall where the picture had hung. This caused Mr. Herley to come and peer
curiously at the painted surface himself. He had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for or at. It was just a wall. Mr. Mornay, however, appeared satisfied, gave him a brief, unrevealing smile, and then replaced the artwork to its former position. Curious fellow, this Paragon. Later on he would have to return and take a better look at the picture and the wall. There had to be something outstanding about both of 'em for the gentleman to have shown such an interest. He hoped he could discover what it was.

The men sat down, and Mr. Mornay took small sips from his glass at long intervals, allowing his host to regale him with the sort of chitchat men enjoyed; talk of the most recent show of pugilism, racing, and the newest equipages. He'd spent time doing worse.

Ariana was enjoying herself at multiplayer whist, while Beatrice, beside her, watched with sporadic interest. Although Beatrice wished to improve her playing, she had little patience to actually learn the tricks. Ariana had greeted her younger sister quite effusively, happy to see her. Beatrice still had a cold, but Ariana had never feared contracting it and paid no heed to it now. The O'Briens had dutifully kept the girl away in deference to Mrs Bentley's wishes, but tonight was an exception. And Mrs. Bentley wasn't around to know it.

Ariana was able to relax at the Herley's almost as much as if she'd been at her own house. Lavinia's lightheartedness was infectious and made the atmosphere jovial. Mr. O'Brien did insist upon settling a troubled look upon her now and then, which she studiously ignored, having no wish to engage in any sort of serious conversation with him. To everyone's amusement, Miss Alice invited Beatrice to practice a country dance while the adults played cards. Even Mr. O'Brien emerged from his brown study long enough to chide their errors and instruct them on proper form.

Here there was no formality such as when she had finally begun attending Almack's on Wednesday nights. The atmosphere there was stilted, and most of the young ladies were so agog with the idea of having to make a good impression that conversation with them was strained. Ariana, who had never viewed herself as being particularly at ease among society, saw that she did indeed stand in contrast to most of the other girls her age. When the patronesses addressed her, she answered them with no qualms. When the
Duke of York himself desired the honour of a dance with her, she accepted happily. Other girls looked fraught with unease, and some as if they would burst into tears at the least provocation.

Mr. Mornay had escorted her twice to the place. Even for Ariana he could little countenance the insipid atmosphere, despite the patronesses falling over themselves to make him welcome. On her second appearance at the establishment, Ariana had felt so sorry for a sad-looking young woman, by name of Miss Blenhem, that she had coaxed Mornay into standing up with the girl. Instead of raising the young lady's spirits, however, his surprising offer had caused her to swoon almost immediately. The experience (though not without humour) only added to his dread of the place. Which didn't bother Ariana. She much preferred more intimate, informal parties such as this evening at the Herleys.

They were playing the last rubber of a game when she spotted a silver candlestick on a table nearby. It seemed somehow familiar, and with a pang she recalled that a silver candlestick had gone missing from Grosvenor Square—after her visit there. After her visit, which
included
Lavinia and her mama. It was too jarring a thought to even speak of for a few minutes, and she grew quiet with distressing ideas running through her mind. Very casually, when it was the turn of a Miss Holden's, Ariana said, “Lavinia, I admire your candlestick.”

“Say again?” Lavinia seemed confused. It was a little disconcerting to have an acquaintance suddenly admire one's candlestick. Had she said, “I adore your fan!” or “I must get some feathers such as the ones on Lady Gordon's headdress,” Lavinia would not have been surprised. But to hear her friend say something about a mere candlestick struck her as so odd that she had to question her hearing.

“There,” Ariana nodded in the direction of the table holding the item. “Your candlestick. 'Tis amazingly like one at Grosvenor Square.” She kept her eyes on the candlestick, for she could not keep a reproach out of her expression, though she had managed to keep it from her voice. But Lavinia did not fly up into the boughs, as she had half expected. Instead the girl let out a tinkle of laughter.

“Did you hear that, Mama?” she asked. “Ariana says our candlestick resembles one from Grosvenor Square. Is that not amusing? That we should have anything on par with such a place as that!”

Mrs. Herley looked severely unamused. “Do not think it so impossible, Vinny. Why must you always sound as though you think we are all done
up? I brought many a fine thing with me upon marriage to your papa, and that candlestick, well let me see, it may have been among them.”

Lavinia took her first real look at the piece in question. “I cannot recall seeing it before,” she said, “and if you do not recall it being yours, perhaps it isn't ours at all!” She collapsed into laughter, inviting all those around the table to join in. “How perfectly absurd! That we have a candlestick I've never seen before, and it mayn't be ours at all!”

Her mother cried, “Don't be ridiculous! Of course it's ours.”

“But you do not recall?” Lavinia now seemed incredulous. “I daresay,” she confided to the whole table, “I already know what my dowry may be, and I shan't forget a single part of it, ever, I am convinced!”

“You say that now,” murmured her mother, while concentrating on her cards, “but you may surprise yourself—after a score of years in marriage.”

Lavinia shrugged with a comical expression. She was such a guileless creature. How could Ariana have suspected her friend for a single moment? As for Mrs. Herley, however, Ariana was not so certain.

Molly reached out and took hold of the doorknob to Mrs. Hamilton's room, her face a mixture of timidity, fear, and curiosity. She'd never been in the housekeeper's room before. She wondered why the laidy wanted her and hoped it would be good news; a rise in her situation perhaps. Could it be? She'd only been in the place for just over a month—since that sweet laidy Miss Forsythe had rescued her and caused her to be taken on at Grosvenor Square. Such a fancy establishment! No one she had ever known had worked in such a fine place. The scullery was still the scullery, and she had many unpleasant tasks, but she was content.

“Come in,” Mrs. Hamilton urged. Molly, naturally shy, had been creeping in slowly and looking about in wonder. The housekeeper's room was so cozy and well put up. It astonished her.

Mrs. Hamilton came straight to the point. She was sitting in a comfortable wing chair with a newspaper upon her lap. There was a small fire burning, and the laidy was even sipping a cup of some hot liquid. Molly wished she would be asked to join her.

But no such thing.

“I have learned that you are a wicked, disloyal servant, Molly! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Molly blinked at Mrs. Hamilton in alarm and surprise. For a few moments, she did not know what to say. “I ain't done nothin', mum,” was her meager reply.

“Perhaps not yet, but do you deny that you were caught napping letters in your previous household?”

Molly instantly bowed her head in shame. She had thought that episode was behind her. She'd only done it for the extra money, which she used to feed her little brother, who was practically a street urchin.

“Well?” Mrs. Hamilton could be merciless at times.

Molly shook her head,
no.

“Of course you don't deny it. You can't deny it. You're guilty!”

“The master knows, mum.”

She seemed startled. “The master knows? What you've done?”