The House in Grosvenor Square (26 page)

Mr. Mornay gave a sigh of relief and settled back to allow his weary future bride to rest against him. He allowed his hand the liberty of running through the strands of her hair, which had come free during the evening. He let the loose strands fall between his fingers and then slipped his arm back around her shoulders, letting her rest. The strangest feeling came over him. The most unusual thing. And for a few seconds, he did not know what to make of it. What was happening to him? He didn't recognize the emotion that was welling up so suddenly. It came to his mind, his consciousness, his very throat, in a wave that nearly took his breath away. And then just when he realized what was about to happen, what the feeling was, it was already too late. The sensation of a wet drop on his cheek appeared as evidence.

I nearly lost Ariana. I might have
lost
her!
Now that he had her back safe and sound, it was occurring to him that it might just as easily have gone another way.
She might have been hurt, abused, or possibly murdered!
He thought of his new faith in God, and questions flew at him.

Why has God allowed this to happen? Why have I got along just fine for nigh three decades with no need for a woman like Ariana, only now to be utterly shaken at thought of losing her? Am I growing weak as I age?
He had to shake his head to blink away the water in his eyes.
Perhaps I am tired?

No, it was more than that.

Dashed if he wasn't a love-sick puppy! He'd been too busy searching for her earlier to focus on the growing unrest within himself, but now it was coming at him in a flood. He gently lifted Ariana onto his lap, and she, half asleep, smiled weakly and nestled her head back against him. The carriage pulled to the curb in Grosvenor Square, and he heard the maids jump off the back and scurry toward the house. There was no other sound for a minute, and he didn't move. Then footsteps grew louder, and the steps were put down, and the door opened.

Mr. Mornay was immobile, however. Sitting there with Ariana, he felt himself almost sick with what might have happened to her. Thank God, he'd been too busy to give thought to these feelings earlier, or he'd have been utterly useless. He felt as if he'd just suffered a severe blow, and what was it? That once again, just as when he was young, he was at the mercy of the love he felt for someone. For Ariana. It was a terrible feeling. And yet she was in his arms, and that was wonderful.

What a paradox! How he wanted to deny it. It was indeed a blow to see himself for what he really was. Not the Paragon, the cavalier, confident society favourite. Not the friend of the prince. Not that person who could care less about whom he offended. No, this man was vulnerable. This man loved deeply. And he was frightened. This was the man who had folded like a house of cards years earlier when he'd lost his family—mother, father, brother—within eighteen months. The man who had tried to swallow the pain and get on with life, only to find that in denying his grief and rage, he was rapidly losing his interest in all humanity. He made quick work of most people, deciding in seconds whether to give them his time or not, or whether they would bore, tire, or exasperate him.

Then to his own surprise, his increasing irascibility had the uncanny effect of enlarging his reputation, his consequence among the
ton
. Strange, indeed, that he had neither sought their approval or took pains to preserve it, once given. This too only added to his aura. Couple that with a natural tendency toward fastidiousness in dress and a figure people insisted upon calling handsome, and it resulted in his being called the Paragon. Once spoken—and no one knew who said it first—the label stuck.

For years he had lived this way and quite comfortably too. When he was in the mood, he spent the night about town, visiting Carlton House or other aristocratic dwellings and engaging in a bit of gaming and a bit—a very little bit—of port or other wine. He could spend evenings going from house to house in this manner—remaining long at none, giving few his attention, and enjoying some bantering here or there. Hostesses were delighted by his appearance, and he enjoyed the greatest attentions from them, the best of everything they had to offer. And at times they offered everything.

He didn't know what it was that had kept him from succumbing to their offers. Or what it was that sent him to hire a hansom, if need be, to remove himself from a neighborhood where his companions had taken him and were intent on enjoying the company of light-skirts. All except him. He had a disgust of loose women. This was perhaps the best result of his teenage tragical romance with Miss Larkin. This, and that it led him to disavow women for so long, kept him unwittingly and unpurposefully pure for Ariana.

How glad he was now that he had not dallied with other women. Some-how it made his attachment to this one, this precious one snuggled against him, all the more precious. Again he was assailed with the thought that he might have lost her, and that same awful feeling filled him, tightening his throat and making him blink. He pictured Wingate, that reprobate
aristocrat, impoverished in mind and pocket, and thought of what he could do to rid himself of his menace.

No one must be allowed to threaten this newfound happiness. No one who has proven dangerous to Ariana can be left alone. Least of all a dissolute, reckless peer with a grudge. I' ll have him arrested, and locked up until he can be tried and sentenced to transportation. Hanging would be better yet, but it's seldom done for a peer unless treason could be proved. Yes, transportation
—
and only permanent transport
—
say, to Botany Bay, will answer.

W
hen Mr. Mornay came to grips with himself, he carried Ariana into his house. Dawn had arrived. Frederick's quiet “good morning, sir” carried with it no evidence of surprise. The two maids had evidently informed him of their guest. “The third bedchamber, sir?” he asked. He took his master's hat, but that was all he could get before Mr. Mornay moved to the staircase and then proceeded up the steps, all the time with a look of deep concern on his face.

He lay his charge upon the bed and gave her a kiss on the forehead as she murmured a sleepy “good night.” After telling the maids they were not to leave the room, he left. He felt that he had done the right thing. It might have been unusual to keep one's future wife in one's house, but it certainly gave him greater peace of mind than any other arrangement would have.

Back downstairs he considered whether to leave at once to search out Wingate but then decided to rest first. He was sorely tired. But he fell to pacing, considering his next move. He had to ensure Ariana's safety and be rid of Wingate with no fear of his return. In addition—and this made Miss Herley's coming of double importance—he wanted to know what that young woman's feelings regarding Holliwell actually were. Had he inadvertently prevented a love match? He had to look into the possibility. He would wait until her arrival, speak with her, and then go on to search out the arrogant marquis.

He headed toward his bed, intent on resting, but hesitated. He had a sudden urge to check on Ariana.

At the door of the room, he hesitated, then knocked quietly and turned the knob. One of the maids had jumped at his knock and was coming toward him.

“Is she asleep?” he asked.

The girl looked back toward the bed, and Mr. Mornay followed her gaze. He nodded at the maid, who went softly to the chair she'd been resting upon across the room in a sitting area. He stopped beside the bed and peered down at Ariana, whose hair had been let down, and she wore a nightcap. Evidently the servants had thought to pack a nightdress for her too, for he could see that it was ruffled and reached her neck. Her face was smooth and lovely. Every fiber of his being wanted to protect her, to settle this disquiet in his being.
After the wedding I' ll take her from London, and she' ll be safe. But there are still six days before the ceremony. Or is it only five now?
He couldn't even think straight.

What if I can't find Wingate? What if Whiddington's information about the man's whereabouts is false?
While he mulled over these thoughts, Ariana stirred and eyed him sleepily. “Why do you look unhappy? I am safe now.”

He started, as if wakened from a reverie, and then bent down to place a kiss on her forehead. The darkened room did not conceal the shadow across his face. He looked worried, drawn.

She came more awake. What had brought him to her bedside? “Is something wrong?” When he looked away, his visage unreadable, she whispered fiercely, “Phillip! What is it? Is there new danger afoot?”

She started to rise up beneath the covers, but he said, “No, no, I promise you.”

But the unusual hardness she saw in his face belied his words. “Do tell me what ails you then! It is something. I can see it!”

He stared down at her for a long moment or two. “I might have lost you!” He hated to reveal the depth of his feelings. He hated the weakness in himself, which had produced an actual tear on his cheek earlier.

She reached for his hand and held it tightly. “But you did not.”

He returned the hard grip on her hand.

She murmured, “I love you, my dear Mornay. And you must know I never doubted my deliverance.”

This surprised him. “Didn't you?”

She shook her head. “Not truly. I felt God's presence with me. It kept me from hysterics, I am certain.”

“I wish I could have felt it thus!”

“You are still new to the life of faith. It is for times such as this that our practice of knowing God and our familiarity with His Spirit must give us hope and strength. In time you will experience Him more and know the Scriptures so that remembering them can strengthen and comfort you.”

Her words encouraged him. He took a tender leave of her and instructed the maids to remain in her room throughout the day. He appointed two footmen outside the chamber door as well and sent a servant to tell Mrs. Hamilton to stay with Ariana from the moment she arose. Outside the sun was rising, but the thick drapery did an admirable job of making the bedchambers as dark as possible. Ariana was exhausted and fell into a heavy sleep. The maids stretched their legs and tried to rest as well.

Lord Wingate was furious. Whiddington and Blighter had disappeared with his coach, and now he had no help, no equipage, and no Miss Forsythe. So when he came upon his brother the following morning in the Black Stag near St. Giles, he was in a thoroughly foul mood. Antoine, on the contrary, had been admitted to Miss Herley's house the prior evening and was in a remarkably good frame of mind. Because he had accompanied Mr. Chesley, a family friend, Lavinia's parents did not wish to insult the man by barring his companion from the party.

His contact with Miss Herley had been sufficient to be assured of her unchanged feelings concerning him. He had, in turn, been able to make enough small gestures and statements to her so that she too could be in little doubt of where his sentiments lay.

Lord Wingate was too sensible of his recent disappointments to be much aware of his brother's good spirits. “I'll kill those worthless culls the moment I lay eyes on 'em,” he hissed, after ordering a pint of ale. “They're dead men, both of 'em, and if you happen to lay your clappers on them before I do, then the job falls to you to do the business, Antoine.”

The young lord said nothing, and there was no indication from his expression to give a clue to his feelings on the matter.

“In fact,” Lord Wingate continued, “I need your help to find a new carriage. I can't lose another day—that wedding is in six days!” When there was still no reply, he added in an acid tone, “If you'd gone along as I suggested, I might have entirely better prospects today!”

“I had other business,” Holliwell said simply.

“But you are acquainted with Miss Forsythe and could have lulled her into compliance.”

“It was
your
deuced idea to begin with, and I have no intention of lulling Miss Forsythe—” He lowered his voice at that moment, looked around
to see if anyone was listening, and continued, “or any other lady to comply with your schemes.”

“It is
your
bloody honour we are supposed to be defending, and
your
lost bride we are avenging!”

Antoine turned in his seat to face his brother. “If it is only on my account that we are abducting a lady of quality from a man of great influence and means, then why is it so deuced important to you?”

Lord Wingate shrugged. “I suppose I've nothing better to do now that we're both ruined and nigh well bankrupt!” His appearance was stark evidence that his circumstances had been accurately described. His face, though of a handsome cut, was unshaven and unhealthy looking, and his clothing only a remnant of the finery it once was.

“You've been ruined for years and managed to get along. I've had second thoughts, sir. It is perhaps providential, if I have the slightest claim to providence, that your plan was blocked up last night. I saw Miss Herley, and my hopes are high in her regard. I am determined to have nothing more to do with knavery or smuggling or abducting a lady, or any of your scatter-brained attempts to make a fortune. They never work, Julian! And if you're taken in this, you'll hang for it.”

Lord Wingate's steely grey eyes narrowed prodigiously. He came to his feet, paced a little ways, and then returned, taking the chair and coming down on it so that his arms rested atop the back and his legs straddled the sides. He rested his cold eyes upon his brother. “See here, Antoine, and understand this!” His eyes glinted in the light that was filtering in through the grimy windows. “I mean to finish this. I will have revenge, and I will exact enough money from Mornay to get myself—and you too—out of this rat's hole we've dug for ourselves. Do you hear? We are noblemen of the realm, and we are not going to live out our lives in this flea-ridden ‘holy ground.' Do you understand?”

His brother heard him out and then turned deliberately and faced his pint. Wingate shot up from the chair and came at Antoine, who jumped to his feet. They scuffled with each other, and Julian pushed his brother so that he had him against a wall. Others in the room made sure to be out of their way, but no one seemed to think they ought to interfere. The fight was looked upon as a natural event, nothing to be surprised at.

Antoine had his back to the wall, but he hissed, “
You
listen to
me
, brother! I
understand
that we are depraved and deserve what we've created for ourselves, utterly and entirely!” His eyes were equally as fierce as his
elder brother's, and his nose flared, giving him an almost heroic look. “Miss Forsythe is Miss Herley's dearest friend. I will not have a hand in bringing her harm! It would ruin any chance I have to win Lavinia, and I have no interest in causing such distress to a lady!”

“You're a dashed coward!” Julian released him and snickered, causing Antoine's face to glower and his nose to flare again. “I don't mean to harm the lady as long as Mornay comes through with the blunt. And what's more, you don't stand a chance to win Miss Herley! Mornay called your bluff there. When will you cease to be so bottle-headed and realize when the game's up? You've become a lily liver!”

“What I've become, sir, is
sober
.” The brothers stared at each other, and Wingate's glare lost just a token of its strength. Antoine's eyes were calmer but with a firm resolve in them that did not portend well for his brother. “What is your next move?” the younger one asked.

There was a moment of wary silence and then, “I'm off to Hanover Square.” Wingate's tone was grim. “If I have to wait a fortnight by her house, I'll do it until I get that blonde mort!”

“What if Mornay sees you hanging about?”

“What's that to me? He knows nothing of my plans. He and I have some old business, but I doubt he'll be eager to face off on it. Probably forgot all about it, though I have not.”

Holliwell was silent for a few moments. “So this is why you took up ‘my' cause to begin with. To revenge yourself on the man.”

“Don't be such a gudgeon! I'd always intended on revenge, but your little matter merely served to hasten me.” Wingate drank down his pint, wiped his mouth, and turned to go. “It's not too late, Antoine. I'm going to win this time. I'll have Mornay on his knees!”

The younger man had taken his seat. He watched the other but did not reply.

Wingate seemed reluctant to leave. Antoine, after all, was the only family he had. The rest had been done with him long ago, and he was no longer welcome in any of their homes. “Don't abandon me, Antoine.” There was a hint of a plea in his tone, spoken more softly than usual. This did have its effect, and the younger man rose and went and stood in front of his brother.

“Give up your revenge!” His tone was heart felt. “Let us think of a better way to regain our fortune.”

Lord Wingate snorted in derision. “There is no better way!” He took a deep breath. “I'll ask you once more. Come with me, and let us do this thing together. We can get your Miss Herley, leaving her no recourse but to marry you if her virtue is compromised.” His glittering eyes stared at his brother's face. Shortly Antoine's look became determined. Without another word, he turned and went back to his seat. It was not easy for him to walk away from Julian, but he felt it was absolutely necessary. He might have ruined his young life with dissipation and keeping poor company, but he was not lost entirely to his conscience. He was not such a cove that he'd participate in this addle-brained idea of revenge—and especially not when it involved the likes of a Miss Forsythe and a Mr. Mornay. And he would sooner lose Lavinia than sully her! Julian evidently knew nothing of love.