The House in Grosvenor Square (29 page)

Frederick merely nodded. “Very good, Mrs. Hamilton.” But when he turned to leave, his face remained troubled, and his thoughts were uncomfortable to the extreme.
Is Miss Forsythe's presence in the house evidence of a loose character? Why would the master wish to wed an
impure
? And what reason could she have for napping items from the house, when all will soon be hers? Even Mr. Mornay does not trust her enough to let her roam the house alone. Worst of all, am I to lose my situation as butler after serving nearly twenty years? Will Mr. Mornay, always such a strong and sensible man, give way to Miss Forsythe's wishes to have her own staff at the expense of his own? And here we've welcomed her with such high expectations! Her sweetness of countenance and her kindnesses are all for nought. She has no intention, alas, of becoming our mistress!

T
he man who had abducted Lavinia was giving her an exceedingly strange look. He was sitting across from her in the shabby carriage with his pistol on his lap. Lavinia's heart was racing, and she was afraid that she was going to swoon, just as Mrs. Bentley and Ariana had done. But, oh! That would leave her too much at this fellow's mercy!

“You look different,” he said. “Remove that shawl.”

“Sir?” This was a startling request.

“Remove it, I say!” She hurried to do so, watching him fearfully all the while. When she'd revealed her dark locks, his look changed to anger. “Who in blazes are you?”

“Miss Herley!”

“Miss Herley!” He seemed struck to the core. “Miss Lavinia Herley?”

She nodded. “And you are Lord Wingate, are you not?”

“Ah, she knows me. Indeed I am.” He started to laugh lightly, but then he turned a terrible eye upon her. “Where is Miss Forsythe?”

“At Grosvenor Square. I was to join her there.”

“Devil take it! Just my luck!” His every word made her jump, and so he added, “I have no intention of harming you, so do try to contain yourself.”

“Now that you realize who I am, sir, may I hope that you will release me? There is nothing to gain by detaining me. My family cannot pay you a ransom—”

“Not so fast, Miss Herley. I'll have to think about this. You may be of use to me yet. I daresay your friend Miss Forsythe will pay a pretty penny for your safe return.”

“Miss Forsythe has no money of her own!” gasped Lavinia.

“That's my eye, she doesn't!” He considered the matter. “But even if she
does not, her future husband does. And I hear he has every intention of being exceedingly generous with his new little wife.”

They said nothing after that, and Lavinia simply sat there in despair watching the streets go by and knowing she was being taken farther and farther from home and safety.

When the carriage slowed to a stop, Lavinia looked out, saw they were on a narrow and dirty street, and she started crying. Wingate hissed, “Be quiet, or I promise you, I'll give you something more to cry about!” Then she heard only whispering as he disembarked and consulted with another man. He looked back in, waved his pistol at her, and said, “Come along, then.”

She stood up a little shakily, but when she reached the door and went to step down, Lord Wingate took her forcefully by the arm.

“I know your brother!” she cried, hoping this might soften his manner toward her.

“Of course you do,” he replied. “Antoine is no stranger to the demimonde.”

“The demimonde? But I am, sir!”

“You mean you were,” he said ominously.

“If you harm or abuse me, you'll have to answer for it!”

By now they were entering a building that smelled strongly of liquor, smoke, and stale perfume. A few women were lounging on sofas and blinked stupidly at her, and one look told Lavinia she was in a place of demireps, for sure. The ladies were bedizened with too much face powder, lip colour, tawdry costumes, and cheap-looking jewelry. A man strolled in from a corridor, appearing more properly dressed, but his look at her, settling hungrily on her flesh as though she were a piece of meat to be eaten and enjoyed, turned her blood cold.

A woman greeted Lord Wingate familiarly and gave Miss Herley a smirking look, and from somewhere inside came the sound of coarse laughter. Could this woman not see, Lavinia wondered, that she did not belong there? Could no one see the repulsion and fear on her face? Or was it simply that they did not care?

A certain young man awoke from a drunken sleep on a sofa and saw Lord Wingate moving a woman along. My word, it was Lavinia Herley! He came sharply to attention, seeing that she wasn't happy. He knew Wingate and also recognized the cove with them. His brain clicked—he knew instantly what was up.
Dash it, why hadn't Wingate got Miss Forsythe, as he was supposed to have done?

With an irritated grimace, Mr. Harold Chesley came to his feet, awakening the lady beside him. Before she could protest his leaving, he produced a few coins from a pocket and tossed them to her. He then quickly strode to the door. There was something he had to do.

Mrs. Hamilton dismissed the two maids who were with Ariana, telling them to go and ask Cook for some food. They were happy for the relief and did so unquestioningly. She took a look at the lady, still asleep—
good.
Circling the room quickly, she searched it as if looking for something in particular. Then with a final furtive glance at the sleeper, she pocketed a silver snuffer from a table. She went quietly to the door and opened it.

“I've remembered something I must do for the master,” she told the two footmen, who were standing against the wall but looking at her curiously. “Let no one enter or leave this room. I shall return shortly.”

“Yes, mum.”

Mrs. Hamilton disappeared down the hall and went up the servants' stairs to their sleeping quarters. She went into Molly's room, deposited the snuffer with the rest of her stash, and returned to the guest bedchamber.

About an hour later, for it had taken him that long to locate Lord Antoine, Chesley plopped down beside him at a small table in one of the many “flash” houses of the East End. The establishment was known to cater to men who had fallen from grace, those who had started out well but found themselves in “low tide” from one circumstance or another—mostly of their own doing. Although Mr. Chesley himself was not in disgrace, he frequented these houses because it was more affable to his pocketbook. Much more affordable to spend a night gaming here, say, than White's or Boodle's—he simply didn't have the blunt to compete there, much as he enjoyed those places.

There were other gentlemen about, and Mr. Chesley did not want to blurt the thing in their hearing, and so when he sat down, he simply gave his friend a
look.

“What's on your mind, Chesley?” Holliwell took a good draw on his pint of ale.

Chesley looked around a bit and frowned, but he said, “I just saw a young woman whom, I believe, you are acquainted with.”

Lord Antoine looked at him sardonically. “Well? I know plenty o' morts around here. What of it?”

“This one isn't a mort—and she's not from around here. Come with me a sec and I'll tell you more about her.” He was gesturing with his head and eyes, but Antoine was being cork-brained or too deep in his cups, and it was only morning!

Lord Antoine leaned forward. “Did you not take note of Miss Herley last night? Her little kindnesses to me and all that?” He paused. “I ain't your man, Chesley.”

“Don't be such a gudgeon!” he returned with fervour. Then in a fierce whisper, he said, “This is about Miss Herley!”

“What? You saw her hereabouts? Why didn't you say so, you lackwit!”

Chesley had risen. Antoine did the same, and the two moved to leave the place. “I wanted to, you hulver-head,” said Chesley, “but your friends are all so chummy with your brother, and he's the one who's got her!”

Holliwell halted abruptly. His face had frozen in an ominous look. “Explain your meaning!”

“Just what I said. I saw him bullying her into Mrs. Wood's, and she didn't look too chipper. He also had that nasty jarvis with him. What's 'is name—Campbell, and I don't doubt he had a pistol at her side.”

Holliwell's face hardened, and his nose flared, and he was quickening his steps. “I'll kill him if he lays a finger on her! I swear I'll kill him!” Their eyes met. Chesley nodded.

In tandem they began running down the street. They'd have to hoof it to Mrs. Wood's house, but both men were young and had the speed-enhancing benefit of a noble cause. They made it in record time.

Lavinia had stopped crying, but she wouldn't accept a drink from her captors, and she was terrified that Lord Wingate would return and something terrible would happen to her. She knew she was in a brothel, what the lower classes called a
monastery
. Thoughts too horrible for words were going through her mind, which was a shame because she found the place utterly
fascinating. (It was a shocking thought, and if her mama knew, Lavinia would have earned an instant combing. But if she hadn't been so frightened, she would have been intrigued to see such a place firsthand.)

Lavinia had read about such establishments and heard of the rare police raid, but to actually
see
these women, to see that such places existed
really
— it was so curious! She was studying the woman she liked to think of as the “abbess,” (another cant term that she wasn't supposed to know) when the sound of agitated voices came to her ears and grew louder.

The abbess heard it too and at first reacted with a look of sheer boredom. But she grew suspicious as the sounds grew closer, and she got up and went toward the door. Stopping to look back at Lavinia with a leer, she said, “Sit tight, luv. I'll be back in a wink.” Lord Wingate's earlier companion, the driver, had been dozing for the past ten minutes. The lady left, locking the door behind her.