The House in Grosvenor Square (11 page)

She spied a pair of cufflinks upon a dresser top—something he might have picked up and toyed with that very day. Perhaps he had considered using them and then discarded the idea. In an impulsive gesture, she took one and clasped it in her hand like a treasure. It was made of gold and set with little diamonds, and since there were two, she decided instantly to keep one until their marriage. One for each of them. It would be a sort of “until we meet
again” remembrance. She savoured the feel of it in her hand. It was merely a cufflink, but it was his, and now it was hers.

Then when a maid brought in a freshly laundered stack of Phillip's neatly folded handkerchiefs, though Ariana already had one tucked away at her aunt's house, she felt an irresistible urge to have another. She watched the servant put them into a drawer. After the servant left, Ariana crossed the room and opened the drawer. The top few handkerchiefs were made of soft silk and embroidered with a single
M
at the bottom corner—very fine and elegant. Beneath them were brown and red ones made of linen; “snuff ” handkerchiefs. With a quickening of her pulse, she picked one up and sniffed it deeply. Yes, it had Phillip's scent, a mixture of snuff and clean linen.

With a little smile she tucked one into her reticule beside the cuff link. She would tell Phillip about it when she next saw him, if she was going to see him before the wedding. Oh, but it was coming at long last! Nine days more and she would be Mrs. Mornay! At times and in all honesty, a little cloud of fear accompanied the thought—after all, there were mysteries she knew precious little about. The sight of the beds in the room was a stark reminder of that. But she need not dwell on that right now.

She went and inspected her trousseau. Because she hadn't yet worn these garments, they didn't feel as though they were hers any more than the expensive furniture or decorations. Only her little escritoire from home was familiar, and it looked unhappily out of place.

She wandered down to the dining room, where the work she had authorized was underway. But when she got to the doorway, she stopped in shock. The room looked ghastly. It had been taken apart but not yet put back together, and she had a sudden sensation of having ruined the beautiful dwelling with her foolish ideas! She turned without having entered and nearly walked into the housekeeper, who displayed a very indignant expression.

“Mrs. Hamilton! My word, you startled me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

She did not seem sorry, and she had not curtseyed. Nervously Ariana asked, “Has Mr. Mornay given his appraisal of the work yet?”

“To my knowledge, no, he has not.”

Mrs. Bentley entered the room, for the seamstress had just left. “When is Mr. Mornay expected to return home?”

“I cannot say, ma'am. I can ask Mr. Frederick, however.”

“Yes. Do so.”

“At once, ma'am.” The housekeeper turned and yanked once on the bellpull and then left the room.

“I do not trust that woman,” Ariana's aunt said, after watching the servant go. “She was staring at you with a look that should never be on a servant's countenance. First, they shouldn't stare at you at all, and second, they should always appear happy to be of service or, failing that, as if they had no feelings whatsoever!” Mrs. Bentley said this as she followed Ariana back upstairs to the bedchamber.

“But, ma'am, they are people and do have feelings.”

Ariana threw open the wardrobe. Now they were alone in the room, and there was a little smile on her face. Phillip's servants kept his things in impeccable order, that much was clear.

“Pshaw!” Mrs. Bentley dismissed this with a toss of her head.

“And I mean to befriend Mrs. Hamilton. Indeed I will need her help as I grow accustomed to Phillip's habits and preferences. I understand she has not been here for much over a year.” She wrinkled her brows, trying to remember. “Or was it less? Perhaps it was less. But you see, she has learned her duties. She can much benefit me as I seek to do the same.”

“If you need help, you need only ask me or hire a new woman in her place. Not all servants can countenance a change in the household such as you are bringing, my dear. They get it in their heads that somehow the place belongs to them, and they resent what they feel is an intrusion. I have seen it, Ariana.”

The butler arrived, after finding that the ladies had abandoned the dining room. He had Fotch, Mr. Mornay's valet, with him. Both servants wore looks of mild alarm, though they bowed politely.

“Ah, Frederick. Did Mr. Mornay mention when he would return today?”

“No, ma'am, except it is unlikely he will take his supper here.”

Fotch stepped forward, with an apologetic air. “May I answer any questions for you, ma'am?” He looked behind Ariana to the open wardrobe as if to say, “I notice you are into my master's clothing. Is something amiss?” Being unable to resist assuring himself that everything was as it should be, he went and took a quick look at the wardrobe and then shut the door with a firmness that was perhaps a little unbecoming in one with a new mistress in the room. His loyalty and longtime care of his master's clothes were his excuse. Ariana could see the possessiveness, the protectiveness for his master, and she smiled at him.

Fotch then remembered that he liked Miss Forsythe, and he smiled back. But he noticed the single cuff link on the dresser, and he went and picked it up. He then looked questioningly about, as if it might have fallen.

Ariana, instantly aware of having the other, felt too embarrassed to say so to the servant.

Frederick cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, ma'am?”

“No, Frederick. Thank you.”

“Shall I instruct Cook to prepare a meal for you and Mrs. Bentley?”

Ariana's aunt answered, “No, we are to eat at Hanover Square.”

Before leaving the house, Ariana quickly checked on the progress of all the changes she had authorized. She saw little that was finished, and the obvious work in progress made her uneasy.

Even Mrs. Bentley had to exclaim, “Upon my word! I do hope that you are not responsible for all of this upset, my dear.” She stepped around bits of broken plaster and tools, looking as if the mess held the plague.

Ariana frowned but said nothing. She saw the place where a painted roundel had been, covered now by an opaque substance to prepare it for a new painting. So much grace and elegance erased, as though it had never existed! What if she had inadvertently ruined the house in Grosvenor Square? And what would Mr. Mornay say about it?

W
hen the master of the house arrived home that evening, he had forgotten about the missing candlestick and the letter opener. Mr. Mornay was now informed about the expensive cuff link, which was missing its twin, and that a handkerchief—or perhaps two—were also unaccounted for, all of which had been noticed following the visit of a certain young blonde-haired woman.

Worst by far was that his valet came to him in tears—Fotch, with tears in his eyes! This was the first moment he felt real concern about the recent rash of missing items.

“Sir!” The agonized look on the servant's face was almost unbearable.

“Yes, Fotch?”

The man couldn't bear to speak. He held up a white linen shirt, a look of sheer misery on his face, and turned it so Mr. Mornay could see the front. There was a huge blotch of ink on it, running in a ragged bleed in all directions, even up to the collar points. The placket, where the three buttons were sewn on, was solidly black.

Mr. Mornay frowned but was not in danger of losing his temper. “What happened?”

“That's just it, sir! I 'ave no clue! I found it just like this, right and tight, hangin' in the wardrobe, sir!”

Mr. Mornay's lips were compressed. “Summon Frederick.”

The valet didn't move from the room, and Mr. Mornay asked, “Yes?”

“If I could just say, sir, how sorry I am. 'Tis a rotten shame, sir!”

“Yes, thank you, Fotch.” He thought of something. “You're not leasing out the laundry, are you?”

“Goodness no, sir! I washed this shirt myself, and I left it white as ever it was, sir!”

“Very well,” he said, nodding.

When the butler arrived, he too was visibly upset. “Sir, I beg you to understand that neither I nor Fotch have the smallest notion of how this could have happened!”

“Set yourself at ease, Frederick. I don't intend to hang you on a gibbet for it.” Mr. Mornay looked up from where he had been writing something at his desk.

“Thank you, sir.” The butler relaxed somewhat, but of course a butler could not be expected to relax completely under the circumstances.

“However—” The master's word set a new flurry in his pulse.

“I do think I should be able to expect my butler to keep abreast of the comings and goings in this house. Something has been amiss, as you know. Missing items, possible thefts, and now my own clothing ruinously attacked!”

“Attacked, sir?”

“Do you see it as something less?” he asked.

“Well, sir—” he hesitated.

This made Mr. Mornay look at him expectantly. “Well? Do you know something?”

He looked down and then said, “Well, it's just a conjecture, sir.” The butler looked at Fotch, who nodded his head in agreement. Mr. Mornay was losing patience.

“What
is
it, Frederick?” His tone dripped with exasperation.

“You see, sir, Fotch and I both saw—someone—looking in your ward-robe today.”

“What! Why on earth didn't you say so?” He was growing more annoyed by the second.

“We assumed you knew.”

“Knew! Are you mad? Who was it?”

“The lady, sir…Miss Forsythe. Our future mistress.” Frederick's voice had trailed off, and Mr. Mornay's demeanour became unarmed. He seemed at a loss, in fact, and took a breath.

“Are you suggesting this was the work of Miss Forsythe?”

“Well, sir, we don't rightly know what to suggest. Or what to think. We only know we saw her at your wardrobe…and then Fotch found the garment.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Hangin' up, sir, with your other clothing but pulled apart, so that it wasn't touchin' nothin' else.”

Mr. Mornay held out his hand. “Let me see it.” When he had the shirt in hand, he looked it over carefully, not really knowing what he was looking for but willing it to tell him something. Had it been stained deliberately or not? That was his question.

The three men examined the item, and there was no question in anyone's mind that it could have been an accident. Ink from a bottle had been deliberately poured on the garment and then allowed to slowly seep across it, in a spidery design that ended in uneven blotches all over the shirt.

Each of the men wore a frown. No one wanted to believe that the sweet-faced Miss Forsythe could be responsible. Mr. Mornay could not believe for a second that she was, but he certainly would speak of it to her.

He dismissed the servants and thought for a few moments. There were still nine days until the wedding, and now he would need to see her about this. There was no way for him to ignore that she had been in his bedchamber. The result of which he held in his hands, was so evident and deleterious. He looked at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly seven. If he hurried, he just might be able to catch her at Hanover Square before she accompanied her aunt somewhere for the evening. Otherwise he'd speak to her the following night as he escorted her to Merrilton House.

He called Fotch to help him change his clothing. Then before leaving the house, he stopped in front of Frederick.

“I want a footman or other servant at all times in the rooms where work-men are. Further, take all the items in these rooms that aren't closed up in drawers and lock them away somewhere until this infernal refurbishing is done! I want a man stationed at the door to my chamber at all times. And place another man at the next chamber since they are communicating doors, and make sure no one may enter either one without being duly noted.

The butler was nodding gravely.

“I also want a running tally of the cost of everything that has gone missing or been destroyed.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Tell Mrs. Hamilton what I've told you and see that my orders are carried out.”

“At once, sir.”

Mr. Mornay hesitated. The butler waited, sensing more was to come. “If Miss Forsythe comes again…”

“Yes, sir?”

Mr. Mornay fell silent for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Let Mrs. Hamilton or another servant accompany her.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” Frederick closed the door, troubled for his master's sake but inwardly proud of the man. The master was such a…
master!
He would see that there were no more dastardly goings-on in Grosvenor Square, that much was certain.

Lord Wingate drew a long, bony finger along the large map he had unfurled on a table. He tapped lightly upon Hanover Square and then let his finger run down the streets to Grosvenor Square, stopping abruptly at house number 25.

“'Tisn't a long distance but long enough for our purposes. I tell you, if we have to take her on the wedding day, we'll do it!” He looked to where his younger brother was stretched out on a worn sofa, eyes closed, one arm draped lazily across his eyes. Wingate's eyes narrowed. “Are you attending to me, Antoine?”

His brother slowly removed his arm from over his eyes and yawned. “I hear you, if that's what you mean. But evidently you haven't heard me. Did I not say,” he asked, coming with difficulty to a sitting position and blinking at his brother who stood only a few feet away, “that I am not for trying again? I intend on dropping the scheme. I thought I had made that clear.”

Lord Wingate grimaced. “What a cake you are. A prime gull.” He paced with cat-like intensity to one end of the small room they were sharing, never taking his eyes off his brother. “This is a chance to get back what's been lost to us. The estate can be bought back. The trustees will be relieved to have it back in our laps. We can live there again, you know!”

Lord Antoine shifted and placed his booted feet heavily onto the floor. He looked tired. “Mornay had nothing to do with your bankruptcy. You did that entirely on your own!”

“As I am the legal heir, I fail to see how that concerns you.” His eyes flickered angrily as he shook his long hair out of his face. “Mornay had more to do with it than you know. And his money will be sufficient to get it back. That's what matters.”

“I thought what mattered was what he did to my wedding prospect. You don't really care a fig about that, do you?”

“All that signifies is that if we move ahead as planned, he will be willing to pay, and it will more than compensate both our losses.”

The brothers stared at one another. Antoine hated to see the circles under Julian's eyes and hoped earnestly that his own did not mirror them. “Your losses, perhaps, not mine.”

Julian smiled. “Both our losses, brother.”

“After which I've no way of preventing you from gaming it away again.”

Lord Wingate's demeanor changed. “I seem to recall that you enjoyed many a night's gaming as well,
brother
.”

“I knew when to stop. You never did.”

“Of course I did. You stop after you win. It's that simple.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I had a run of bad luck, that's all.”

“As I said, you don't know when to quit.” Antoine stood up and made to leave the shabby apartment. It was the most they could afford, living off what they managed to eke out by gaming and other ignoble means. The family estate was “let to nurse.” That meant it was in the hands of trustees until the debts Wingate had run up were fully paid. They had no regular income.

“Where do you think you're going?” Wingate's voice was slow and icy.

“What is it to you, sir? I see now that you were never in this on account of my ruined hopes, as you said!”

“I was willing to help, and now I will need your help.”

“I said I'm not for it! I've thought it over. I'd have little chance with Miss Herley if I were to harm her dearest friend!”

“Don't be beetle-headed! Are you still harping about Miss Herley? And you say you know when to quit?” He faced his brother, his countenance snarling. “The game's up, Antoine! You're blocked at both ends. There is not to be a Miss Herley for you, and it is on account of Mr. Mornay!
And
his interfering little chit! Now you
will
help me in this matter. You have nothing to lose, and we both stand much to gain.”

Lord Antoine stood grimly still, digesting what his brother had said. He was right, undoubtedly. There could be no chance of his marrying Miss Herley now. Her family was not rich, but they were utterly respectable—the very thing he was not. The very thing his family had not been for at least two generations. Mr. Mornay had been spot-on in warning her against him. But that didn't mean he had to just swallow it, did it?

He undid the buttons of his coat and walked over to where the map was laid out on the table. A single sputtering flame threw its light onto the
paper, and when he bent over to study it, the light was partially blocked. Lord Wingate moved the candle.

“What is your plan?” he asked.

Perhaps it was the right thing to do, to help his brother. Even if Wingate was a knave, he was still his brother. Family. That had to count for something.