The House in Grosvenor Square (50 page)

“Come, come, Mornay, we'll see you home in plenty of time for your beauty rest.”

“Don't leave me, Phillip—I'm here on your account,” the prince added, and in such a tone that Mr. Mornay knew His Royal Highness wasn't
asking
. It was a command! “I haven't played a game against you in an age,” he added, taking up his hand.

Sometime later no one noticed when an uninvited guest came in, walked up behind Mornay, and then, without the least ceremony, quickly read out his hand, card by card. He might just as well have declared his alliance with France. His action in that room and among those men was akin to treason. There were immediate cries of indignation, and Mornay slapped down the cards and pushed out his chair, coming to his feet like lightning. Already a few men were holding Mr. Harold Chesley by the arms. When Mornay saw who it was, his eyes narrowed, and he made a little nasty grimace. He didn't consider the puppy worth the trouble, but his back was up. Mr. Chesley's infraction was grave indeed.

He stared at Mornay stupidly.

“Let him go, gentleman,” Mr. Mornay said. He wouldn't hit a man who
couldn't fight back properly. Disgustedly they released him, but just then Chesley gave way to drunken laughter saying, “I gotcha! I gotcha this time, Mornay!”

Phillip had already drawn back his fist for the punch, but he withdrew abruptly in disgust. “He's hocused!”

“He is. Get him out of here,” someone murmured. The Regent was looking on with an angry scowl, and he whispered something to one of his men.

At that moment, Mr. Mornay realized he might have been given an exit pass by Mr. Chesley. His hand had been read out loud, and he should now be free to abandon it.

“Sorry, Mornay, but there's no rules to say we don't finish the hand.”

“There's no rule for it because it isn't done!” he countered. “There's no rule to say women aren't allowed here either, but they don't come, do they?”

“Bad luck,” someone else said, but they were smiling at each other knowingly.

“Give it up, gentlemen,” Mornay said, as he stood up and straightened his coat. “And wish me a happy wedding!” He smiled fully while they finally accepted the inevitable, shook his hand, wished him luck, and made some jokes.

Meanwhile Chesley had been roughly escorted from the room and was given the boot, literally, in the hall. Someone pushed him in the direction of the staircase. “Go on, then, you lout! Stop interrupting gentlemen, or the prince will have you thrown into Newgate!”

Back in the room, Mornay was inching toward the door, still accepting good-natured slaps on the back and friendly wishes. He was a little tense, but he supposed it wouldn't cease until he arrived at Hanover Square.

Just before he reached the doorway, his back to the hall, Harold Chesley had reached it from the other side. He recognized his enemy even from behind. He knew what he had to do.

His leering countenance took on a more sober look, though he was not by any means sober. He pulled a small gun which was already cocked from his coat pocket. It was a miracle—if it could be called such—that the pistol hadn't gone off when he was booted from the room and sprawled along the corridor earlier.

He aimed it waveringly at his target.

“He's got a gun!” someone cried. “Mornay!” And then the report went off. There was a puff of smoke, and the acrid smell of powder, and Mr. Mornay clasped his left arm with his uninjured hand. Blood began showing between his fingers and dripped along the sleeve of his very fine, brand new coat.

When fifteen minutes had passed and Mr. Mornay had not appeared at the church, Mr. O'Brien could stand it no longer. He made his way to Mr. Forsythe, who was also having difficulty not giving in to angry speculation.

“Sir,” he said, when he came upon the man. Mrs. Forsythe made room so that he could sit beside her husband. “Do you know the reason he isn't here?” They both knew who “he” was.

“No. None.”

“Sir, may I remind you that my offer to your daughter still stands?”

“Eh? That's rather precipitous, young man.”

“Your daughter, sir, should not be made to suffer the humiliation that will be upon her shortly, if he does not show!”

“No. Well, I'm not giving up on him yet.” He added pointedly, “Thank you for your
concern
.”

“Sir—I love your daughter. My offer stands.”

Mr. Forsythe was frowning. “Will she have you, do you think?”

O'Brien's face lightened. Her father was considering the possibility!

“Charles!” Mrs. Forsythe was scandalized that her husband would even consider the offer. “She is in love with Mr. Mornay! How can this man possibly help?”

“I know that,” Mr. O'Brien said. His face took on an appearance of noble acceptance. “I will have her knowing that. I will have her for my wife, gladly and willingly.”

The parents' eyes met. Mrs. Forsythe shook her head. But Mr. Forsythe took a look at Ariana standing there, alone and on the brink of tears. People were whispering and pointing, and even the princess looked distressed. The vicar was clearing his throat.

“We will commence,” he said aloud, “with the ceremony for the joining in marriage of Mr. Randolph Pellham and Mrs. Agatha Bentley.”

Ariana swallowed, her eyes filling with tears. Mr. O'Brien saw her face, and his feet began to move of their own accord toward the centre aisle of
the church. He must save his beloved girl from disgrace! But Mr. Forsythe's arm shot out and pulled him back to the pew.

“Julia,” he said to his wife. “Go to your daughter, and tell her of this man's offer.”

When she reached the bride, people started murmuring. Could it be the Paragon was not to be wed? Who was this woman joining Miss Forsythe?

When Ariana saw her mama, it was more difficult than ever to contain her distress. Mothers were chiefly there as shoulders to cry upon, were they not? And how very much she wanted to cry just now.

“Oh, my dear!”

“Mama!”

“What do you make of this, my dear?”

“Something has happened to Mr. Mornay! Oh, Mama! I just know it! He would be here, you must know. He would never miss our wedding voluntarily!”

“Can you be certain, my dear?”

“I am, Mama! I am utterly certain!” This dialogue was spoken in hushed tones, for the wedding of Mrs. Bentley and Mr. Pellham was being spoken at the same time.

Mrs. Forsythe took a deep breath. “My dear—Mr. O'Brien wishes you to know that he is—that he will be…happy to stand in Mr. Mornay's place.” She looked nervously at her daughter.

Ariana's head turned sharply, and she searched her mama's countenance. “You cannot mean—”

“Yes, he is happy to marry you, if you will have him.” Her own features were set in a disagreeable frown at the thought, for Mrs. Forsythe was greatly fond of Mr. Mornay.

“Mr. O'Brien is out of line!” Ariana countered firmly.

Mrs. Forsythe's features relaxed somewhat. But she had to tell all. “He says he loves you, dearest!”

Ariana's mouth set into a little pink line. “He is very bold! Far too much so! I will never have him, Mama!”

“He only wishes to spare you the humiliation—”

“He wishes me to betray the man I love!” The vicar stopped mid sentence, as Ariana had forgot to keep her voice low. There was a terrible look on the
cleric's face, and she mumbled, “I beg your pardon, sir. Do continue.” There were an awful few seconds of continuing silence, but then Mr. Hodges sniffed, cleared his brow, and resumed his office.

“Get a doctor! Your handkerchiefs, gentlemen! Hand them over!” This from the duke. “Get him out of that coat. Quickly! We've got to stop the bleeding!”

The Regent was instantly in a rage, and Chesley was shortly in handcuffs and on his way to Newgate. But first he had been relieved of his weapon and been given a good pummeling from some of the members. “You muddle-headed idiot!” Alvanley cried.

“Take care of him, sirs, and then deliver what's left of him to Newgate!” the prince had added.

Chesley was now bleeding from a broken lip and a gash on his face. “He tried to kill me,” he was coughing out. “Mornay—he tried to shoot me last night!”

“You're a blasted fool!” Mornay countered. “If I'd wanted to shoot you, I would have.” The others looked curious, so he added, “He knew Wingate's where abouts but wasn't forthcoming with his information.”

“That makes him twice as guilty—you filthy turncoat!” said one man, kicking him in the shins.

“That's enough,” Mornay said. They had taken his coat off of him, removed his cravat and then his waistcoat. Rather than force his arms up to remove his fine linen shirt, which had buttons ending midway down the chest, they simply tore it in half. The garment was ruined from the bullet, in any case, so the Paragon made no objection. The wound was visible only for the merest second while various handkerchiefs were applied with force to stop the bleeding. Meanwhile someone had located a physician downstairs in the dining room, and he now rushed in, carrying a small leather bag.

“Make way, gentlemen,” cried Grafton. The doctor came and looked at the arm. He moved and prodded a little, much to Mr. Mornay's discomfort, who winced at each touch.

“Give the man some laudanum, for pity's sake!” Alvanley cried.

“I shall in a moment,” replied the physician. He stood up and looked around. “No major arteries severed. Providence has smiled upon your friend.” He paused for cheering all around. “I'll just remove the bullet, and if we
can keep him from an infection, I daresay Mr. Mornay will be as good as new soon enough.” The men cheered again, and toasting began. When a constable arrived for the prisoner, there was more cheering and toasting.

Scropes and another man took on the service of barring entry to the room by anyone except the law or medical men.

The doctor made to give his patient laudanum, but he refused. “I need a clear head, thank you.”

“He's getting married tomorrow, sir! I say double the dose for him!”