The House in Grosvenor Square (14 page)

“My servants appear to be certain.”

“Well—”

“I'm sorry I mentioned it,” he said, holding out his arm. “I thought it rather odd that you would borrow them. It's better you know about their disappearance so you'll be alert for anything unusual while you're here.”

“Unusual? Like what?”

He met her eyes. “I cannot say. I've appointed more servants to keep their eyes on the workmen. If no other explanation turns up, we'll have to conclude it was one of their number. One of them may have wandered beyond where they should have been, but that won't happen again. And if I know my man of business,” he added, “he'll charge the shopkeepers equally to make up for the losses. Don't fret—let us not talk any more of it today. I'll look into the matter. But now I must take my leave of you.” His look became stern. “You are not to walk home. I'm leaving orders that you'll be taken in a carriage, if Frederick himself has to drive it!”

“Thank you, my darling.” The words left her mouth so quickly and easily that she hadn't realized what she was saying until it was too late. He froze for the briefest second, wanting to take her right back into his arms but could not. She saw it in his eyes, and her blush deepened. All he could do was murmur, “My angel.” And with a chaste kiss on her cheek, he strode hurriedly toward the door.

She was doing it again. She was driving him mad. He had to get out of there
now
!

A
fter Mr. Mornay had gone, Ariana wished she had asked him to take her home. She no longer wanted to be in the house without him. She decided that she may as well make a quick survey of the work because she had bothered to come, and so she did. It was still looking terribly topsy-turvy. Good thing she and Phillip hadn't tried to look it over together. She wondered why he had said nothing of the upheaval, his displeasure at the mess, or of the expense. He was being enormously wonderful. Ariana was hoping to be proud of the results, but things looked worse each time she came. She hoped that when it was complete, the results might be worth all the trouble.

She noticed the footmen positioned against the walls, silent sentinels keeping watch over their flock, and found herself wondering which servant might be the one who did not welcome her coming to the household. Had Mrs. Bentley perhaps been right in thinking the housekeeper was hostile toward her? And if so, what could Ariana do about it? The last thing she wished to do was have to dismiss the woman. That could rile the other servants. She would need to pray about it.

She hurried on through the house to see every area being altered, hoping that something would have taken shape sufficiently enough to be pleasing in its appearance. Afterward she planned on returning to her aunt's house to finish a drawing she'd begun earlier in the season. It was a sketch of the courtyard behind the house, and once Ariana was married, she knew she'd have little chance to complete it.

She suddenly realized a footman was close behind her, as if he had been discreetly following her. She turned and addressed him directly, “Are you following me?”

“Yes, mum.”

“Why?”

“Master's orders, mum.”

“He said nothing to me about it,” Ariana countered.

The man shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Shall I get Mr. Frederick?”

“Please do.”

He left to get his superior.

When Frederick came, he bowed slightly. “You wanted me, ma'am?”

“Yes.” She looked at the footman. “You are dismissed.”

He seemed uncertain about what to do and looked to Frederick, who nodded. The footman turned and left. Ariana and Frederick were in the gallery, standing among tall sculptures on pedestals and numerous grand portraits and paintings that lined the walls. “Freddie, why did Mr. Mornay want me followed?”

Normally Frederick would have gone to great lengths to appease his future mistress. He'd been fond of her all along. Unfortunately he had just come from the kitchens, where Mrs. Hamilton had finally shared her impression that Miss Forsythe was going to replace the staff—possibly the
entire
staff—with one of her own. Naturally this was a nasty shock.

He'd been butler in this establishment for over a decade. Although he'd been pleased at the news of a coming mistress, if Mrs. Hamilton was correct, it changed everything. Of course he would check her information with the master as soon as he returned to the house, but he couldn't do that now.

So he replied, “I believe, ma'am, it was Mr. Mornay's intent to merely keep abreast of your interests here.”

“My interests?”

“Your…whereabouts, ma'am.” He had to look down as he spoke.

Ariana's face stiffened slightly.
Mr. Mornay does not trust me!
A wave of pain swept through her.
He doesn't trust me, and he didn't even tell me. He hasn't been honest with me!

Forcing down her indignation and shock, she kept her features purposely bland and said, “Very good. Thank you.” Frederick bowed and turned to go.

He could see that his answer had been difficult for the lady. Yet what else could he do? Was it not the truth? Had not many items been napped beneath his own nose while Miss Forsythe was in the house? It was out of his hands.

As Ariana returned to Hanover Square in one of Mr. Mornay's carriages, her mind was still roiling with the thought that the man she loved did not trust her. With a pang in her stomach, Ariana realized that until they found out who was behind the ruined shirt and the lifted items, there could be no real peace at the house in Grosvenor Square. A candlestick, a small portrait, a letter opener, and an ink-stained shirt. The shirt seemed the worst thing of all in some ways. It was almost an attack on Mr. Mornay himself. His clothing—something worn on his person. The implication made her shiver.

Further, each mysterious disappearance followed her known presence in the house. And the shirt had been ruined after she'd been seen in the dressing room! Someone was behind it. Someone who did not mind implicating her in the business. But who? And why? She would need to speak with the house-keeper, but it appalled her that any servant could bring their hand against their master's possessions. She knew that sometimes servants would steal to lay up money for their retirement. That, to her mind, was in a sense excusable. It was at least understandable. But to deface property with no end or purpose except to plague the owner—or her—
that
was malicious. That was frightening.

Park Lane was blocked by an enormous crush of carriages around Merrilton House that evening. Inside, in the sumptuously rich long gallery and reception area, the house was buzzing with low conversations. The guests were in full sparkle this evening—the ladies in their evening gowns, white gloves, and best jewelry, holding pretty fans, little reticules, or lorgnettes. Peacock plumes adorned headdresses. Scarves and shawls were draped elegantly over shoulders and arms, ranging from the willowy limbs of young ladies to the heavily fleshed, gesturing arms of the dowagers.

The men were mostly in breeches with shoes, waistcoats and jackets, top hats, and buff gloves. Uniformed gentlemen were here and there, including the Duke of York in full regimental dress and admirals and colonels in naval colours. The Duke of Wellington was in Spain fighting the French, or he would have been present. Only a number of specially chosen Whigs were there for the purpose of being brought round to the Tories' side on an upcoming vote. Bonaparte had won two victories in May, and since the outcome of the Spanish campaign was still undecided, it was a good time to play on the vulnerability of the lords.

Frances, Lady Merrilton, a shrewd political hostess, shooed away the footman offering a fluted glass of champagne from a silver tray and said, “See to the guests, John.” Other footmen had trays of like beverages or stood at the outskirts of the room, their faces aloof and stiff as statues. Lady Merrilton, looking about at the gathering of English luminaries, was momentarily satisfied. With the Regent and the princess promising to attend, she had done a commendable job of gathering the guests she wanted for the event, and more were still arriving each moment.

Mornay and his fetchingly pretty future bride had not yet appeared, and Mrs. Tiernan was being conveyed in one of the marquess's carriages. Lady Merrilton had long suspected that Mr. Mornay had more interest in political debates than he gave reason to believe. He had attended social engagements at the houses of Tory hostesses far more often than those of the mere “marriage-mart” variety. She was hoping to corner him this night and pinpoint his interests even though he was one well used to evading being cornered. Miss Forsythe might not like it, but Lady Merrilton was determined to have her answer.

What's more, the Regent had asked for it.

Ariana and Mr. Mornay were stuck in their carriage on Park Lane while awaiting an opening to Merrilton House. A surprisingly large throng crowded the pavement, even overflowing into the street. The crowd was held back from the entrance to the house only by the help of a corded off section, which was guarded by numerous footmen and a few law officers. Lord Merrilton was well aware that if word hit the street that the Regent or, even more significantly, Princess Charlotte was to make an appearance, crowds from the city would flock to catch a glimpse of royalty. The slew of footmen and other men on duty meant the house was prepared.

Sitting across from her beloved, Ariana locked her eyes on Mr. Mornay's inquisitive ones.

“Will you not tell me what ails you?” he asked, beginning to sound a little irked. Since he had called for her in his carriage a short time ago, Ariana had been keeping a petulant silence that was painfully obvious. He sat across from her during the carriage ride. Surprised and yet relieved at this seating arrangement, Ariana was still angry about him not trusting her.

He sighed. “I recommend you tell me the trouble now, before we must face the evening.”

She stared away from him but suddenly turned and looked at him, and he knew she was going to tell him. Good. But instead she said, “Why are you seated across from me?”

He had been sitting beside her more and more of late, and so he knew what she meant. “'Tis only proper,” he said mildly.

“You are suddenly much concerned with propriety!”

At this he almost shot out of his seat to sit beside her, but the crowds were in the streets and even attempting to peer in the little window in the back, and so he remained where he was.

She faced him accusingly but then dropped her eyes. Neither one of them could ignore the sound of the crowd, excited, jolly, all around the vehicle. His footmen had jumped off the board and were doing their best to keep people back, but it was a challenge.

“If you do not tell me the matter, I can do nothing for it.”

She replied, “There, at least, you are perfectly wrong. You
can
do something, only you have done the wrong something! Pray, must we speak of it now?”

He leaned forward. “Speak of
what?
What is it I have done? Of which you do not wish to speak?”

The coach suddenly made some headway, advancing toward the mansion by the length of two carriages. The footmen hurried alongside. He continued. “Do you really imagine that I will allow you to avoid the matter, when it evidently distresses you?”

No answer.

“Do you intend to be my wife, yet without trust between us?”

“Ah!” she cried, leaning suddenly forward and surprising him greatly. Her eyes sparked with flashes of blue and green.