Page 1 of The Work of Art

London, England

Spring, 1814

Captain Arthur Heywood had never seen such an ill-mannered assortment of canines in his life. The three mongrels burst into the library, galloping past the maid as she exited the room after serving the gentlemen their tea. She moved to evade the largest dog—some manner of deranged wolfhound—only to lose her balance and drop the tea tray. It fell to the marble floor with a resounding crash.

The gentlemen in the library leapt to their feet. The Earl of Edgeworth bellowed in outrage. Viscount Darly grabbed the wolfhound by the scruff of its neck. And their host, the renowned financier Mr. Edgar Townsend, shouted for assistance from behind the safety of his enormous mahogany desk.

Only Arthur remained seated. He had little choice in the matter. One of the dogs had knocked his cane to the floor, where it had promptly skittered out of reach across the marble. As a result, he was obliged to observe the chaotic scene from his place on the library sofa.

And chaotic it was.

Indeed, unless Arthur was very much mistaken, the giant snarling beast Darly was trying to subdue was seconds away from ripping the viscount’s head off.

“Basil, no!” a feminine voice called from the doorway.

Arthur looked up just in time to see a young lady rush into the room. She held a scraggly black terrier under one slender arm, much the way a great lady might carry a pampered pug. As she passed the sofa, she dropped the little dog straight into Arthur’s lap. She didn’t seem to notice he was there. Her attention was wholly fixed on Darly.

“Phyllida!” Townsend thundered. “What’s the meaning of this?”

The young lady ignored him and went straight to Darly. “Please release him, sir.” She placed a calming hand on the great dog’s wiry back. “He’s really quite gentle.”

“Gentle! This brute?” Darly lifted his eyes to the young lady’s face. And then he froze. “I beg your pardon, miss, I—”

“You must let him go,” she said. “I promise he won’t bite you.”

Still staring at her, Darly withdrew his hand from the dog’s neck and took a wary step back. Once released, the giant dog immediately ceased snarling and ran back toward the door and out of the library. The remaining two dogs—crossbreed collies by the look of them—quickly followed their rambunctious leader.

Arthur lifted the small terrier from his lap and lowered him to the floor to send him off with his fellows. The little dog squirmed violently.

“Oh no, sir!” The young lady hurried to the sofa and swept the terrier out of his arms. “He can’t be let down. He’s lame in one leg and finds it difficult to walk.”

At her words, the room fell deathly quiet.

Arthur supposed he should feel something. A sense of embarrassment or personal mortification. In truth, he felt nothing. Nothing save the mildest twinge of annoyance that he was here at all. He didn’t belong in Edgar Townsend’s library any more than he belonged in London. That he was required to remain was a source of bitterness to him. The careless words of a stranger could make things no worse.

“Phyllida,” Townsend said from between clenched teeth. “Haven’t I told you—”

“Papa?” Townsend’s eldest daughter appeared in the doorway. She was tying on a fashionable straw bonnet, giving every indication that she intended to go out. “What’s all the commotion?”

“Your cousin’s wretched dogs,” Townsend snapped.

In response, the young lady—Townsend’s niece, apparently—secured the little terrier more firmly under her arm and curtsied, rather gracefully, to the room at large. “My apologies, gentlemen,” she said to no one in particular. And then, her head held high and her spine very straight, she walked out of the library with Townsend’s daughter, shutting the door behind them.

Arthur leaned back against the cushions of the sofa, his injured leg stretched out before him. Darly crossed the floor to retrieve his cane. Arthur took it from him without a word. To the untrained eye it was no more than an expensively made walking stick, but everyone in the library knew full well that without it he couldn’t even have managed to walk across the room.

Townsend cleared his throat. “Those dogs are a damned nuisance. No manners at all and every one of them a mongrel. My niece refused to come up to London without them. I should’ve put my foot down, but—”

“Your niece is uncommonly handsome, Townsend,” Darly interrupted. “I knew you had a young female relation up from Devonshire to stay with you, but I never imagined…”

Townsend returned to his seat, his face settling into the same shrewd lines as when he discussed any other investment. “Yes. Miss Satterthwaite is a singular young lady. She’s the granddaughter of Sir Charles of Satterthwaite Court in Devonshire. A distant relative of mine, recently passed away. He was knighted for services to the crown in ’79.”

Edgeworth frowned. “Satterthwaite Court. That’s the estate you inherited six months back, is it not?”

“It is, my lord.”

Darly laughed. “I suppose the girl came with it.”

Townsend fixed the viscount with a repressive glare. “Miss Satterthwaite was left with no means of support. I had no obligation to her, of course, but I’m not a hard-hearted man. She’s of an age with my two daughters, and I’ve plenty of room here in London. I invited her to stay until such time as she can be married. I have high hopes that now she’s here in town, she’ll make an excellent match.”