Page 10 of The Work of Art

“He will bite, I’m ashamed to say, but his ill temper is solely reserved for men. My grandfather said it was almost certain his injury was inflicted by a man.”

“Yes. Men can be very cruel.”

Something in his tone caught Philly’s notice. She looked up, only to see that his gaze had grown distant, and he appeared to have withdrawn from her.

He was not an unhandsome man. With a noble brow, a strong, chiseled jaw, and penetrating gray eyes, he might even have been called dashing. But there was a permanent air of melancholy about Arthur Heywood, and an ever-present cast of pain that clouded his features. Philly began to comprehend that his pain was not merely physical.

What horrors he must have been through in the war. And to then come home from it all only to find that his one true love had married another man?

“Do you have more business with my uncle this afternoon?” she asked, for want of anything better to say.

“No. I won’t meet with him again until Monday morning.”

“Then perhaps I’ll see you when I go out for my walk?”

He looked at her then, the expression in his eyes hard to read. “Perhaps you will.”

Philly was just about to say something more when Sara approached with the dogs in tow.

“Miss, we must get back. Mrs. Vale said I was to be sure you weren’t late for your dancing lesson again.” Sara cast a narrow glance at Captain Heywood. “She said to remind you there’s much to be done before the ball.”

“Yes, thank you, Sara.” Philly was conscious of the maid’s attention. She wondered what tales the girl might carry back with her to the servants’ hall. Trying not to give any of it too much notice, she gathered Fox close to her and stood.

Captain Heywood rose, as well. “Miss Satterthwaite, it’s been a pleasure.”

Philly gazed up into his stern face. How many smiles had she given him today? Far more than she’d managed in the past two weeks in London. And yet, somehow, without the slightest effort, she was smiling again. It was the kind of smile one would give to a very dear friend. “For me, as well, Captain Heywood. Good afternoon.”

The Earl of Gordon kept a fully staffed townhouse in Mayfair, and everything had been made available for Arthur’s stay. The servants all treated him with near-embarrassing deference, and the coachman would have no doubt been willing to wait the day away while Arthur sat in the park. None of them had ever even dared look at him askance. Arthur suspected that their behavior owed a great deal to some high-handed command of his father’s.

His older brother, George, might be his father’s heir, but the bulk of the earl’s affections had always been reserved for his younger son. When Arthur had gone away to fight on the Peninsula, no father could have been prouder. And when he’d come home, a mere shell of the man he’d been before, no father could have grieved so much.

He’d been tolerant of Arthur’s desire to seclude himself down in Somersetshire, and—for the most part—had respected his wish for privacy. But as Arthur’s thirty-second birthday approached, marking nearly three years spent alone in the country, his father’s letters had started to become stern. The words hermit and recluse were used with increasing frequency.

“At least have some visitors down to stay,” the earl would exhort him. “Nothing good can come of so much time spent alone.”

When all his suggestions failed, the earl had issued what amounted to a royal decree. His son must immediately go to London to transact some business on his behalf. It was of the utmost importance. It must be seen to personally.

Arthur hadn’t been fooled for a moment, but he’d obeyed out of respect for his father.

The pressing business had turned out to be nothing more than a consortium of investors being formed by Edgar Townsend, a man Arthur considered barely deserving of the title of gentleman. He’d never met anyone so lacking in finer feeling. Townsend’s only code seemed to be that of making money.

Arthur’s poor opinion of the man had been further cemented when he heard of Townsend’s plans for his niece. In fact, he found it all so distasteful, that had he been the one in control of the matter, he’d have terminated his business with Townsend then and there. As it was, he expected that all would be completed to his father’s satisfaction within three weeks. At which point, Arthur intended to return to Somersetshire without delay.

If his father had anticipated him enjoying himself in London—going out into society, or availing himself of the varied entertainments available to a wealthy gentleman—the earl would be sorely disappointed. Since arriving one week before, Arthur had rarely left the house except to attend the agonizingly dull meetings with the other potential investors in Townsend’s library.

It was therefore quite a shock to the coachman, when after his brief visit with Miss Satterthwaite in the park, Arthur asked to be driven to his club in St. James’s Street. The coachman’s wiry brows shot up, but he said only “Yes, Captain Heywood,” and gave the horses the office to start.

Arthur’s club was much as he remembered. He crossed through the main room, making his way to a great leather chair located in a secluded corner. Ignoring the sound of murmuring voices and the curious stares of the few gentlemen who deigned to look his way, he ordered a bottle of brandy and opened up a newspaper. He had no intention of reading it. He didn’t expect he would be sitting alone for very long.

Sure enough, within ten minutes he was approached by a man he hadn’t seen in almost seven years.

“Heywood, what the devil are you doing in London?”

Reggie Forsythe was an impeccably coiffed dandy, with the same lean face, flaxen hair, and slender build of his father, Sir Clement Forsythe. The Earl of Gordon and Sir Clement were acquaintances from their youth. In his own younger days, Arthur had met all of Sir Clement’s six sons at some point or another.

Unlike Arthur, who had purchased a commission not long after coming down from Oxford, Reggie Forsythe had eschewed military service in favor of living on credit in London; his life one of dissipation and debauchery. Arthur remembered hearing a story, widely bandied about some years ago, that Forsythe had lost the money for his own commission at some gaming hell. Like much of society gossip, Arthur didn’t know if it was true, but it bore a close enough resemblance to Forsythe’s character that he tended to believe it.

“Business for my father,” Arthur replied. “And you?”