Page 108 of The Work of Art

“As near as can be.”

“Nowhere near enough.” Arthur drew her closer. His voice deepened. “I’m jealous of every second you spend away from me.”

Philly tightened her arms around his neck. “Perhaps,” she whispered into his ear, “I shall have this Bath miniaturist paint a picture of you, as well.”

“Good God.”

She nuzzled his cheek. “And then, if you haven’t become too bored, you can accompany me to the modiste, the milliner, and the—”

“I shall squire you to the ends of the earth, my love.”

She laughed softly. “You shall thank me some day for not taking you at your word. Besides, how would your father feel if we were to spend every moment together? Surely he expects us to make a family party of it. Unless… Oh, I hope he wasn’t looking forward to time alone with Mrs. Ogilvy. She did mention once that we might join them in Bath, but if I thought we were intruding—”

“We’re not. My father suggested the trip himself after your accident.” Arthur hesitated, before adding, “He advised we leave Heycombe for Bath at once, and from there, contact the Bow Street Runners.”

Some of the happiness faded from Philly’s face. “And that’s what you intend to do? Even though you know it was Hyperion who hurt me and not the duke?”

Arthur gave her a solemn nod.

“Because you think he may still hurt me?”

“I don’t know, love, but yesterday, when I thought I’d lost you, I felt…” Arthur couldn’t describe it to her. Fear, panic, rage, unbearable grief. He knew now that he couldn’t withstand such a loss. That if something were ever to happen to Philly, it would be the end of him. “I’m not going to wait for tragedy to strike. I’ll contact Bow Street. And then…”

She looked down at him, a line of worry across her brow. “And then?”

Arthur met her eyes, realizing in a flash that Philly knew his answer—indeed, that she expected his answer—even before he gave it her. “If they’re unable to do anything,” he said with grim determination, “then I’ll confront the Duke of Moreland myself.”

The morning of their departure for Bath dawned crisp and clear. Philly had spent the past three days overseeing their travel preparations. They wouldn’t leave until midday, and the morning hours were taken up with last-minute odds and ends. Mrs. Ogilvy and the earl were still in their rooms. Arthur was in his library for a brief meeting with Pebmarsh. And Philly was in the morning room going over her list of completed tasks.

She ticked off the final two items, racking her brain for anything else she might have missed. It wouldn’t be disastrous to forget something. Indeed, she needn’t have done as much as she already had. But keeping herself busy helped to distract her from her worries.

“Mrs. Heywood!” Sara called from the doorway. “I’ve found these two wraps in your wardrobe. Mightn’t you need them for Bath?”

Philly turned, her eyes drifting over the folded fabric in Sara’s hands. One of the wraps was Sardinian blue silk, the other a deep amber gauze. She could still remember the day the modiste in London had recommended them to Mrs. Vale. It seemed a lifetime ago. “You’d better pack them.”

“Edward and William have already taken your trunks down with the others, ma’am.”

Philly rose from her writing desk, glad to have some diversion. “Here. I’ll take them out to the coach myself. I could do with the fresh air.” She collected the wraps from Sara. “Would you check my bedroom again for anything else we might have overlooked?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Philly left the morning room, her dogs at her heels. In the hall, she crossed paths with William. He was rushing toward the servants’ stairs that led down to the kitchens. It looked as though he’d spilled something over the front of his livery. “William, is my trunk already at the coach?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right out front. Shall I—?”

“No. That’s quite all right. Carry on.” Philly went out the front doors of Heywood House and down the steps only to find utter chaos. There were trunks everywhere, and the earl’s servants, Mrs. Ogilvy’s servants, and the staff of Heywood House were shouting instructions back and forth to each other as they attempted to put everything in order.

Philly stepped out of the way. As yet, only Violet had noticed her. The slender housemaid was struggling with what looked like a stack of hatboxes. When she caught sight of Philly, she dropped them all to the ground. Edward trotted to her side to help her.

Was Edward Violet’s sweetheart? The young man Violet hoped to marry?

If Philly were at Satterthwaite Court, she’d have known the answer. But here at Heywood House she still had much to learn about the servants and their lives.

She took a step farther out of the way, moving back toward one of the oversized rhododendrons that flanked the front stairs.

“Mrs. Heywood! Mrs. Heywood!”

Philly turned sharply, startled by the sound of a familiar voice calling to her in low, frantic tones from just behind the shrubbery. She followed the sound of it.