Page 11 of The Work of Art

“Here for the season, of course.” Forsythe took the chair across from Arthur, and after crossing his legs, spent a long while attending to an imaginary speck of dust on his biscuit-colored pantaloons. “It must be six or seven years since you and I last met. Where was it? Let me think…”

Arthur had no desire to reminisce. He was here for information, nothing more.

“Business for the earl, you say?” Forsythe asked, giving up on his recollections. He withdrew a small bejeweled snuffbox and opened it with a practiced flick of one hand. “Must be something important to draw you out of Somersetshire.” He took a pinch of snuff. “Understand you never leave your estate anymore.”

“I’m overseeing various investments. With a fellow named Townsend.”

Forsythe snapped shut his snuffbox. “Edgar Townsend? A veritable Midas. Can make money out of water, I hear.”

“Are you acquainted with him?”

“He has two whey-faced daughters. Don’t expect you’ve met them. Had too much to drink once and asked the elder one to dance.” Forsythe gave a dramatic shudder. “He has a niece recently up from the country. Not a proper niece, mind you. Their grandfathers were distant cousins or some such thing. A rare beauty, people are saying. Haven’t seen her yet myself, but I’ve heard all the talk.”

“Have you?”

Forsythe needed little prompting. “Grandfather was a Sir something or other from somewhere or other not very important. Grandmother’s related somehow to the Earl of Merrivale. Good bloodlines, but no great fortune, apparently. Townsend hasn’t brought her out yet. Plans to introduce her at the Worthings’ ball tomorrow. Rumor has it he intends to dangle her in front of the Collector. Don’t envy her that!”

Arthur took a swallow of his brandy.

“I knew his last wife. Little Molly Cartwright, as was.” Forsythe helped himself to a drink. “Damned shame how she died.”

“Drowned, did she?”

“So they say.”

“You have reason to suspect otherwise?”

“The thing is, Heywood…” Forsythe leaned toward Arthur, suddenly serious. “I know for a fact Molly only pretended to be a featherbrained little fluff. It was all an act she put on, you understand. She was an intelligent girl. Knew exactly how she must behave to get herself a rich husband. To think she fell into a fountain and drowned…” He shook his head. “It couldn’t have happened the way they say.”

Arthur frowned. “I’ve been away from town too long. I don’t know the whole story, I’m afraid.”

“Have you ever been down to Moreland Park?” Forsythe asked. “There’s a great big fountain on the grounds. Deep enough you could dive into it if you like. When the Collector married Molly, he took her to Moreland Park straightaway. Molly was furious. Little point in contriving to become a duchess if you can’t lord it over everyone in town, she said. Any rate, they say she used to walk along the edge of that fountain. Made a game of it; balancing on it for a while and then jumping off. They say she was doing it one night after coming home from a ball. She was wearing a heavy cloak. She slipped. Fell in. The water soaked through her clothes and pulled her straight under.”

“Is that so improbable?”

Forsythe moved even closer to Arthur, his voice dropping to a half whisper. “Molly would never have walked on the edge of a fountain that deep. She was terrified of the water.” He fell quiet for a moment as another gentleman passed them. “Besides, if that’s what truly happened, then why did one of the grooms who pulled her out of the water claim she had bruises round her throat?”

Arthur lowered his glass. “Another rumor, surely. No different from the others that have plagued Moreland these many years.”

Forsythe’s eyes glinted. “You think so?”

“Do you have evidence to the contrary?”

“That very groom left Moreland Park shortly after and came to work for me. He told me everything, and a nasty picture he painted, too. Always knew the Collector was a brute, but had no idea the extent of it. Of course, Molly could have been spared all that. I would’ve married her myself if she’d have had me. But what’s the second son of a baronet compared to a duke?” He threw back the entire contents of his glass of brandy. Once he’d swallowed it, his cheerful demeanor was restored. “As I say, I don’t envy Townsend’s niece. The Work of Art. That’s what they’re calling her. And we all know how the Collector feels about works of art.”

“The Work of Art?” Arthur was incredulous. “Where the devil did you hear that?”

“The betting books, old chap.” Forsythe filled his glass again. “You in town long?”

“A few weeks.”

“Expect you’re anxious to get back to Somersetshire.”

“Quite anxious.” Arthur rose from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, Forsythe. I’ve business I must attend to. I can delay it no longer.”

“Of course, of course.” Forsythe stood, as well. “Will you be out at all while you’re here? The Worthings’ ball is tomorrow. No need to dance in order to enjoy it. Quite interesting to see what type of young lady Townsend’s been hiding away from everyone. Might be amusing to watch the old duke’s reaction when he sees her for the first time.”

“I won’t be attending.” Arthur headed toward the door.