Page 110 of The Work of Art

Philly ran ahead, looking all around. “Where was he, sir?” There was no sign of any dog, nor any tracks or marks of blood that she could discern. “Perhaps he’s crawled back into the woods? A badly hurt animal will often attempt to hide.”

Mr. Forsythe’s stride shortened. All signs of urgency left him. “Yes. Perhaps he’s crawled away.”

Philly walked the edge of the clearing, her wraps still clutched in her arms. She could use one as a makeshift bandage. If the dog were small enough, she might even fashion a sling with which to carry him.

A sudden crunch of leaves and branches in the woods brought her to an abrupt halt. She stepped closer to the edge of the clearing just as a shadow of movement caught her eye. “I think I see him!”

She peered through the dense growth of trees and shrubs that made so much outside of the perimeter invisible. There was a flash of chestnut. A long, bent neck and swishing tale. Reins lightly tethered to a tree.

It was someone’s horse.

A twig snapped.

Philly whirled around to find that Mr. Forsythe had come to stand directly behind her. “You startled me, sir.” She took an unconscious step backward. She was suddenly, quite unaccountably, afraid.

“I see you’ve noticed my horse.”

“No. I mean… Is that your horse? Did you ride here? I thought you’d been walking in the woods when you found the dog. Perhaps I misunderstood?” She swallowed. Every instinct within her told her to take another step back, but she didn’t. “In any case, it seems the poor creature has run away. Or maybe someone else has found him? So many people come to this clearing.”

“Do they?” Mr. Forsythe didn’t appear impressed by this revelation.

“Oh, yes. Frequently. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better return to the house. My absence will be remarked.”

“I’m counting on it.” His hand lifted to the front of his bottle-green double-breasted coat, and with a lazy, casually indifferent flick of his fingers, he opened one of the buttons.

Philly’s eyes widened, her gaze jerking to his hands as he opened another button, and then another. Was he disrobing in front of her? She shot a glance to the path that led out of the clearing. She wanted to go. To run. But she hesitated to do anything that would destroy the illusion of normalcy that existed between them.

“Mr. Forsythe, I—”

“Pray, disregard my bad manners, Mrs. Heywood.” He continued to work at his buttons. “I have my coats cut by Weston and they fit me like a second skin. They’re an absolute devil to remove without a valet.”

“Oh?” Philly thought she heard the sound of another twig snapping in half. It seemed to come from somewhere near the path, but she couldn’t tell. Then the horse moved again. Another twig cracked, this time under its hoof. “Is it necessary to remove your coat, sir?”

“It’s essential.”

She looked at him, completely nonplussed. With his artfully tousled flaxen curls, fashionable clothing, and bored, disdainful mien, he appeared every bit the dandy. She couldn’t imagine him engaging in anything more strenuous than a hand of cards. Surely, he wasn’t intending to ravish her?

Mr. Forsythe finally managed to work loose the final button. He removed something from an inner pocket, and then, after struggling out of the tight-fitting sleeves, he folded his coat with reverent care and laid it on one of the stone benches. When he next looked up, there was a burning glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I’m glad you didn’t attempt to run away,” he said.

Philly took a few steps backward along the edge of the clearing. Except for her grandfather and Arthur, she’d never seen a gentleman in his shirtsleeves. It struck her as being thoroughly indecent. “Why should I run away? We may yet find the injured dog you spoke of.”

Mr. Forsythe stalked her. “We both know very well that there was never any injured dog.”

“No?” She affected a tone of relief as she took another few steps. “I’m glad of it. I don’t like to see any creature suffering.”

“Please be still, Mrs. Heywood. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I must.” Mr. Forsythe raised his hand, revealing what it was he’d taken from his coat.

A small ivory-handled pistol.

She froze. It was impossible to continue pretending that nothing was wrong. “Mr. Forsythe,” she said as calmly and as reasonably as she could. “Why must you hurt me at all?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t care for your husband, but other than that it’s nothing very personal, I assure you.”

“Then why?” She scanned the clearing, looking for anything that might be of help to her, anything she might use against him. “Are you mad?”

“Indeed, I’m not, madam,” he replied, showing a hint of temper for the first time.