Page 114 of The Work of Art

“And she came to you? So quickly? Oh, what she must have thought!” Philly’s brows drew together in distress. “What you must have thought.”

Arthur’s expression softened. “Never, my love. I understood straightaway what had happened.”

“You did?”

“I did. In fact, all at once everything made perfect sense. Forsythe. Molly Cartwright. The Duke of Moreland. If I hadn’t been so out of my head with worry over you these last months, perhaps I might have seen it sooner.” He stroked her cheek. “As for your maid, I don’t believe the thought of an amorous assignation ever crossed her mind. Oddly enough, the servants seem to be quite convinced that you’re madly in love with me.”

“I am,” she vowed. “Most desperately.”

Arthur lowered his head to kiss her.

Philly clung to him, melting for a moment into the tender caress of his lips and the strong, unyielding strength of his arms before an abrupt and startling reality brought her back to her senses. She stared up at him in vague alarm. “Arthur, your arms are around me.”

“That they are. And happily so.”

“Both of your arms.” Philly looked frantically about them on the ground. “Where is your cane?”

“I believe I dropped it when I ran to catch you.”

“Ran to catch me!”

“Before you fainted.”

“Oh, but you can’t have. Your leg isn’t strong enough to run. And I’ve never fainted before in my life.”

“It’s been a day of firsts.” He steered her away from the pond. “Pray don’t make yourself uneasy. My cane and my pistol are at the entrance to the clearing. We’ll fetch them as we leave. Here. Give me your arm, sweetheart. Let me take you home.”

Philly did as he bade her. “But what of Mr. Forsythe?”

“I shall summon the local magistrate. He’ll take care of both Forsythe and Violet. You needn’t concern yourself with either of them anymore.”

Basil reluctantly abandoned his position over the body, bounding after Philly and Arthur.

As they left the clearing, Philly stole one final look back at Reggie Forsythe. His bottle-green coat was still perfectly folded on the stone bench by the pond. She shivered.

Their journey to Bath was delayed by a week. It took as long to settle things with the local magistrate, as well as to contact the authorities at Moreland Park, where Molly Cartwright had been murdered.

Philly was happy to let Arthur take charge. Along with the earl, he saw to everything. As a result, she spent most of her time in company with Mrs. Ogilvy, engaged in needlework or benign conversation. The shock of Mr. Forsythe’s death had been great, but not so great that Philly didn’t chafe at her confinement. When Arthur finally sought her out for a walk, she fairly jumped at the chance to get out of the house.

They strolled together on a tree-lined path near the apple orchard, far from the pond and the memory of what had happened there. The dogs trotted along with them, tongues lolling in the midday sun.

“My father insists on calling on Sir Clement personally,” Arthur said. “They’re friends of old.”

“I don’t envy him.”

“Nor do I. But Sir Clement is no fool. He can’t be entirely surprised that his son came to a bad end.”

“I suppose not.” Philly slowed her pace. Though Arthur had managed to walk unassisted on the day of Mr. Forsythe’s death, it was by no means a regular occurrence. Since rescuing her in the clearing, his leg had been paining him greatly. He’d been obliged to rely on his cane more than ever. “Even so, he’s sure to be grieved by the news.”

Arthur didn’t look very sympathetic. “Reggie Forsythe had every opportunity to make a success of his life. More opportunity than most.”

“It wasn’t lack of opportunity that drove him to do what he did to me. And it wasn’t the Duke of Moreland, either. Much as I’d like to blame him, the duke had no part in this—except for that of unwitting victim.”

“You don’t bear a grudge?”

“Against Moreland? I can’t say that I do. He bullied me and insulted me, it’s true, but once I married you, he was content to leave me to my fate.”

“Do you know, Moreland said that very thing.”