Page 12 of The Work of Art

Forsythe followed, making no effort to hide his interest in Arthur’s uneven gait. “Naturally. Lady Eliot will be there. Wouldn’t precisely be the thing to run into her after all these years. Especially in your, uh, current condition.”

Arthur said nothing. What could he say? Caroline was the last thing on his mind at present.

“An unfortunate incident all around,” Forsythe continued. “Personally, I thought she’d have waited for you. You did cut a dash back then. Four-Horse Club, Corinthian, and all that. And then a captain in the Dragoons. A war hero. But women will prefer a title. I know that as well as anyone. Can hardly blame them, when it comes down to it. Granted, old Eliot was only a baron, as well as a bit of a boor, but you must know she was happy. He treated her well enough while he was alive, the old sod. Clothes, jewels, all the things a lady desire. She wanted for nothing. That must put your mind at ease, at least.”

Before exiting the main room, Arthur stopped in front of the high table where the club’s leather-bound betting book was kept. Only half listening to Forsythe, he began to peruse the pages.

“She hasn’t aged a day.” Forsythe leaned against the wall next to where Arthur stood. “Still a right beauty. No woman could ever compare.”

“Indeed,” Arthur said absently.

There were several entries in the betting book mentioning the Collector. The wagers ranged from ten guineas to one thousand pounds.

Mr. Fullbright wagers Mr. Mills one hundred pounds that The Collector will marry The Work of Art in one month.

Sir Windham wagers Lord Bryce Pembroke twenty pounds that The Collector will take The Work of Art for a drive in the park on Monday.

Lord Darly wagers Lieutenant-General Culpepper one thousand pounds that The Work of Art and The Collector will be engaged in a fortnight.

Arthur wasn’t surprised Darly’s wager was so extravagant. He’d met Miss Satterthwaite, after all. He must have no doubt that Moreland would act quickly to secure her.

“Thinking of laying a wager, Heywood?” Forsythe asked. “I put down ten guineas myself. Things are a little thin right now, or I might’ve bet more. Seems a sure thing to me.”

“I won’t be wagering anything today.” Arthur turned to leave, but at the last instant something in the betting book caught his eye. It was an entry written in barely legible script near the bottom of the page:

Lord X wagers Mr. X five hundred pounds that The Collector will be widowed again by Christmas.

Philly and her cousins arrived at the Worthings’ ball late Saturday evening accompanied by Uncle Edgar and Mrs. Vale. The street was lined with carriages. Everywhere Philly looked were dandified men and sumptuously clothed women. There were sparkling jewels, bobbing feathered headdresses, and a sea of pastel gowns. She’d never seen so many people all entering the same townhouse at once. It was so crowded, that by the time they’d made it through the initial crush and into the ballroom, Philly could scarcely catch her breath.

She was first introduced to Lord and Lady Worthing, and then to what seemed an endless succession of strangers. Philly was well aware she was a novelty, but never had she experienced curiosity on such a grand scale. The constant chatter and unending stares had the effect of making her even shyer than usual.

It didn’t help that her dress left her feeling practically naked. It was a flowing gown of Sardinian blue crepe over a delicate satin slip, with tiny puffed sleeves, and a neckline low enough to expose the swell of her bosom. The modiste had assured her that it was the very height of fashion.

The gentlemen at the ball certainly seemed to approve of it.

Within minutes of arriving, Philly’s dance card was filled—except for the single waltz of the evening. Her uncle commanded that she leave it free.

Philly’s mind instantly flashed to the mysterious him mentioned by her cousins. “Do you have a particular gentleman in mind for my partner?”

Uncle Edgar gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That I do, Phyllida. That I do.”

Her heartbeat quickened in nervous anticipation. “Who is he, Uncle?”

“You shall know him when he comes,” Uncle Edgar said. “If he comes. I’ll not raise your hopes.”

Philly suppressed a flare of irritation at her uncle’s lack of candor. She wondered again who the gentleman might be. Was he someone of importance? Someone who had seen her—in the park perhaps—and expressed a specific interest?

There was no opportunity to reflect upon the matter. It took all of her faculties to attend to the people already surrounding her. There were names to remember, and steps, as well, when the music started.

She danced the first set with an older gentleman, and the second with an energetic younger fellow. The third set—a country dance—had been spoken for by an immaculately groomed flaxen-haired gentleman garbed in elegant black-and-white evening attire.

“Forsythe,” he reminded her as she fumbled with her dance card. “An easy enough name to forget.”

“If I have forgotten,” she said apologetically, “it’s only because I’ve met so many people this evening.”

He took her gloved hand in his and led her out onto the floor, his thin mouth curling into a smile. “Everyone wishes to meet you, Miss Satterthwaite.”

The couples lined up to face each other as the orchestra began to play. And then the dance began. She and Mr. Forsythe were separated several times as they performed the steps.