Page 20 of The Work of Art

Was Phyllida Satterthwaite the kind of young woman who aspired to be a duchess? Arthur didn’t think she had such mercenary ambitions. And yet, he knew of no female who would ever consider refusing so illustrious a match. Indeed, he doubted very much that such a lady even existed.

In the afternoon, Philly’s dogs were sent out to the back garden. There was a small shed there where they were often banished when they couldn’t be with their mistress. Philly hated to be parted from them, but felt herself lucky to have made friends with one of the footmen—a lad named William—who promised he’d look after her dogs himself.

“You are fortunate those mongrels are allowed into the house at all,” Mrs. Vale had said during Philly’s very first days in London. It was a fact of which Philly was well aware, and she always made sure not to complain too much about the temporary separations lest the threat of permanent separation be carried out.

While her dogs languished outdoors, Mrs. Vale sat in a chair in Philly’s attic bedroom, supervising as she dressed for her drive with the duke. Philly had once been mortified by the lack of privacy, but Mrs. Vale had observed her like this so often since she’d first arrived in London that she was now resigned to it.

“Your hair, miss,” whispered Clarice, her cousin Elizabeth’s lady’s maid, as she assisted Philly into a pale-blue muslin gown.

Philly lifted her heavy tresses out of the way so the maid could attend to her buttons.

“You shouldn’t have worn the amber pelisse this morning,” Mrs. Vale remonstrated. “It’s by far the most striking color, and would’ve done much better for your drive in the park.”

“I thought you’d decided the deep blue pelisse would be more suitable,” Philly said. “Had I known you preferred the amber, I wouldn’t have worn it.”

“Humph. The blue items in your wardrobe do very well with your blue eye, and the amber items do very well with your brown one. Madame Aubert said they both suit your complexion, but I can’t say which is preferable. I’ve never had to choose a wardrobe for a girl with two different colored eyes.” Mrs. Vale sniffed. “Naturally, I won’t complain, for it’s the thing His Grace fancies most about you. Still, I—”

“Does he?” Philly looked up with a start. “How do you know that? Has he said so?”

“The duke admires anything that’s out of the ordinary. One moment, Clarice. Hold up the celestial blue pelisse. Ah, yes. And here, the blue feathered bonnet. What do you think of that, Miss Satterthwaite? It should make a fetching picture.”

Philly frowned at her. “If you like.”

“Or perhaps the darker blue carriage gown? Clarice, bring back that one. No, you stupid girl. The darker blue. Just there. That will do. With the blue feathered bonnet? Or should we pair it with the darker hat?”

“What do you mean by ‘out of the ordinary’?” Philly asked.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Vale looked up, her eyes narrowing. “Out of the ordinary?”

“Yes, you said the duke—”

“Never mind that.” Mrs. Vale gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “You must turn your attention to the task before you. It won’t be long before His Grace arrives.”

“But I know so little of him,” Philly persisted. “Would it not be useful to learn a few things—”

“What is there to learn? He’s here for the season in search of a new wife, just as are countless other gentlemen.”

“A new wife? Do you mean to say the duke has been married before?”

“What a question. He’s a man in his prime, not some young buck. Here, Clarice, I think this one will do. Paired with that hat. No. The other one. My word, must I handle everything?”

There was no more time for talking. The Duke of Moreland called for Philly at exactly half past five, and after politely greeting Uncle Edgar and Mrs. Vale, extended his arm to Philly and escorted her out the front doors of the townhouse.

He’d arrived in the most luxurious-looking landau she’d ever seen. It was gleaming black with shining red wheels, and pulled by two perfectly matched black horses, identical even to the height of the snowy white socks on their hind legs.

The impeccably liveried coachman remained in his seat, his eyes straight forward and his posture ramrod straight. A similarly attired footman stood outside the vehicle, and to Philly’s delight, held two leads on which were attached a pair of elegant black dogs.

They had narrow noses and flowing hair. Their legs were long and slender, and their backs sloped in a graceful curve to their thin tails.

“Your uncle informed me you had a fondness for dogs,” said Moreland. “Perhaps you will find these two amusing.”

“They’re beautiful.” She was enchanted. The two dogs were almost as tall as Basil, but far more finely built. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

His mouth twisted into a complacent smile. “They’re the only two of their kind in England.”

She extended her gloved hand out to the dog nearest her, intending to pet him. The large dog raised his lip in a threatening snarl. She immediately withdrew, but the dog lunged toward her, snapping its jaws even as the footman pulled it back on its lead.

Before she could discern his intention, Moreland stepped forward and cuffed the offending dog across the muzzle two times in sharp succession. The dog yelped in pain, cowering away as Moreland raised his hand to deliver a third blow.