Page 35 of The Work of Art

She stared up at him, aghast. “You would threaten my dogs, sir?”

“I don’t make threats, Miss Satterthwaite. I’m a man of business. I deal only in facts and figures. And the fact is I could tolerate much while you were a grateful and obliging guest, but if you prove yourself otherwise, I must tell you that my patience has grown thin with those beasts. I allowed you to bring them here as a gesture of my goodwill, but I see none of them very fit to live. Why, one of them can’t even walk.”

With each icy word he spoke, Philly grew colder. All that she’d intended to say in argument froze upon her lips, and for the first time, she saw Edgar Townsend for exactly who and what he was.

A devil.

The Earl of Gordon’s library was as different from Edgar Townsend’s library as night was to day. It wasn’t a room designed for business or high finance, and the décor hadn’t been chosen to intimidate and overwhelm. It was a room meant for reading and quiet study, filled with dark wood bookcases lined with well-read books, a large globe in a mahogany stand, and a collection of maps spilling over the sides of an inlaid drum table. The walls were richly paneled, and the sofas, armchairs, and carpets were done in shades of red. The entire room had the feel of distinguished age and comfortable wealth.

After a light supper, Arthur had retired there as he often did while here in town. He sat in a leather chair in front of the fireplace, a book spread open on his lap. He’d been attempting to read, but more often than not found himself gazing into the flickering flames of the fire. His thoughts had been much distracted since leaving Edgar Townsend’s dinner party the previous evening. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything.

More and more, he found himself wondering what he’d do in this particular situation if he were the same man he’d been before the war. Would he return to Somersetshire? Would he resign himself to never seeing Miss Satterthwaite again?

No.

The old Arthur Heywood would stay in London and use all his strength and resources to pursue her. He’d go to every ball she attended and claim every waltz. He’d take her out riding and for long walks in the park. He’d offer to escort her and her two cousins to the opera, to Astley’s Amphitheatre, and to see the fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens. He’d subject himself to all the London diversions he’d spent most of his life avoiding. He’d do whatever it took to remain in her presence, whatever it took to win her heart.

It was a pointless fantasy and served no purpose except to sink him further into melancholy. He’d never pursued a woman in such a determined fashion, and it was ridiculous to imagine doing so now. Besides which, even if he’d never been injured in the war, Miss Satterthwaite was still not likely to ever look at him as more than her friend. She was on the verge of becoming a duchess, after all. And, as Reggie Forsythe had said, what was a second son when compared to a duke?

Arthur was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat removed and his hair disheveled. Every aspect of his person attested to his restless state of mind. There was nothing for it except to get himself good and drunk. It wasn’t his usual course of action, and in general he disdained it, but after saying goodbye to Miss Satterthwaite in Townsend’s drawing room, there was little else to do.

A cut-crystal decanter of brandy stood on a marble-topped table beside his chair. He was just unstopping it to refill his glass when his father’s butler soundlessly entered the room. “Yes, Underhill? What is it?”

“There’s a young man here to see you, Captain Heywood. I’ve told him you’re not receiving visitors, but he’s most insistent. He claims to have an urgent note he must deliver.”

Arthur hadn’t received a single caller since coming to London. He had no intention of starting now. “He’s welcome to leave it with you.”

“The young man informs me he must put the note into your hands himself, sir.”

For the first time, Arthur glanced up at Underhill. “Where is this young man come from?”

“His name is William, sir. He works for Mr. Edgar Townsend.”

Arthur frowned. What the devil could Townsend want from him? He’d told the man in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be doing business with him. There was nothing more to be said on the matter.

“Shall I have one of the footmen run him off, sir?” Underhill asked with bland indifference. “He’s not willing to leave of his own accord.”

Arthur muttered an oath under his breath. The bloody nerve of Townsend! “Send him in. I’ll deal with him myself.”

Underhill glided out of the room. He returned a brief moment later with Townsend’s servant in tow.

Arthur leaned back in his chair and surveyed the young man. He was clad in the livery of one of Townsend’s household servants. “You have a note for me?”

“Yes, sir.” William looked pointedly at Underhill who was standing close behind him. “I’m to give it to you in private.”

Arthur sighed. He was beginning to feel rather exasperated by the whole affair. “Leave us, Underhill.”

The butler bowed and left without a word.

“Well?” Arthur prompted.

William withdrew a letter from inside his waistcoat and extended it to Arthur.

“You may go now,” Arthur said as he took it. “You’ve fulfilled your duty.”

“I can’t, sir. My mistress bade me stay until I have your answer.”

Arthur went still. Very slowly, he raised his eyes to the young man’s face. “Your mistress.”