Page 66 of The Work of Art

She slid her arms from his neck, bringing her hands to rest flat on his chest. A delicate blush suffused her cheeks.

He could think of no way to quell her embarrassment except to continue their conversation as if nothing untoward had happened. It wasn’t an easy task. Not when his heart was galloping madly and his blood was roaring in his veins. “I didn’t just arrange to bring back your horse,” he said, his arm still firmly around her waist. “I had my solicitor see to the purchase of anything else still remaining at Satterthwaite Court that might have been yours. The men who delivered your mare this morning also brought with them two trunks. I understand it to be books, clothing, and jewelry.”

“My grandmother’s jewelry?” she asked in an astonished whisper.

“Did Townsend make you leave it behind?”

“He said it was part of the estate. That it belonged to him now.” Her expression betrayed a rare glimpse of the pain and loss she’d suffered since the death of her grandfather. “I never thought I’d see it again, Arthur. Not any of it.”

“It’s yours, my dear. Had Townsend been a gentleman he’d never have taken it from you.” Arthur brushed a kiss against her forehead, and then, reluctantly, released her from his embrace. “I must go back to the house. The men who delivered your horse are waiting. I need speak with them before they return to Devonshire. It won’t take long and then we can go for our walk—if you still have any interest in my company now your horse is here.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Captain Heywood, shall I put the new mare in the stable?” Greene shouted.

“I’ll do it, Greene!” Philly hurried across the stable yard to her mare. “Persephone is very particular about how she’s tied. I’ll show you how I’ve always done it, and then you can instruct the other grooms…”

Arthur watched her awhile longer before heading back to the house.

Crofton was waiting for him in the main hall. “The post came at half past, sir. I’ve put it on your desk.”

Arthur acknowledged him with a nod.

“The two gentlemen asked for refreshment,” Crofton continued, following Arthur to the library. “When you’ve done with them, they can come down to the kitchens.” He opened the library door for Arthur.

The men waiting inside were shabbily dressed, their faces burnt by the sun.

Arthur greeted them perfunctorily, and sitting down at his desk, looked over the papers they gave him. There was a letter from a Mr. Renquist, the intermediary Mr. Ombersley had used in Devonshire to negotiate the transaction. There was also a listed inventory of all he’d purchased. It had been written out by the estate agent at Satterthwaite Court and countersigned by Mr. Renquist.

After reviewing the documents and spending a good half hour listening to the two men talk about the weather (Right cloudy and then uncommonly warm, sir!), the quality of the roads (Right uneven and then smooth as glass, sir!), and the poor temperament of Philly’s mare (Right dangerous, sir! Bites, kicks, and tried to run me down!), Arthur bid them both good day and sent them down to the kitchens.

It was too early for his walk with Philly. She was likely still down at the stable. Arthur would have liked to join her there but didn’t wish to disturb her any more than necessary. He never knew at what point she might begin to find his constant presence more of an annoyance than a pleasure. As for himself, he was well aware that, unless he exercised some restraint, he was in danger of behaving even more like a besotted fool than he already did.

Determined to keep himself occupied, he began to go through the various items that had arrived with the morning post.

He was quickly disposing of the letters, most of which had to do with estate business and could be handled by Pebmarsh, when a small, rather odd-looking missive caught his eye. It was wedged between a copy of The Times and The Gentleman’s Magazine.

It was sealed with black wax, as if it bore the news of a death, or had been sent by someone in mourning. Arthur’s name and address were written on it in a barely legible scrawl. It had no other direction.

Arthur couldn’t imagine who would have sent it. He didn’t know of anyone suffering a recent loss.

On closer inspection, he saw that the letter bore no postal marks. It hadn’t come through the post at all. Someone had delivered it by hand.

With a growing sense of unease, he broke the seal and spread the rumpled foolscap out in front of him on his desk.

It was no letter. It was a single sentence, written in large, commanding script:

You have taken what is mine.

The contents of the note read more as an accusation than a threat, and the black wax seal was so much window dressing, but the method of delivery left Arthur in no doubt as to the writer’s true message. Someone had brought the letter personally into Heywood House. They were telling him in no uncertain terms that his home wasn’t safe. That his wife wasn’t safe.

Cold rage surged through him, the likes of which he’d never felt before. He wasn’t a man ruled by his passions. He wasn’t reactive, nor was he reckless. In battle, he’d been known for his ordered and methodical mind, his ability to make sound decisions despite the chaos all around him. But when it came to Philly, he was fast becoming irrational.

And yet, even now, when his instinct to protect his wife was clouding judgment, he could see quite plainly that something wasn’t right about the letter.

If Moreland truly wanted revenge, would he bother with sending anonymous notes? He was a man of avarice and obsession. Some would say a madman. But he wasn’t a man for wasting time. When his vengeance came, it came swiftly. There were no warnings. There were no games of cat and mouse. And there were no half measures. The stories about Moreland all ended the same, with the complete and total destruction of the object that had been denied him.

If Moreland was seeking revenge, he wouldn’t bother communicating with Arthur.