Page 77 of The Work of Art

Sara’s eyes welled up with tears. “That man of the duke’s, Mr. Pritchard, said I wasn’t fit for service, and if Mr. Townsend was in any way a gentleman, he wouldn’t have employed the likes of me and William.” She sniffled. “The duke said he’d wasted enough time, and then he and Mr. Townsend had words, but I didn’t hear what they said except that Mr. Townsend had made a fool of His Grace, and His Grace wouldn’t be made a fool of by Mr. Townsend, Miss Satterthwaite, or anyone. And then, His Grace said Mr. Townsend would learn he wasn’t to be trifled with, and that Miss Satterthwaite—”

“What about Miss Satterthwaite?”

“I couldn’t rightly hear everything, sir.” She managed to look contrite. “’Twas something about leaving her to her fate, I think, but I can’t be certain.”

The quill pen cracked in Arthur’s hand. He looked at it blankly for a moment before tossing it aside. “Leaving her to her fate.”

“Yes, sir.” She shrank back into her chair. “’Tis what I heard.”

Arthur fell silent for a time. “You intend to stay on here, then?” he asked finally. “In service to Mrs. Heywood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Loyal to Mrs. Heywood?”

“With my whole heart, sir.”

“You’ve been dismissed once without a reference. You know now that it’s an uncommonly difficult circumstance to be in.”

“Yes, Captain Heywood.”

“But as difficult as it is, it will be nothing compared to what you’ll face if I discover you’re here under false pretenses.”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“If you’ve been sent here by Townsend or the Duke of Moreland in order to make mischief for my wife, I won’t only dismiss you without a reference, I’ll see to it that you never find work again. Not in London. Not in the country. Not anywhere. Do you understand me?”

Sara’s mouth trembled. “Yes, Captain Heywood.”

Arthur looked at her a moment longer, waiting for her to disavow any connection to Townsend or the duke.

But Sara said nothing more.

A week later, Pebmarsh made an unexpected early morning visit. Arthur was obliged to meet with him in the library. It wasn’t wholly inconvenient. Philly was out riding and wouldn’t be back for an hour, at least. The time when she was away passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Arthur often felt as if he couldn’t properly draw breath until one of the footmen ducked into the library to tell him she’d returned safely from her ride. Pebmarsh’s arrival was a welcome distraction.

They’d been talking for half an hour when Crofton entered the room. “I beg your pardon, Captain Heywood. The Earl of Gordon’s carriage has just come up the drive.”

“What?” Arthur stood from behind his desk.

“Mrs. Lamb is already seeing to rooms for the earl and his guest.”

“His guest? What guest?”

Crofton cleared his throat. “His lordship is accompanied by Mrs. Ogilvy, sir.”

Arthur muttered an oath.

Marianne Ogilvy was his father’s longtime mistress. The widow of a wealthy tradesman, she’d never been accepted into polite society, and even if she had, she was certainly not the type of female a gentleman should ever bring to meet his new daughter-in-law. The fact that the earl had done so was an insult to Philly. A slap in the face.

What the devil did his father mean by such behavior?

Arthur made short work of dismissing his steward, and walked quickly out through the main hall and down the front steps. A month of twice daily walks with Philly had made his leg stronger. It was a gradual improvement, the effects of which lengthened his stride and allowed him to take the stairs more easily with the aid of his cane.

“Good God, man. What’s this?” Edward Albert Heywood, Seventh Earl of Gordon, stood outside his gleaming black coach. He was dressed far warmer than the climate warranted, a figured silver-and-ebony walking stick in his hand. Now in his sixties, his black hair had gone white, and his tall, formerly athletic figure was stooped with age. “I hardly recognize you, my boy.”

“Sir.” Arthur greeted his father as a second coach lumbered up the drive and came to an unsteady halt behind the earl’s elegant travelling coach. It was loaded with trunks of every variety, and appeared to contain, among other servants, his father’s formidable valet, Mrs. Ogilvy’s personal maid, and a lofty personage that Arthur very much suspected to be the French chef who presided over the kitchens at Stratfield Hall.

The earl placed a hand on Arthur’s arm. “Do I have your new wife to thank for this? Is she the one who has brought you back to me?”