Page 79 of The Work of Art

Arthur shrugged a shoulder.

“Been getting daily reports from all and sundry. Ombersley’s written. Even Underhill sent round a note. Informed me he was a witness at your wedding, damn his impudence.” The earl harrumphed. “I understand she’s a rare beauty. The Work of Art, isn’t that what she’s called? A rather grand appellation. Different colored eyes, has she? And no fortune to speak of? Yet she refused the Duke of Moreland.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I must tell you there are some who think you’ve taken the girl against her will. Tricked her. Trapped her. Abducted her. All that sort of nonsense. Mrs. Ogilvy takes a more romantic view. Tells me it must have been a love match.”

Arthur said nothing.

“Either way, a brutal business this, but then you’ve never been one to do anything by halves.” The earl’s gravelly voice held a mixture of pride and reproof. “It wasn’t enough to simply marry the girl. You had to destroy Townsend in the process.”

“It seems to me that you’ve already taken a particular view of this situation. A view that isn’t very much in my favor.”

“Nonsense. Do you think Townsend or anyone can turn me against my own son? Mind you, not that he didn’t try. Must have written that letter of his while in a fine rage. He’s finished in London, you know. Ombersley’s acquainted with Moreland’s solicitor. He tells me Moreland has fixed the blame on Townsend for this debacle. Apparently, Moreland’s pulled out all support for Townsend’s business ventures. I give it six months before the man sells up and leaves in disgrace.”

Arthur was unmoved by the prospect of Townsend’s impending downfall. “Do you have it with you?”

“What’s that? The letter?” The earl took a large swallow of claret. “No, my boy. Left it back at Stratfield. No need for you to read it.”

“Why the devil not? What else did he say?”

“Not worth repeating.”

“I’d be very interested to hear it.”

His father took another swallow, draining his glass dry and then busying himself with refilling it. “Foolishness. Said you insinuated yourself into his household, all for the purpose of stealing away his niece. Called you an embezzler of property, or some such nonsense.”

“An embezzler of property?” A dry smile edged Arthur’s mouth. “Is that all? Come, sir, I would have you speak plainly. If I’m to be denied the chance to read the letter, you must at least relay to me the entirety of the charges Townsend has laid at my door.”

“Blast it, Arthur, the rest wasn’t about you. It was about your wife.”

A taut silence fell over the room. For a time, neither man said a word.

“Blast it,” the earl muttered again. “Townsend said his niece has a fondness for broken things. That she left with you, married you, not in spite of your injuries, but because of them.”

“Is that all?”

“Is it not enough?”

“And you thought this would offend me?”

“By God, yes!”

Arthur raked a hand through his hair. What Townsend had said was no revelation to him. Arthur had recognized from the first time she took his arm in the park that Philly—who had shunned the much handsomer Lord Darly—had let her guard down with him solely because he was injured. However, within a week, they’d become friends. And within a fortnight, they’d become something more.

“My wife is exceptionally tenderhearted, as you shall no doubt learn, but you may believe me, sir, when I tell you that Phyllida married me because she cares for me. Pity had nothing to do with it.”

“Pity!” His father drenched the word in disapproval. “I should think not.”

“As for all the rest, it’s true enough—to a point. I never had any design to ruin Townsend. I withdrew from his investment scheme as a matter of conscience, and I married his niece because I care for her. A formal offer of marriage and a long engagement were out of the question. Townsend and Moreland threatened her and terrified her. They may still be doing so. There was nothing to be done except to spirit her off, as you say.”

“What’s this about them threatening her still? Do you mean to say that Townsend or Moreland—?”

“Possibly.” Arthur went to his desk and retrieved the anonymous note from within a locked drawer. He handed it to his father, and upon returning to his seat, explained as clearly and concisely as possible the manner in which the note had arrived.

He reminded his father of the tales of Moreland’s vengeance. He told him what Forsythe had related about the death of Molly Cartwright. And he told him of the wager he’d found in the betting book at his club.

The earl listened intently, his sharply intelligent eyes coming alive in his lined face. “Rubbish,” he pronounced, when Arthur had finished.

“You don’t believe it?”

“Moreland’s no friend to me, but men of our vintage can hardly avoid knowing each other. He’s arrogant. Ruthless. A bit mad about his damned collection. But he’s no more or less dangerous than any other very rich, very powerful man. He has plenty of enemies. Always has had. Might say he cultivates them. Any one of them could‘ve put that wager in the book at your club.”