Page 80 of The Work of Art

“What about the stories of the vengeance he’s exacted? Surely they can’t all be falsehoods circulated by his enemies.”

“May be there’s an element of truth to them. I couldn’t say. My own opinion’s always been that it was Moreland himself who circulated those tales. It makes it easier for him to acquire things if people are in fear of refusing him. But if you do refuse him, as I have done on one occasion myself, I can promise you that nothing very sinister happens.”

Arthur looked at his father in surprise. “Moreland attempted to buy something from you for his collection?”

“Quite so. You weren’t in England at the time, else you’d know of it. Moreland wanted to buy Titan. I told him flat out that no amount of money would ever induce me to sell. Poor man didn’t take it well, but that was all there was to it. No vengeance.”

“Titan died.”

“Two years later. Of colic. Can’t tell me that had anything to do with Moreland.” The earl folded the anonymous letter and handed it back to Arthur. “Might be this was sent by an admirer of your wife. One of her hangers-on in London, or some former beau from the countryside.”

Arthur stiffened at the suggestion. “My wife has no former beaux. And she’s certainly had no hangers-on.”

“Don’t be a fool, Arthur. She’s known as The Work of Art, for God’s sake. Do you think she had no admirers?”

Any reply Arthur might have made was cut off by the unmistakable sound of raised voices in the main hall. Within seconds, footfalls pounded toward the library.

The door was thrust open and William entered. His face was pale. “Captain Heywood,” he said breathlessly. “Mrs. Heywood has had an accident.”

Arthur entered the hall in time to see Greene carrying Philly into the morning room, the dogs leaping and barking all around, trying to get to their mistress. He had a brief glimpse of Philly’s hair, fallen loose from its pins, and the heavy skirts of her riding habit, torn and dirty.

Without a thought for his father, or anyone else, Arthur covered the distance across the hall in a few long strides, entering the morning room just as Greene settled Philly down on one of the faded silk sofas. Her dogs gathered round her, and as she sat back against the cushions, she stretched out a hand to reassure them.

“What happened?” Arthur bellowed at Greene as he went to Philly’s side.

Greene stood at attention, only a few feet from the sofa. “Mrs. Heywood’s mare tripped as we were galloping down by the elms, sir. Mare fell to the ground. Flung Mrs. Heywood a good distance.”

Arthur sat down next to Philly. He took her face in his hands, scanning her for injuries. “Are you all right?” he asked in a harsh undertone.

Philly’s normally rosy cheeks were white as marble. “Perfectly all right.”

A small group of servants had gathered at the edge of the morning room. Violet stood—pale and anxious—next to William and another tall footman named Edward.

Crofton was in front of them, wringing his hands in distress. “Shall I summon the surgeon, Captain Heywood?”

“No, please.” Philly’s objection was faint but insistent. “If you’ll fetch Mrs. Lamb to me. I may have turned my ankle a little, and she’ll know best what to do.”

Crofton waited for the affirming nod from Arthur before hurrying off.

Philly swallowed. “That’s why Greene insisted on carrying me. I told him he mustn’t trouble himself, but, Arthur—”

“How the devil did this happen?” Arthur demanded of the groom.

The earl came to stand in the doorway. He leaned on his ebony walking stick, watching the scene in silence.

From his place on the floor near Philly, Basil watched the earl with equal attention.

“Arthur, please,” Philly said. “It was an accident. Some poacher had set a snare. That’s all. It was covered with leaves, and there was no way anyone could have seen it. But more importantly—”

“A snare?” Arthur’s blood ran cold. He dropped his hands from Philly’s face and turned on Greene. “What sort of a snare?”

“A small trench filled with jagged stones,” Greene answered. “It caught the mare’s hoof.”

“On the avenue of the elms,” Arthur said flatly. “On a riding path.”

Greene exchanged a weighted look with him. “Aye, Captain Heywood.”

“William, bring the decanter of brandy. Edward, Violet, see that a hot bath is prepared for your mistress. Greene, wait for me in the library.” As Arthur sent off each of the servants, he noticed his father but turned back to Philly without a word of acknowledgment. “Would you like a sip of brandy for your nerves?” He took one of her hands. “A cup of tea? Or should we see about getting you to your room?”