Page 89 of The Work of Art

Arthur watched Greene remove the wooden case of dueling pistols from the back of the carriage. His father was right. There’d been a time, whether at Manton’s shooting gallery or on a battlefield, when a weapon had been nothing more than an extension of his own hand. He’d thought that after three years he would have forgotten what it felt like, but holding a pistol still came as naturally to him as breathing.

Of course he was far from what he once was. Indeed, Arthur considered his present level of skill to be little more than a mockery of his former proficiency. “I’m unsteady, unbalanced, and weak. I’ll be lucky to regain some passing ability with a pistol, and even then, only in my right hand.”

“I daresay your passing ability with one hand is equal to another man’s mastery.” His father made no attempt to conceal his pride. “Don’t know why you left it so long. You might have picked up a pistol any time these last three years. If you had, who knows what you’d be capable of by now?”

“I’d likely be capable of nothing,” Arthur said. “For had I picked up a pistol three years ago, I’d have no doubt blown my own brains out.”

The earl frowned. “The pain that bad, was it?” He considered a moment. “Well, it makes no matter now. Your health is much improved. And you’re shooting again. By God, that’s a miracle in itself. Though I can’t but regret the circumstances that led you back to it.”

The day of Philly’s fall, Arthur had gone out with his father and Greene to see the snare on the riding path for himself. It was a narrowly dug hole, just large enough to catch a horse’s hoof. Save for the jagged stones placed inside, it might have been made by an animal. That it was meant for Philly, Arthur had no doubt, but it could just as easily have injured or killed Greene. There was a casual sort of malice to the whole thing that had unsettled him deeply.

It had unsettled his father, too.

Later that same afternoon, while Philly and Mrs. Ogilvy were occupied upstairs, Arthur and his father had retired to the library. There, Arthur had opened his box of dueling pistols for the first time in over three years. He’d lifted one of them out, cradling it in his useless left hand for a moment before, resolutely, transferring it to his right. “I’ll need to practice,” he’d said.

“Quite right,” the earl had agreed.

Every day since, they’d travelled out onto the estate under some pretext or another, only to stop instead at Arthur’s old shooting range.

“As you stand now,” said his father as they walked back toward the house, “if you had to issue a challenge—”

“I’ve no intention of issuing a challenge to anyone.”

“Why the devil not? I’d would’ve thought you’d prefer facing the man. Put an end to the business once and for all.”

Arthur’s jaw hardened. “The man who attempted to harm my wife is a coward. When I discover him, I’ll deal with him as a coward deserves.”

“And if it’s Moreland? What then? How is he to be dealt with?”

Arthur glanced at his father. “Two weeks ago, you dismissed Moreland as a suspect. I believe you said he was no more dangerous than any other very wealthy man.”

The earl looked steadily back at him. “Indeed. Thought it all a load of rubbish when first you told it to me. But…”

“But?”

“Moreland’s been known to go a little mad over the odd painting or trinket. It does make one wonder. What lengths might he go to over a woman?”

“As far as cold-blooded murder, if you believe the rumors about Molly Cartwright.”

“Ah, yes. His last duchess.” The earl nodded. “Some of the fellows at my club would have it that she cuckolded him with a younger chap. They say he caught them together one night. Fell into a rage.”

“Even if that were true, it would have little bearing on what’s happening now.” Arthur walked up the front steps of Heywood House with his father. “The anonymous note. The snare. They’re malicious games, not crimes of passion.”

The earl grunted in acknowledgement. “Perhaps. But as I say, one never knows what lengths a man will go to over a woman. Even a sensible man might act a fool. You need look no further than your brother for evidence of that.”

Upon entering the hall, Arthur removed his hat and gloves and handed them to Crofton. His clothes smelled of horses, leather, and gun smoke. He’d have to change before his walk with Philly. He prayed she wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer for him. “Is Mrs. Heywood still in the drawing room?” he asked Crofton.

“No, sir. The mistress has retired to her room. She’s sent word that she’s not to be disturbed until dinner.”

“Not even by you, Captain.” Mrs. Ogilvy descended the stairs, her skirts held in one hand. “I’ve just looked in on her and she’s sleeping as peacefully as a child. You must let her rest.”

The earl took Mrs. Ogilvy’s hand to assist her down the last few steps. “What’s this? Is the girl ill?”

“I expect she’s tired, my dear. She entertained a party of callers not long after the two of you left. By the time they departed, she was quite overdone.”

Arthur shot a sharp look at the butler. “What callers?”

“The misses Townsend, Lady Eliot, Lord Darly, and Mr. Forsythe, sir.”