Page 17 of The Work of Art

“Who says so?”

“All of them belowstairs.” Sara’s expression turned mulish. “He’s no hero, miss.”

“Well, I know for a fact that he is. He was hurt fighting in Spain. In future I hope you’ll correct any of the servants you hear saying otherwise.”

Sara pursed her lips for several strides before offering another comment. “When I serve tea to the master and them in the library, I never heard that man say so much as a single word, but he sat here last week talking to you easy as anything. What’s he up to, I wonder?”

“I could be accused of the same,” Philly pointed out. “I don’t talk much in company, and yet I’m able to converse freely enough when alone with someone. I daresay you wouldn’t accuse me of being up to something.”

“Humph. ’Tis not the same.”

Philly gave the disagreeable little maid an indulgent glance before continuing on ahead as she often did. It was early enough in the day that they weren’t likely to see many people. The path she liked to walk wasn’t often travelled by other visitors to the park. She preferred the solitude. It gave her dogs more freedom to run and play, and allowed plenty of time for quiet contemplation.

As she strolled along, Sara not far behind her with the dogs, Philly fretted over her drive in the park with the duke.

There was no getting around it; she hadn’t liked the man. She didn’t know exactly why. Except for staring at her and holding her a little too tightly in the waltz, he’d done nothing very wrong. Nevertheless, he’d made her exceedingly uncomfortable, and she’d been glad when he’d left them shortly after escorting her to the supper room.

She’d assumed he had gone off to dine with his other acquaintances, or perhaps to play cards, but during the carriage ride home, Uncle Edgar had informed her that after taking his leave of them, the duke had left the ball.

Mrs. Vale had been triumphant. “A declaration of his interest for certain. To stay only long enough to dance the waltz with you and escort you in to dinner? No one can doubt his intentions now. And when you’re seen driving in the park with him next week, everyone will know you may well be the next Duchess of Moreland.”

Philly could see no fault in Mrs. Vale’s logic. What she couldn’t understand was the why of it. A duke could have his pick of any of the young ladies on the marriage mart. Why would he have any interest in her at all? She was three-and-twenty with no fortune and no connections. An oddity. A country nobody. And she certainly hadn’t dazzled him with her brilliant conversation or vivacious personality. It was all most perplexing.

She’d attempted to discuss the matter with her cousins, but the most they would offer was that the duke was a man of large fortune with a great estate called Moreland Park. This worried Philly more than anything, for Elizabeth could find a wealth of information to gossip about on persons of only the slightest acquaintance. That she had so little to say about the duke was exceedingly strange.

Philly had no friends to consult. She hadn’t been allowed to go visiting with her cousins, and hadn’t had any opportunity to meet other ladies her age that she might turn to with her questions. The only person she’d had anything close to a personal conversation with since she’d come to London was Arthur Heywood, and as luck would have it, he hadn’t turned up to meet with her uncle today.

She hadn’t seen any of the gentlemen arrive to meet her uncle this morning, and as she’d gone through the entry hall on her way out of the townhouse, she hadn’t heard the customary sound of deep murmuring voices coming from the library.

It was therefore quite surprising to Philly that when she turned along the bend in the path, taking the exact same direction as she had the Friday before, she came upon Captain Heywood sitting on the very same bench.

Arthur was looking intently down the path and saw her immediately.

“Captain Heywood!” she exclaimed as she approached him.

He rose to greet her, momentarily unnerved by the warmth of her smile. “Good morning, Miss Satterthwaite.”

Her maid was close behind, disapproval written on her face. “Beg your pardon, miss, but the dogs are restless. We shouldn’t be stopping.”

“No, of course not.” Miss Satterthwaite extended a gloved hand to one of her dogs as he leapt to get her attention. “Would you take them just up ahead onto the grass, Sara?”

“And you, miss?”

“Well, I…” She looked at Arthur. “Do you mind if I share your bench for a while, Captain Heywood?”

“Not at all.”

“I think I might sit down for a moment, Sara. You go on ahead.”

“Yes, miss,” the maid said with grudging obedience. “But I’ll keep you in my sights at all times!” she added tartly, before turning to go off with the dogs.

Arthur stood, supporting himself shakily with his cane, while Miss Satterthwaite sat down on the bench. He waited for her to situate her little dog next to her, and only then did he lower himself down beside her. He’d walked into the park too many times in the past several days. As a result, his right leg was throbbing. He could barely bend it, so was forced to keep it stretched out in front of him.

“I’d thought I might see you when you arrived to call on my uncle,” she said. “Was there no investor’s meeting today?”

“Your uncle has decided that the dinner party tomorrow evening will stand in place of it. He sent a note round on Sunday to that effect.”

Arthur tried not to give in to the urge to stare at her. In her shimmering amber pelisse, she was more striking than on any other occasion he’d seen her. More than ever, she gave the impression of sunlight and glowing warmth, a person around whom it was impossible for cold or darkness to dwell. A man like himself, so often consumed by the shadows, could become addicted to being around such a lady. It wouldn’t do to keep indulging himself this way.