Earl's Well That Ends Well

by Jane Ashford

  “They weren’t liked then,” said Miss Moran. The recitation seemed to have made her melancholy.

  “So there was no one to inquire very closely where they’d gone,” said Miss Deeping.

  “If one wanted to choose dancers least likely to be missed—” began Miss Grandison.

  “It would be these,” finished Miss Finch.

  “Choose,” repeated Señora Alvarez. She looked from one young lady to another. “And who would be doing this choosing? If in fact it took place.”

  “We don’t know yet,” answered Miss Deeping. “We have to gather more information.”

  Arthur wondered how they would propose to do that. Miss Julia Grandison had been quite firm. He didn’t think the young ladies would be allowed more than this one visit to the opera dancers.

  Miss Deeping’s thoughts appeared to have followed his own. She turned to the dancers. “You could help,” she said.

  “Us?”

  “What could we do?”

  “Why would we?” asked the brown-haired girl who’d wiggled her hips.

  “Well, if someone is abducting opera dancers, you might be at risk,” replied Miss Deeping.

  “Abducting?” The word seemed unfamiliar to some.

  “Stealing them away.”

  “Stealing,” scoffed Bella. “Why steal what you can buy for pocket change?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Miss Moran.

  “Never mind, Sarah,” said Miss Finch. “I’ll tell you later.” She frowned. “Or not.”

  “You could keep an eye out,” said Miss Deeping to the dancers, refusing to be diverted. “Watch for suspicious characters hanging about the theater.”

  This earned her incredulous looks and harsh laughter.

  “Come,” said Tom. “Some are dodgier than others. Base reeky varlets. You know what I mean.”

  The theater was not the lad’s first encounter with the seamier side of things, Arthur thought. Tom had spent his life deciding who to trust from among a motley group of persons.

  The opera dancers shrugged and frowned as Tom looked from one to another. But in the end most nodded. Bella looked skeptical. “What’s it going to matter if we do?”

  “You can note down their names, and we will…” Here, Miss Deeping’s ingenuity failed her. Indeed, Arthur couldn’t see what the young ladies could do with that information.

  “I’ll follow them about,” said Tom. “Or have ’em followed. I got friends who can help. We’ll see where they go and what they do. Something might turn up.”

  After some further discussion, and no better ideas, this was decided as the plan. The gathering began to break up, though the young ladies were clearly not satisfied with their minor role.

  Several of the opera dancers moved toward Compton as they dispersed. They saw him as a potential source of support, Arthur thought. That was the only sort of meeting they were familiar with. The young duke planted himself next to his fiancée and took her arm as if it was a lifeline.

  Arthur had begun to smile when he noticed that dancers were converging on him from all sides. Their narrowed eyes reminded him of a group of stockmen appraising a prize animal. Here, he was a value to calculate.

  “I ’spect you’re a lord,” one said to him. “You’ve got that look about you.”

  “Oh, looks,” said another dancer. “I’d say he looks ripe and ready for a bit of fun.” She squeezed his arm. The dancers clustered closer.

  He could be rid of them, of course. But he didn’t wish to humiliate anyone. Arthur encountered Compton’s sympathetic gaze.

  “No,” said Señora Alvarez.

  The entire group of opera dancers turned to gaze at her. They were clearly intrigued as well as surprised. “Is he yours then, señora?” asked one.

  They turned back to him. Arthur was suddenly the focus of a battery of female eyes. He ought to have been embarrassed. In fact, he could only feel amazement that all his senses were focused on the fervent wish that she would say yes.

  “If he is, we’ll keep hands off,” added the dancer. “A course.” The others nodded, their expressions intensely curious.

  Teresa was speechless. She wondered where that no had come from. And why? Lord Macklin was well able to take care of himself. No man more so. He didn’t need her aid. But the sight of Nancy hanging on him and the others closing in had goaded her somehow. She couldn’t bear the thought of Macklin taking one of the girls as his mistress, here where she would see and know. The idea filled her with fury. It was protective anger, she decided. She wouldn’t see these girls used by a man when she might have prevented it.

  “Fair’s fair,” said another dancer. Nancy ran her hand provocatively down Macklin’s arm.

  “Yes,” said Teresa.

  A ripple of reaction went through the room. The dancers looked both disappointed and gratified, their eyes full of speculation. The young ladies and their escort appeared startled and then fascinated. Tom looked…smug. Was that right? The lad certainly seemed pleased with himself, though she didn’t see why he should be.

  The dancers retreated a bit, leaving Lord Macklin standing alone. He was gazing at Teresa. Who would have thought that those blue-gray eyes could hold such heat? It threatened to melt the barriers she’d set up to guard her new life. What was she doing? Had she gone mad? He was not hers, of course. She didn’t want him, even if it had been possible.

  Teresa’s thoughts tumbled and whirled. Macklin hadn’t meant to accept Nancy’s invitation. His expression had made that obvious. No one had required protection. She could have—certainly should have—kept quiet, and he would have extricated himself. Why hadn’t she? It could not be because she was drawn to him. She refused to be.

  The room felt suddenly far too warm. The cool self-possession she’d cultivated for years was crumbling. Lord Macklin was moving toward her. He was going to speak, right here, before all these people. Why would he do that? And what might this earl expect from her now that she’d made such a foolish claim? This brought a flare of anger, and Teresa welcomed it. He had no right to expect anything. That must be made exceedingly clear. She let that determination show in her expression.

  The earl stopped. Did it perhaps occur to him—too slowly—that there was nothing they could say or do with everyone looking on? They might as well be onstage here, blundering about like the hapless victims of a farce.

  That was it. She’d claim her hasty word was a joke. He should think nothing of it. The English laughed about the most idiotic things. He might even believe that.

  But she couldn’t tell him now, with everyone looking on. “We should go,” Teresa said. She turned toward the doorway, filled with a longing for the peace of her own home, and nearly bumped into Miss Ada Grandison.

  “Shouldn’t we make arrangements to…” began the latter.

  “We have all the arrangements we need, Miss Grandison,” interrupted Teresa. This drew looks from the dancers that made her flush. They had only one definition of an arrangement. Everything she said seemed to make things worse today. She felt quite unlike herself.

  “Grandison, is it?” asked Nancy. “Ain’t that the name of your ‘special friend,’ Bella? Mr. John Grandison.”

  The young duke goggled. Lord Macklin raised his eyebrows.

  Nancy was getting a bit of her own back, Teresa thought, having been thwarted over Macklin. She enjoyed stirring up trouble.

  Miss Grandison turned to the dancer. “What? Mr. John Grandison is my father.”

  Well, this was an effective diversion from her own unfortunate remark. But Teresa couldn’t be grateful. Miss Grandison looked distressed. Her fiancé seemed ready to spring into action and help her if only he knew how. Miss Finch’s expression suggested that all her doubts about this meeting had been fulfilled.

  “Is he now?” said Nancy. “Fancy that.” She gave Bella a sly
sidelong glance. “Course he’s not near as grand as my viscount.”

  Would the dancers now begin competing over all the society men who had been to the theater looking for mistresses? Nancy would enjoy that. So would some of the others. Teresa readied herself to put a stop to it, though part of her understood the impulse. The young ladies took so much for granted, had so much that the opera dancers would never possess. It would be satisfying to shock them out of their complacency.

  “You know my father?” asked Miss Grandison.

  “I have an appointment,” Teresa declared in a loud voice. “I must go.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Macklin, lending his aid. He urged Compton toward the door. Miss Finch followed, drawing Miss Moran along with her.

  Teresa took Miss Grandison’s arm to pull her along and herded Miss Deeping with a shooing motion. The latter seemed to be taking a satirical enjoyment in the scene, but she responded. The group began to move.

  Miss Grandison was not ready to let go of the matter, however. She resisted Teresa’s tug. “They know my father?” she asked her.

  “Does he like the theater?” replied Tom. Teresa frowned at him. Why wasn’t he helping?

  “Yes, he’s quite fond of plays. He comes often.” Her voice wavered on the last word, as if she was seeing this situation in a new light. “That is…”

  “They probably saw him here then.”

  “But she said special…”

  “Perhaps he came around to praise the ballet,” said Tom.

  “Oh yes, the ballet,” jeered Nancy. She bobbed in a plié that implied quite a different sort of movement.

  “I really must go,” Teresa said. Several of the dancers grinned at her, well aware of her dilemma.

  “My carriage is waiting,” said Macklin. “Come along.”

  The young people all took this as the voice of command, which annoyed Teresa even as she appreciated the result. They walked out through the empty theater and found the carriage approaching. The driver had walked the horses while they were inside. Teresa pulled Miss Grandison toward the slowing vehicle. Miss Finch brought along the other girls. Together, they chivvied the group into the vehicle.

  Teresa threw Tom an admonitory glance as he said his goodbyes. The duke and the earl bowed and walked off like the cowards they were. And Teresa was left in the carriage with four investigative young ladies.

  “One doesn’t become the ‘special friend’ of an opera dancer by just attending plays or praising the ballets,” said Miss Grandison as they started to move.

  “Oh, Ada,” said Miss Finch.

  Teresa watched understanding come to Miss Grandison, then finally to Miss Moran. Miss Deeping had clearly seen from the beginning.

  “Papa wouldn’t,” began the former. “Oh no.”

  Teresa knew nothing of Mr. Grandison, and cared less. But she understood that it was difficult to think of a parent, or a friend’s parent, in these terms. “Nancy likes to talk,” she said. “And not all she says is true.”

  “But she knew Papa’s name.” Miss Grandison gazed at her with wide eyes. “How would she, if he hadn’t…”

  “He visits the theater,” put in Miss Finch. “He might have accompanied a friend to meet the dancers. Many do.” This was setting aside the reason why, of course.

  The other three young ladies looked at their friend. Miss Grandison wished to believe but doubted, Teresa thought. Miss Deeping expected the worst. Miss Moran was simply aghast.

  A vivid memory shook Teresa. She knew what it was like to be tossed into a situation about which you knew nothing and make mistakes based on ignorance. She had begun her own disaster in that way. She wanted to help. But what could she say? It was not her responsibility to tell these young ladies what their mothers, and their society, didn’t wish them to know. Indeed, she would be resented if she did. Yes, a twist of history could toss them out of their safe world and into one where no one would care, and help would come in detestable forms that they couldn’t imagine now. But most likely that twist wouldn’t happen. They would never have to learn the hard lessons she could describe. “I expect Nancy used the wrong turn of phrase,” she said.

  No one looked convinced. She didn’t blame them. It had been a feeble effort. “She tosses out shocking remarks to start a good argument,” Teresa added. Even Nancy would admit this was true. She loved a dispute, as did almost none of her cohorts.

  “She wanted to argue with me?” asked Miss Grandison, looking bewildered.

  As well she might.

  “So you are a good friend of Lord Macklin?” put in Miss Finch.

  Teresa met her cool green eyes. Miss Finch was clever, as all these young ladies seemed to be. She’d chosen the one topic that might steer the conversation away from wandering fathers. Miss Finch would sacrifice Teresa’s comfort for her friends’ in an instant, Teresa noted. She was an interesting girl—an heiress who didn’t fit into society yet seemed to understand more about it than the others. Her question was also a challenge. Which Teresa was well able to meet. “Merely an acquaintance,” Teresa said.

  Miss Finch’s amused expression made her look older than her years. “Yet you claim ownership?” she said. A murmur went around the carriage at her directness.

  Despite everything Teresa felt a thrill at the idea. But of course the English earl did not belong to her. She gave Miss Finch a raised eyebrow. “A joke,” she replied, trying out her excuse.

  “Really? How odd.”

  Miss Finch certainly said whatever she pleased. Perhaps that was her difficulty in society. “Does it not fit the English sense of humor?” Teresa asked. “I do not always understand that, I admit.”

  “Are the Spanish so different?” asked Miss Moran.

  “Perhaps we are,” answered Teresa, recklessly consigning her countrymen to eccentricity.

  “And you jest about owning gentlemen,” said Miss Deeping. Her dark eyes were lit with amusement.

  Teresa thought again of a wolf pack, hunting as a team. “It will also save Lord Macklin from being besieged backstage at the theater.”

  “Besieged?” asked Miss Grandison.

  Which brought them back around to where they started. Why was this carriage ride taking so long? “Should we visit again about the disappearances,” she added. Perhaps this was a better reason for her slip? Even though there were to be no more visits.

  “We must do that,” replied Miss Deeping.

  “We need to know a great deal more,” said Miss Moran.

  Teresa felt like an angler who’d hooked a fish. She looked out the window to gauge their progress.

  “Lord Macklin deserves happiness,” said Miss Finch.

  Really, this red-haired young lady was becoming irritating.

  “He’s been so kind,” she added.

  “Kind to you?” Teresa couldn’t help asking.

  “To Ada,” replied Miss Moran. “She wouldn’t be engaged if he hadn’t helped matters along.”

  Miss Grandison nodded, though she still looked distracted.

  “And others. He’s been doing quite a bit of matchmaking,” said Miss Deeping.

  “He doesn’t like to call it that,” replied Miss Moran.

  Miss Deeping nodded. “I know.” There were giggles in the carriage. “He looks positively pained. But when you bring couples together…” She shrugged. “That is the word.”

  “And yet he is alone,” said Miss Moran. “His wife died ten years ago.”

  The young ladies nodded. Miss Finch gazed at Teresa. “I wonder what would make him happy?” she said.

  More than irritating, Teresa thought. A positive menace. She endured their scrutiny—cataloging, evaluating—as if she was a puzzle they were determined to solve. She could have told them that she was not the one to make any man happy, but she did not. She owed no explanations.

  “H
e likes being of use,” said Miss Moran.

  Her three friends turned to gaze at her, clearly surprised.

  Miss Moran seemed lost in thought. “But not all by himself,” she added. “He likes having…allies.” She noticed the stares. “Or so I observe.” She made the last word sound portentous.

  After a moment, Miss Deeping nodded, and then Miss Finch. Teresa wondered what the girl meant by allies. And what about love? It seemed that Lord Macklin had spent time…promoting it for others. What an unusual sort of man. Not that his nature was any of her affair.

  “I must talk to Tom,” said Miss Grandison, whose thoughts had clearly been taking their own course. “I think he knows more than he said about Papa.”

  The faces of her friends suggested that they agreed with the sentiment and were worried about the plan.

  “Your earrings are beautiful,” said Miss Moran to Teresa.

  This one didn’t like conflict, Teresa thought.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like them,” she added. “Are they Spanish?”

  “No, I design them myself.” Teresa launched into a discussion of the process, in great detail. She saw to it that the topic filled the short remainder of the drive, resisting all interruption. When the young ladies got down together at the Finch house, they appeared more than ready to escape further information on metallurgy. And they’d had no chance to question her further about Lord Macklin. Now she just had to find a way to divert herself, Teresa thought as the carriage took her home.

  Six

  Teresa was not surprised when Lord Macklin appeared at the theater workshop the following day. She might have stayed home to avoid him, but she’d promised to complete the scenery she was painting that day. It was needed for the next night’s performance and had to dry and then be installed onstage. More than that, this was her place. She wouldn’t be driven out, even by her own foolishness. The earl might be a powerful man, but she was valued here; she belonged with these craftsmen who took pride in their skills.