by Jane Ashford
“But I am, my dear Teresa. I recently inherited the title from a distant cousin.”
She gritted her teeth at his form of address. He was probably lying about the legacy, but the point wasn’t worth an argument. She didn’t care.
“Sadly, there was no property to go with honor.” He shrugged and smiled. “So I still must make my fortune. I heard that foreign titles impress the English, and so I have arrived.” He made an openhanded gesture meant to be charming.
“I know no one who would be of use to you,” Teresa said. Peron would be looking to attach himself to a rich man and benefit from the connection. That was his method.
He pretended surprise. “Have I asked?”
“You would, sooner or later. I saw no point in waiting. I tell you again, I have no connections.”
“That is hard to believe.”
“Why?” Teresa gestured at the room. “I live a frugal life. I do not go into society. How would I?”
Her unwelcome caller surveyed the place again. He appeared to find the sight distasteful. “I assumed you were simply waiting for your next…opportunity. Your charms have hardly faded.” He offered her a small bow.
Rage kept Teresa silent. It nearly choked her.
“If we joined forces,” he continued. “I’m sure we could…penetrate the upper reaches of—what do they call it here—the haut ton? Odd how they use a French phrase when they were fighting them for so long.” He tried a smile.
“No.” She bit off the word.
He drew back. “You are angry?”
He had the instincts of a toady, Teresa thought. He knew when he had offended.
“But this would be a great help to you,” he added. “Take you out of here.”
His disdain for her small home was infuriating.
“The lovely Teresa should be surrounded by luxury and adulation. I would like to see that restored to you.”
Did he actually believe this would sway her? If she had needed evidence that he understood nothing, this would have provided it. “You care only for your own advantage,” she replied.
“Mostly that,” he conceded. “Like anyone else.” His smile was meant to be self-deprecating, endearing. Teresa had seen it succeed. Today, it did not.
“I cannot help you,” she said.
His expression hardened. “Will not, you mean.”
Teresa shook her head.
“If I shared certain stories of the past, it could make things difficult for you.”
This, she had expected. The threat had hung in the air from his first appearance at her door. “With whom?” she asked. “I have told you I take no part in society.”
“Even your small, crude neighbors might be…surprised.”
She wasn’t sure how they would feel. But she knew that showing this man the least weakness was fatal. “Tell anyone anything you like. I don’t care.” She rose to show that this visit was over.
He remained seated. “I spoke too hastily. I beg your pardon.”
“There is no need.” She shrugged. “We simply have nothing to talk about.”
“You would throw away the chance…”
“Freely and utterly. And now I will bid you farewell. Conde.”
Eliza, who had clearly been listening if not comprehending, came out of the kitchen. She held a broom as if it was a weapon.
Frowning, the man stood. “If you oppose me…” he said to Teresa.
“I will not think of you again once you have gone. I hope you will extend the same courtesy to me. And do not come back here.”
“Cortesía? You appear to have forgotten anything you ever knew of it.”
“Perhaps I have.” She walked over to the front door and opened it. Eliza swept her broom over the floorboards, a homely movement that somehow suggested a guardian repelling invaders as well.
The visitor looked from one stony face to the other. With a muttered oath he strode out. Teresa closed the door behind him and shot the bolt. She resisted putting her back to the panels.
“What did he want?” asked Eliza.
“He is an acquaintance from Spain. He called to say hello.”
The maid’s expression was skeptical. “Didn’t sound like hello. Seemed like you had an argument.”
“We knew each other…before under different circumstances. He thought I could be helpful to him here in England. I told him I cannot. He was…disappointed.” It was only the truth, after all.
“So he ain’t coming back?”
Teresa had to be honest with her. “He may. I cannot stop him. But when he finds I mean what I say, he will give up.”
“I won’t let him in!”
Teresa was touched by the fierce loyalty on the girl’s face. “There is no need to worry. I can deal with this man.”
“Like you did Dilch.”
“As thoroughly, though not quite in the same way, I imagine.”
Satisfied, Eliza retreated with her broom. Teresa sat down again, wondering who had told Alessandro Peron she was here, down to her very address. She had thought herself anonymous, which was a good way to be hidden. But lately she had made new acquaintances, she noted, and people chattered. There need be no malice involved. Everyone loved a story, and perhaps she had become one. The idea made her grimace, but as she’d told the purported conde, it didn’t matter. She didn’t care about the polite world’s opinion. How could she?
As for Alessandro, he was a nuisance, but he would go away when he accepted the fact that there was no advantage to gain from her. He was not dangerous; he was only a leech.
And then she remembered Lord Macklin. He had the rank and wealth Alessandro was seeking. And if her Spanish acquaintance stuck his nose further into her life, he would discover that she knew an earl. He would find a way to make use of that without any help from her.
Teresa cringed. Lord Macklin had shown no sign of enjoying flattery. He certainly had no entourage to inflate his consequence. But Alessandro Peron was a very good toady. He could be beguiling when he exerted himself. He would scrape an acquaintance, particularly because Lord Macklin was curious about her. She was aware of this. And Alessandro could tell him things, some of which would change the earl’s opinion of her. No, be honest. They would destroy it.
Teresa felt a wash of despair. Was change not possible? Did the past never let go? She clenched her fists in her lap and fought an onslaught of memories. It was a long while before she subdued them.
* * *
He wanted to visit the theater workshop every day, Arthur thought, as his feet took him in that direction the following afternoon. Even though the people there were beginning to find his constant attendance odd. He was gaining an increasing reputation for oddities. His impulse, a year ago, to help a set of young men oppressed by grief had surprised everyone who knew anything about it and mystified countless others who didn’t. A hostess whose renowned summer house party he’d skipped this year was convinced he was concealing a scandalous intrigue. One old friend had asked if he was ill; another had posed oblique questions about financial reverses. Arthur’s “disappearance” from his customary haunts had tongues wagging even now.
And increasingly, of all the places he might have gone in London during the height of the season, he was most drawn to a room full of artisans. Or, in truth, to just one of them, the fascinating Señora Alvarez. He had come to care a great deal about her. It had progressed from his first admiration of her form and manner to something much deeper. He saw no need to deny it; he didn’t wish to.
Just lately, he’d thought that perhaps she felt the same. He’d glimpsed flashes of response, hints of encouragement, he believed. But when he tried to find out, she evaded. He had to talk to her. He was not some green boy, to moon about in silence. He wanted to know what she thought, what she felt. He had timed his visit today with that goal in mind.
&nb
sp; He found her putting on her bonnet, preparing to leave her painting, just as he had planned. But she said, “I’m going to the theater to talk with the opera dancers. I’ve arranged time to speak to each of them alone.”
This wasn’t ideal, but the walk might offer a bit of time alone. He moved with her toward the door. “I will go with you.”
“No, thank you. I don’t require an escort. And your presence at the theater would be a distraction.”
She didn’t sound cold, only determined. Disappointed, Arthur watched her walk off down the street. He returned to talk with Tom, who was assembling the frame for one of the flats that would become scenery for a play. He’d become very skilled at this, Arthur noted. His hammer fell with rhythmic precision. “The señora off to the theater?” Tom asked.
“Yes.”
“I hope she finds something. I haven’t had much luck hanging about the dancers’ room after the performances. Too many ‘gentlemen’ to sort out.”
“You know why they are there,” said Arthur, curious about the lad’s point of view.
“Looking for what they can get. With the least cost. You see a good bit of that in the streets. Men trying to take advantage. A right bad lot, mostly.”
Arthur nodded. It always saddened him to think of Tom’s life as a child.
“And there’s women using men to keep ’em, when they don’t care a fig,” the lad added. “Toss ’em out like rubbish when something better comes along. A right mess. And families can muck it up even more. Look at that Romeo and Juliet.”
“There is happiness as well.”
Tom nodded. “You showed me that, this last year. Playing matchmaker.” He grinned to show he knew Arthur didn’t care for that word. “And now mebbe it’s your turn?” This came with a sly look.
Arthur did not reply.
“The señora, I mean,” Tom said.
“I gathered.”
“I thought you liked her.”
Arthur decided to admit it. “I do.”
“But you ain’t…haven’t told her so?”
“I shall.”
“Need any more help?” asked Tom with a grin.
“More?”
“I been giving things a little push when I could. I learned a deal watching you.”
“You have.” It wasn’t a question. Arthur saw it all in that moment. He was mostly amused, and a touch appalled, at Tom’s efforts.
“Just give me a sign if you need another.” Tom made an airy gesture with his hammer.
Tables turning, thought Arthur. Not a comfortable sensation. He shook his head.
“It’s a bit harder, eh?” asked Tom.
“What is?”
“This matchmaking stuff. You’ve been backstage, like, but now you’re out front. And it’s trickier.”
“There’s no question of matchmaking here.”
“There never was, with any of the fellows,” replied Tom with a grin. “Until, all of a sudden, the question was popped.”
His case was entirely different, Arthur thought. And then he remembered the idea that had occurred to him before he came down to London this year—a new happiness. Was this the result? Had that impulse moved him to…here? He hadn’t gotten that far.
Tom was watching him with open amusement.
Arthur wondered where he’d thought he was going when he decided to talk to the señora. If she was offering encouragement, what then? He examined the idea of Teresa Alvarez as a wife. His wife. And found it enormously appealing.
Tom was called to help with another man’s project. As it was clearly going to take some time, Arthur waved a farewell and left the workshop. His mind was so full of new thoughts that he nearly collided with a small man outside the door. The fellow offered him a bow, and said, “Good day, sir. I noticed you were speaking with the lady who left a few minutes ago.”
Arthur stopped, surprised. “Señora Alvarez?”
“Alv…ah, yes. I was coming up the street just now to pay her a visit. But she was away before I could speak.”
How then did he know that Arthur had been talking to her?
“I was acquainted with her in Spain, you see,” the man added.
Arthur examined him—slender, inches shorter than he. His clothes were foreign, as was his face with its dark eyes and aquiline nose. He realized that those eyes were making a thorough evaluation of him as well. They held a subtle gleam of cunning. “Indeed?” he said.
The man smiled. “Indeed. I am Conde Alessandro de la Cerda.”
“Macklin.” Arthur knew this was not enough information for a foreigner to identify him, but he found he didn’t care to say more. There was something about the man that he didn’t quite like. He was rather…professionally ingratiating. Arthur’s position in life made the type familiar. Though this fellow was quite good at it.
“You are also a friend of…Señora Alvarez?”
“I met her recently.”
“Ah, a most charming lady, as all her old friends would attest.”
A jumble of curiosity and caution, along with a lamentable tinge of jealousy, unsettled Arthur.
“Such an odd place to find her though,” the man added.
“Is it?”
The conde looked up and down the shabby street. “So very…primitive.”
“As opposed to?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where would you expect to find her? If not this sort of place.”
“Ah.” The man’s smile this time was satisfied, like a fisherman who felt a tug on his line. “A noble household with all of its…luxuries. Of course.”
There was definitely something off about this fellow. All Arthur’s instincts told him so. He was ready to walk away. Yet he couldn’t help asking, “Were you a friend of her husband?”
“Her…? Oh. No. Not her husband.”
Something badly off. The Spaniard had been oddly surprised by that question.
“I did know many others very…close to her.”
He wanted Arthur to draw him out. He wanted to dole out bits of gossip and be courted for more. And certainly rewarded for his knowledge. He was that sort of weasel. This exchange was feeling deeply distasteful. But Arthur’s protective impulses had also been roused. “How did you find her here?”
The Spaniard was off-balance for only a moment. Then he made an airy gesture. “I have been asking about old friends at the embassy.”
The señora had shown no sign of being in communication with Spanish diplomats, Arthur thought. His own inquiries had confirmed that. He wondered suddenly if he had alerted them to her presence by asking.
“His Excellency was very accommodating,” the other man added.
Immediately certain that the fellow was not acquainted with the Spanish ambassador, Arthur turned away. “I have an engagement,” he said. “I must go.”
“I will walk with you, if you permit. I am not familiar with London and often find myself quite lost.” A self-deprecating gesture and smile accompanied this admission.
Arthur could not refuse such a request without a degree of rudeness he was unwilling to employ. As yet. It might be that he would eventually. No, undoubtedly he would. This sort of toadeater required definitive discouragement.
“Perhaps you could recommend to me the best ways to make acquaintances in English society,” the conde continued as they walked.
If he thought to wangle an invitation from Arthur, he was fair and far off. “I’m sure your friend the ambassador could help you,” he replied.
“Of course. But I would not wish to take too much of his time.”
Arthur amused himself by deflecting the man’s sallies for the remainder of the walk. It was rather like a game of tennis in which he declined every serve. As he shed the man’s unwanted company at the door of his club, he determined to warn Se�
�ora Alvarez about this insinuating conde. He suspected she would not think much of him.
* * *
Teresa met Tom at the workshop early the next morning, by arrangement, to compare notes on their inquiries at the theater. She had managed to talk with each opera dancer alone about recent happenings, and she knew Tom had made close observations in their retiring room. They shared the tidbits they’d gathered and tried to put them in order. “We should get Miss Deeping to make one of her charts,” Tom said.
“We shall do our own.” Teresa found paper and ink and drew a grid with the name of the dancers, including those who were gone, along one side and a list of characteristics across the top.
“You’re every bit as good as Miss Deeping,” said Tom admiringly.
She accepted his praise with a smile. “We know that Odile, Sonia, and Maria had certain things in common.”
“From away,” said Tom. “Didn’t speak English well, not many friends, and no family to ask about them.”
Teresa put check marks on her grid for these things. “After my talks, I think there are other girls in the same case.” She ticked off two names.
“Jeanne and Elena? I seen a fellow talking to each of them. A goodish while. On different nights.”
“What sort of fellow?”
“English,” Tom replied. “Nobleman, I’d say. Fine clothes but didn’t seem to set much store by them. Expected people to make way, that sort of thing.”
Teresa nodded. She knew the type well. “We must find out his name and see what we can discover about him.”
“Right,” said Tom. “I can get some of my friends to keep an eye out for him. See where he goes outside the theater. Mebbe they can overhear a bit of conversation.”
“Good.” Teresa folded the page and put it in her reticule. At last they seemed to be making progress.
With the air of one turning to the next order of business, Tom said, “There’s been somebody asking questions about you outside here, last couple of days.” He gestured at the door of the workshop.
“Me?”
“Dark fellow with an arched nose,” Tom added. “He catches folks as they’re leaving. Makes up to them. He took Sanders for a mug of beer. Sanders likes to talk, y’ know.”