Earl's Well That Ends Well

by Jane Ashford

  Teresa’s heart sank. She had no doubt this visitor was Alessandro Peron, the supposed conde. She had not expected him to be so persistent.

  “I saw him talking to Lord Macklin.”

  Any triumph Teresa had felt at the progress of their investigation faded. What had Peron said to the earl? “He is someone I knew in Spain.”

  “Not a friend.”

  “No.”

  “Enemy?” asked Tom.

  She had not thought so. She had never done anything to Peron. Except refuse to help him in England. Perhaps this was his revenge. “He is one of those who takes joy in malice,” she said.

  Tom nodded. “Want me to run him off?”

  He did not ask for reasons to take her side, still less excuses. His faith warmed her heart, even as his careless confidence worried her. Alessandro Peron would see Tom as a worthless underling. His response would be vicious. “No.”

  “You think I can’t?”

  She did have doubts, but more, she didn’t want to risk him. “I will take care of this matter.” She would find some means, though this was not as simple as routing Dilch.

  Tom gazed at her with an understanding beyond his years. “Blackmailer?” he asked.

  Startled, Teresa drew back. So much of the time Tom seemed just a jolly lad, ready with a fantastical phrase or a joke. It was easy to forget that beneath that surface he was acutely, in this moment alarmingly, observant. And he knew as much about the seamier side of the world as she—perhaps even more. With all this, he was a staunch friend. He would never disdain her choices. Teresa nodded. “I have done things in my life, in order to survive, of which I’m not proud.”

  “So have I,” said Tom, looking not the least disturbed. Nor did he ask for details, as some might have.

  “This man knows of those things.”

  “And he’ll tell ’em, to anybody, if it gets him anything he wants.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even just a bit of revenge. To hurt you, like.”

  She acknowledged that with another nod.

  Tom spat out a curse that had no Shakespearean elegance.

  They sat in silence. The first artisans began to trickle into the workshop.

  “His lordship won’t care,” said Tom, once again cutting to the crux of the matter.

  Teresa turned so that new arrivals could not see her face.

  “He knows I stole and told a heap of lies back in Bristol,” the lad added.

  “Like so many things in this world, matters are rather different for a woman.”

  Consciousness of the truth of this showed in Tom’s face. “I’ll get rid of the bastard.”

  One of the arriving workers called a greeting. They acknowledged it. “You must concentrate on helping the dancers,” Teresa said. “I think we’re coming close there.”

  Tom hesitated. He looked torn.

  “I can manage my own affairs.” Teresa rose.

  More people were entering. There could be no more private conversation, and Teresa found this a relief. She went to her customary place and put on her apron. She would paint, and she would think, and some plan would come to her. Because it had to.

  Thus it was that on her way home that day, Teresa stopped in at the pub at the far end of her street. She had never been inside, but today she ventured through the door and stood blinking in the dimness after the sunshine outside. She was met by a sudden silence from the scatter of patrons. “Mr. Rigby,” she said to the owner. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.” The retired prizefighter led her to the far end of the bar, out of earshot of his customers, who resumed their low conversations.

  This scarred man had been most helpful in the matter of Dilch. Teresa knew his fearsome appearance covered a fierce sense of justice. “I wondered if you knew where I might procure a pistol?” she asked him.

  This earned her a long look. “Beg pardon, but why would you be wanting such a thing, ma’am?”

  “As a precaution, Mr. Rigby.”

  “If somebody’s bothering—”

  “A precaution only,” Teresa interrupted.

  “And would you know how to use a pistol, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Quite well. It…amused a gentleman of my acquaintance to teach me.”

  “I see.”

  The look in his eyes told her that he probably did, more than she might wish.

  “Well then, yes, ma’am, I expect I do know.”

  Nine

  The wedding of Miss Ada Grandison to Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton, took place on a glorious May morning at St. George’s Church in Hanover Square. The bride’s family had done their utmost to make it a glittering occasion, and the church was crowded with their friends and the cream of the haut ton.

  The young duke, who had no close family left, had asked Arthur to stand up with him at the altar, and Arthur was touched and pleased to do so. The bride looked lovely in a pale-blue gown and flowered bonnet. The couple spoke their vows in clear, confident voices and beamed with happiness when they greeted the waiting crowd after signing the register.

  The wedding breakfast at the Grandison house overflowed with more guests than the church could hold. Arthur found the crowd frustrating because he knew Señora Alvarez was in attendance, and he very much wanted to find her. He’d seen less of her in recent days as she had no project at the theater workshop. He didn’t want to think that she was avoiding him, but he feared that in fact she was.

  He was searching for her in the sea of faces when Compton found him. “I wanted to thank you again,” said the young duke. “You made all this possible.” He gestured at the celebration.

  “An exaggeration,” replied Arthur. “As I have said before. You won your happiness by your own efforts.”

  “I’d have had no chance without your—”

  Arthur stopped him with a gesture. “You have thanked me enough, Peter. Too much. Let this be the last time. Look, your wife is beckoning.”

  The smile that broke over the younger man’s face illuminated his somewhat bony features. “My wife.” He moved away like a man in a happy dream.

  Seeing an acquaintance nearby, Arthur went to join him.

  “Has your new great-nephew or great-niece been born?” the man asked.

  “She, or he, remains imminent according to the latest letter.”

  His companion nodded. “Say, do you know some foreign chap, name of Cerda? I was at Manton’s the other day. This fellow seemingly heard me mention your name, and he came slap up to me and introduced himself. Bold as brass. Said he’s a good friend of yours.”

  “He is not,” answered Arthur. It was time to administer the setdown this fellow deserved, he decided.

  The other nodded again. “Seemed like an encroaching mushroom to me.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I thought so. Town seems to be full of them. I’ll be glad to be back in the North.”

  “You are leaving London?”

  “In a few days.”

  The season was nearly over. He would be expected to depart as well. Arthur excused himself and went hunting for Señora Alvarez.

  He slipped through the press of people, nodding to greetings on all sides. He had nearly made it to the back of the house when he was accosted by Miss Julia Grandison, large and resplendent in magenta silk. “Hullo, Macklin,” she said. “A splendid event, eh?”

  “Indeed. I was just going…”

  “For Ada’s sake, I am allowing my brother to enjoy his triumph. Before his fall. His opera dancer is called Bella, you know.”

  He was not about to admit that he did. He looked to see if anyone else had heard. Miss Grandison had a penetrating voice. But no one was paying them any mind.

  “It is not too late to do your part,” she went on.

  “My part?”r />
  “To repay me for the service I rendered your young friend.”

  Arthur had no idea what she meant.

  “Putting him and Ada together,” Miss Grandison added impatiently. “Really, everyone seems to forget my efforts in making this match.”

  Because they were entirely imaginary, Arthur thought. “Excuse me, I need to speak to someone.” He moved on before she could reply.

  He found Señora Alvarez in earnest conversation with Miss Deeping and Miss Finch. They broke off so abruptly when he approached that he wondered what they had been saying.

  The two young ladies excused themselves as he came up. “What were you plotting?” he asked Señora Alvarez.

  She shook her head. “They so long to join in a plot,” she said. “But I see no place for them. This matter of the opera dancers is rather more serious than a thieving crow or even a hidden treasure.”

  “They told you about unmasking the crow.”

  “Each of them, in slightly different versions.”

  “They are proud of that.”

  “I admire their…ingenio. But the disappearances are not part of the world they know. I think they must be left out of this.”

  “You will not exclude me, I hope.” He hadn’t meant to allow so much emotion in his voice, but in the end he wasn’t sorry. It seemed that he had been trying for eons to let her know how he felt.

  Señora Alvarez gazed up at him. A man might fall into those dark eyes and lose himself, Arthur thought. Unless he already had. “Can we never be alone,” he complained. They were constantly surrounded by people. He could not take her hand or pull her close in this chattering crowd. He couldn’t sue for the right to do so.

  “To speak about the dancers,” she replied.

  “No!” The exclamation drew a few glances. He turned his back on them. “Of course we will plan what to do about that. But there are other things I wish to say to you.”

  “Other?”

  “You must have some hint of my feelings. I would have spoken before this, but I think you have been avoiding me.” He hadn’t meant to sound accusing.

  There was a pause that went on far too long for Arthur’s comfort. Señora Alvarez looked as if she was considering a knotty problem. Conversations washed around them while they stood like rocks in a sea of words. This was not the response he’d hoped for. But then she said, “I suppose your carriage is here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you would drive me home.”

  “With the greatest pleasure.” He thought he managed to hide his flare of triumph. Or perhaps he didn’t. He didn’t care.

  “Very well.”

  She didn’t take his offered arm but simply walked out beside him. Arthur saw people noticing. He was happy to let them.

  His town carriage was brought around promptly, and he handed her in. As they started off, she gazed out the window, not at him. “People here drive their carriages through the park, do they not?” she said. “Perhaps we could do that.”

  Surprised and pleased, Arthur gave the order to his coachman. Now he just had to find the right words to woo her. “Your company is a rare treat,” he said.

  Teresa glanced at him and away. Lord Macklin had a touch of arrogance, as was only to be expected from an English lord. But other emotions moved in his blue-gray eyes. He was going to say things that should not be. She didn’t know exactly what things, but she knew that she had to speak before he made some impossible declaration. He was a man of honor. He would feel bound by his words, and she would not have him so.

  She had thought of her earl for many hours since the arrival of the false Conde de la Cerda, while waiting for the Spaniard’s malicious tongue to begin to wag. She had pondered love and pain and dreams and fate. She had remembered, so vividly, the feel of disaster, of a whole life sliding away—slowly at first like the tipping snows of an avalanche, building to a roar of devastation.

  It was time to end this…friendship that should never have begun. She could feel the sadness already welling up in her chest. The avalanche would bury her. But she owed him this much.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  He was a man who noticed, and cared. A rare man. Unique. She would not see his like again. The ache inside grew sharper. But there was no help for it. She would find no better opportunity, if that was the word. Here, they would not be overheard. There was no Eliza hovering nearby, no workmen, no Tom to interrupt. “I am going to tell you the truth now,” she said.

  “About what?” he asked.

  “About me.” And when she had finished, she could leave the carriage and make her way back to her small home, take up the life she had carved out for herself. The bitterness would fade in time, as all things did. She would recover, as she always did. Unless the wound was too deep this time. “I will not give you my real name,” she continued. “That is dead forever. But as for the rest.” She made a throwaway gesture; one could only begin. “I am not a widow. That was a lie.”

  “Your husband is alive?” He straightened, as if ready to square up against a rival.

  She would have laughed if the pain in her heart had been less. “I never had a husband,” she replied. “He was always a fiction.”

  “But—”

  “It is best to let me speak,” she interrupted. If he didn’t, she would falter and perhaps fail.

  Lord Macklin nodded. She could see no censure in his face. She was going to tell him everything. She’d never told anyone. But then, she’d never known anyone—else—who so deserved her confidences.

  Having decided this, she found her voice frozen in her throat. Step by step, she thought. Go back to the beginning.

  “I was twenty when war came to northern Spain,” she said. “I was to have been married before that, but the man my father chose had died of a fever and another match was still being arranged. Rather slowly.” She didn’t even know what had caused the delay. Money, no doubt. Or perhaps the rising conflict had affected those negotiations as well.

  “Arranged,” said Lord Macklin.

  “It was the way of my family.” She waved this away as irrelevant. She mustn’t let the look on his face shake her resolve. Sympathy was not the point. “This was before the great battles of your Wellington. Perhaps you know that the end began in 1807 when Napoleon pushed French troops through Spain to invade Portugal. More than one hundred thousand men, I have heard, only to pass through. Of course he lied. Once they were there, his troops threw out King Carlos and put in his brother Joseph Bonaparte on the throne. We have spoken of that cabrón before. The royal family was not so much beloved. Prince Ferdinand had tried to overthrow his father the year before. But they were better than being ruled by the French. Spain rose up. Things fell into chaos.” She pressed her hands together in her lap at the memory of fear. “There was no organized conflict at first. It was worse. Roving bands of men, some desperate and hungry and more like bandits. One didn’t know where their loyalties lay.”

  “It must have been dreadful,” said the earl.

  Teresa bowed her head in acknowledgment. It had been, but she was also aware that she had been avoiding the personal by reciting history. She took a breath and went on. “One of these groups came across my family’s land. They claimed to be French troops, but I think now they might have been deserters. They seized livestock and food, terrorized the people. My father went to order them off. He thought himself the monarch of his acres, you see. He was so used to being obeyed that he did not know how to expect anything else. But these men cared nothing for his authority. They jeered and spit at him. Papa turned his whip on one of the officers, and a soldier shot him.”

  “You were not present surely?” Lord Macklin looked deeply shocked at the idea.

  “No, we heard the story from his servant, who fled.”

  “I am so very sorry…”

  Teresa held
up a hand to stop him. Compassion now would undo her. “Once they had done this, the men went wild. Some dark impulse was set loose perhaps. Or they thought they must cover up the crime, or send a warning to other landowners who might object to their thievery. I do not know why they chose to ride after my father’s man and attack our house.”

  “My God!”

  Teresa appreciated his anger even after all these years. “War is not just ranks of soldiers facing each other. As I soon discovered.”

  “You… Did they—” His hand rose as if to take hers, then drew back.

  “My brothers rallied every available man, and some of the women, to meet the attack, but there were far more of the Frenchmen. Diego and Roland—all the men of our household, I think—were killed giving me and a few others time to run away. Not my mother. She was already dead by then, gracias a Dios. The canallas set fire to our house when they were done. We could see the smoke as we ran.”

  He seemed about to speak, but then said nothing.

  “We went to our nearest neighbors first, but they were afraid to take us in. They thought they might be targeted next if they helped. So we walked on. I had never been so tired in my life, up to then.” Since, well, there had been other trials. The hardest part was coming up. Teresa didn’t know if she had the courage to continue. She didn’t want to see the earl’s face change, his inevitable judgment descend. “Some of my companions found refuge in cottages or gave up. They were not…of my rank. The country people were more reluctant to hide me. I could see that. So I pushed on to the house of a good friend of my father, though it was far.” Teresa had to swallow before she could go on.

  “They had known each other all their lives, and…this man had always seemed fond of me. And indeed he welcomed me with cries of horror and ordered up food and fresh clothes and a chamber for me. He was my savior.”

  Lord Macklin watched her with grave, sympathetic eyes. She looked away before adding, “After three days he came to offer me even more. His protection, as his mistress. He explained that my reputation was ruined because I had been staying with him. He had let word of this spread to people who knew me. And…encouraged them to draw certain conclusions, even though he had not touched me. But he assured me that he would be kind to me and give me every luxury.”