Earl's Well That Ends Well

by Jane Ashford

  The earl cursed softly.

  “I refused him, of course,” said Teresa. “I could not believe the insult. I called him the worst names I knew and flounced out as if I had somewhere to go.”

  Teresa paused to breathe.

  “But I found I did not,” she continued after a moment. “When I appealed to another friend of my family, I found that this man had made a great point of saying that nothing improper had happened between us. As your Shakespeare says, protesting too much. And so they all thought that I had given myself to him in exchange for my refuge. The women looked at me with contempt. The men with…a new interest.”

  Lord Macklin swore again.

  “They did have their own problems,” Teresa conceded. “The countryside had become perilous. Death stalked what had been a peaceful land. No one knew what would happen next. My fate was small in comparison.”

  “It should not have been!”

  She was too intent on finishing this to react. The memories were rising up and threatening to overwhelm her. “You will say I should have found a way to escape.”

  “I say he should have been shot for what he did to you!”

  “But I was…not quite myself.”

  “You had seen your family killed and your home destroyed!”

  “Yes.” She’d been exhausted and terrified and ignorant, all too conscious of having nothing when she was accustomed to plenty. She’d gone to some of her family’s old servants, but they were poor and even more frightened of the future, and of the man who was holding out all the comforts she’d grown up with. He was a power in the area. “I gave in,” she said. She felt the shame of it even now.

  “I returned to him and hid behind his power. He knew how to deal with the troops. He placated whichever bands of soldiers swept through the region, French or Spanish or later the English.” Watching that, she’d realized how much he enjoyed manipulation. More than any physical intimacies that occurred between them, in the end.

  “Where is he?” said Lord Macklin. The growl in his tone made her shiver.

  “He died. Just before your Waterloo. He always thought Napoleon would be coming back.” He’d relished the prospect, having found many benefits in turmoil. “He had no children. There was much confusion when he was gone. And in those years with him, I had learned how to plan and persuade.” As well as the hiding places of the grandee’s ill-gotten valuables through the war. She’d taken her chance, purchased aid, and set off on a long, hard trek to safety. Which she had achieved, Teresa reminded herself. “There. That is all. Now you know. And you see, I am not what you thought I was.”

  She waited a moment, but he didn’t reply. Certainly he was shocked, appalled. How could he not be? He was a most respectable man, and respectable people despised her. But there was one more thing. “The ‘Conde de la Cerda’ could tell much of this story,” Teresa added. The man knew the general outline, if not all the details. “He will probably spread it about, since I’ve refused to help him worm his way into society. As if I could.” And now Lord Macklin would think she had only told her story because she was about to be exposed. Perhaps that was true. Would she have made these painful admissions otherwise? It hardly mattered. Either way, his opinion of her was destroyed. And she cared nothing about the rest of society.

  Still, he said nothing. The silence was unbearable.

  The carriage stopped to wait for another to cross ahead. Teresa pushed open the door and jumped out, rushing across the park to a gate nearby where she could flag down a hack. The earl would not come after her. Why should he? His pride must be bruised. He was probably angry. He would never want to see her again. Teresa saw a cab and raised her hand to signal.

  Arthur moved just a moment too late. His carriage pulled forward, and by the time he’d halted it again, Señora Alvarez was gone. She was not Señora Alvarez, he thought. But he had no other name to call her.

  He should have spoken. He should have comforted her. He’d wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close, shelter her from all harm. But that would have been utterly inappropriate after the story she’d told, what had been done to her. And sympathetic phrases couldn’t make up for the insults she’d suffered.

  Mostly, though, he’d done nothing because he was grappling with murderous rage. A protective anger that he’d felt only a few times before in his life, when those he loved were threatened, was choking him. He couldn’t think, still less speak.

  Arthur noticed that he was shaking with fury. He longed for action, for something to hit. If he could get his hands on the man who’d used her… His fingers curled into claws. But that villain was beyond reach. Still, there must be something he could do, some recompense he could offer her.

  A thought occurred, and blossomed, more and more gratifying. That might well do. He leaned out to give his coachman new orders.

  Returning to the wedding breakfast, he was pleased to find Tom still there. The press of people was thinning, however, and the lad was happy to leave with him. Back in the carriage, Arthur made automatic replies to Tom’s remarks about the event. These gradually diminished, and by the time they’d reached Arthur’s house, Tom said, “What’s wrong, my lord?”

  “Come into the library,” Arthur replied. They walked through and settled in the book-lined room. “I want to talk to you about a Spaniard who appeared in town recently.”

  “That fella who’s been lurking about the workshop asking questions about Señora Alvarez?”

  Tom was always quick, Arthur thought. A hint was enough for him. “You’ve seen him then?”

  “He tried prying information out of me, but he didn’t get no…anywhere.”

  Arthur wondered how much of the señora’s true story Tom knew. Had she other confidants? He both hoped so and wished to be the only one. “He means her ill,” he added.

  “I know. The currish, half-faced scut!”

  “Ah, yes.” It seemed a fair description. “I intend to get rid of him.”

  Tom’s frown deepened. “I wanted to do that, but the señora said no. She said she’d handle him herself.”

  “She should not have to. She deserves help.” All the aid she had not been given in her youth, and more.

  “She did fine with Dilch.”

  “This is no neighborhood dilemma.”

  “Well, but…”

  “I know more of the true story than you do.” Arthur was sure of it now.

  After a moment’s consideration, the lad accepted this. “So you’re looking for another pair of hands for the job? I’m your man!” Tom paused and made a wry face. “But I have to say, my lord, I don’t seem to have the stomach for killin’.”

  “Good God, I’m not planning murder!”

  “Ah, that’s all right then.” Tom shifted in his chair. “I tried one time. With a scurvy wretch who hunted the little ones on the streets in Bristol. Set an ambush and had my chance. But I couldn’t cut him down. Even low as he was. Reckon I’m hen-hearted.”

  “What did you do?” Arthur asked, momentarily diverted by curiosity.

  “Turned him over to a magistrate. One as would listen to the truth.”

  “And was the creature punished?”

  “Transported. Hard labor.”

  “So you are wise and just rather than hen-hearted, Tom.”

  The lad took the compliment with a duck of his head.

  “I intend to send this Spaniard out of England in a way that he can’t easily return.”

  “Transport him ourselves, you mean?”

  Arthur nodded, appreciating the comparison. “I thought the Indies, one of the Spanish colonies. Puerto Rico, perhaps. He should feel at home there.”

  Their subject’s comfort didn’t appear to interest Tom. “Won’t he just come right back though?”

  “We’ll send him off with no money. He doesn’t seem to have a fortune of his own.
He seems a cunning rogue and will likely accumulate funds. But it will take him some time. And by then everything will be different.” Arthur didn’t know how, yet he was certain it would be.

  “How will we manage it?” Tom asked.

  “That is the question. I considered offering a bribe, but…”

  “You can’t let him get a whiff of your fortune,” Tom interrupted. “He’s a blackmailer, and they just keep wanting more. You’d never be rid of him.”

  “I agree.”

  Tom frowned over the problem. “We’ll just have to bung him onto a ship our own selves, willy-nilly. Like a press-gang.”

  It was a role Arthur had never expected to fill. “I expect he would object to that. Rather loudly.”

  “We’d have to make certain he couldn’t then.”

  The thought of rendering the Spaniard unable to protest had its attractions. “The fellow is a toadeater. I could invite him here and then…”

  “Have him walk into your house and never come out again?” objected Tom. “That’s no good. What, order your butler to cosh him and the footmen to truss him up with curtain cords?”

  Arthur thought of the august individual who managed his household. Chirt would be appalled at the idea. Then he recalled how ruthlessly the butler depressed the pretensions of encroaching callers. “Chirt might be up to it.”

  Tom, who was well acquainted with this servitor, laughed. “Mebbe so, but you don’t want the man vanishin’ from here. Better to invite him to go riding. I kin wait for you someplace out of the way, and we’ll jump him.”

  “And what then? Tie him up with our neckcloths? Choose a ship at random on the docks and hand over a rebellious captive? Most captains would call in the law. And those who wouldn’t…”

  “Probably ain’t men we want to trust. It is a puzzle.” Tom shook his head. “Be easier if we was going to kill him.”

  “Tom!”

  “Beg your pardon, my lord. I ain’t been called on to dispose of many people before this.” He cocked his head. “Not any, actually.”

  “It was not included in my training either,” replied Arthur ruefully. “Eton didn’t go much beyond the cut direct.”

  “Is that sword fighting? Like a duel?”

  “No, it is a public refusal to acknowledge someone. You turn your back where all of society can see.”

  “Oh.” Tom clearly didn’t think much of this. “Could you challenge him to a duel?”

  “A cumbersome process, with inconvenient rules which would reveal matters we hope to keep private. Also, it would not dispose of the man unless I killed him. Which we have ruled out.”

  “He might be a good fighter, too.”

  “And kill me. Very true.” Arthur began to wonder how things had come to this in his ordered, settled life. A harsh inner voice noted that Señora Alvarez had no doubt felt the same—no, far worse—when hers had fallen into ruins.

  “Well, I don’t think he would kill you, ’cause then he’d have to scarper, and he don’t want to do that. But I can see it ain’t the best plan.” Tom gazed at the Turkey carpet, rubbing his hands together as if the motion promoted thought. “Ah.”

  “You’ve thought of something?”

  “Somebody. Who might be able to help.”

  “We don’t want word of this to spread.”

  “He knows how to keep mum.”

  “He being?”

  “Mr. Rigby. Runs a pub down near my lodgings.”

  “I’m not sure a barkeep…”

  “Used to be a bare-knuckle fighter,” Tom interrupted. “And more besides, I reckon.”

  “More in what sense?”

  “Late at night, when the street’s gone to bed, there’s some hard men visits that pub. I’ve seen some of ’em, when I was coming home late from the theater.”

  Arthur frowned at him.

  Tom waved off his concern. “I steered clear. And Mr. Rigby is all right. We’ve had some chats. He helped the señora get rid of Dilch.”

  “She trusted him?”

  “Aye.”

  “I suppose we could speak to him,” Arthur said.

  “Be best if I go alone, my lord.”

  “Easier, perhaps. But I insist on coming along.” Responding to Tom’s expression, Arthur added, “There may be points only I can, er, reassure him on.” Mainly involving available funds. He also wanted to make his own assessment before bringing in the man.

  Tom thought this over, then shrugged. “I reckon. When would you wish to go, my lord?”

  “What about now? Presumably a pub keeper is generally available.” And Arthur didn’t feel able to sit still. He craved action.

  “That’s true.”

  They walked, as this was less likely to draw attention than a fine carriage in Tom’s neighborhood. “And we should take care when we come closer,” Arthur said. “I would not wish to meet Señora Alvarez.”

  His young companion looked dubious. “She’s not to know?”

  “Once all is over. Perhaps.” He was not sure how to face her right now, with their ravaging conversation still fresh. And his mind had focused on one goal.

  Tom considered this. “I don’t think the señora is overfond of surprises.”

  “This is a gift,” replied Arthur. Nothing could make up for what she’d suffered, but he could provide a weight on the other side of the scales.

  “But she…”

  “I know her better than you.” As soon as he spoke, Arthur saw this for what it was—wishful thinking. But he would not be deterred.

  Tom appeared to accept it, however, and they walked on.

  Reaching the lad’s home neighborhood, they slipped along the street and into the pub. It was low and small but clean. There were only a few patrons.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Rigby,” said Tom to the man behind the bar. “This here is Lord Macklin. Might we have a word?”

  Rigby was probably past fifty, Arthur thought. Still well muscled, his receding red hair was cut close to his head. His face and knuckles showed the scars of his former profession. One ear had clearly been smashed by more than one fist. “What about?” Rigby asked. His voice was even. Not hostile, but not particularly welcoming either.

  “Private matter,” said Tom. He leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “You remember that fella came in asking about Señora Alvarez?”

  “The foreigner?”

  “Aye, that one. It’s about him. He’s been bothering the señora.”

  Rigby frowned. “Come along in here,” he said and led them into a small cluttered chamber behind the bar. Bottles and crates crowded shelves on three sides. There was one straight chair behind a chipped table and barely room for the three of them in the windowless space. No one sat down. Rigby faced them. “Did he lay his hands on her?” he asked with a scowl.

  “No,” answered Arthur. Judging from the expression on their host’s face, the newcomer was fortunate that he had not. “He’s threatened her, however.” Arthur saw no need to explain what kind of threat. That was none of this man’s business.

  “We want to do something about him,” Tom continued.

  “Something?”

  Rigby was clearly wary. Arthur wondered if he had been in trouble with the law. “I want to send him out of the country,” he said. “Far enough that he cannot easily return.”

  The pub keeper surveyed Tom. “You’re a good friend of the lady.”

  The lad nodded.

  “And you as well?”

  Under other circumstances Arthur might have been offended by a glowering inquiry from such a man. Now he simply said, “I am, and I wish to help her by removing this fellow.”

  Rigby considered this for so long that Arthur grew impatient. “Tom thought that perhaps you could put us onto the right sort of ship,” he began.

  “She asked me to
find her a pistol,” Rigby interrupted.

  “What?” exclaimed Arthur and Tom at the same moment.

  “Just a precaution, she called it. Now, I’m wondering what she means to do with it.”

  “So you procured a gun for her?” asked Arthur.

  The scarred man nodded.

  “You think she means to put a bullet into this conday?” asked Tom.

  “That’d bring her a world of trouble,” replied Rigby. He looked as if he knew about such difficulties.

  On the one hand Arthur could understand the satisfaction of eliminating an enemy. On the other, the pub owner was correct. “I shall see that she does not require a pistol,” he answered.

  Someone in the taproom called for ale. Rigby went out to serve him.

  “Would she really shoot him, do you think?” Tom asked.

  “Only to defend herself, I imagine.” The sooner they could be rid of this Spaniard, the better.

  Rigby returned. “So what is it you’re asking of me?”

  “We would like to find a ship, ideally heading to the West Indies, that would take an…unauthorized passenger,” Arthur replied.

  This elicited a bark of laughter. “Unauthorized,” repeated Rigby. “You toffs have some fine words for dark doings.”

  “It separates the really significant lawbreakers from the common criminals,” said Arthur.

  This earned him a surprised and approving glance. “I know a few people on the docks,” said Rigby then. “Some as can slip an ‘extra’ passenger onto a ship at the right moment. Certain ships, that is.”

  “Like being pressed,” said Tom.

  Rigby grinned. He was missing a molar. “Bit more gentle than the navy perhaps. They’ll want paying though.”

  Arthur nodded.

  “And this individual would have to be kept quiet for a goodish time once he’s onboard.”

  “Quiet,” said Arthur.

  “As the grave.” Rigby’s gaze was challenging. “Trussed up till they’re well out to sea and no way back. He’ll be dumped on the docks at the first port of call across the sea.”