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There was such a contrast between the young ladies and the dancers, Arthur noted. They were around the same age, and female, but one group was sleek and calm while the other was spiky and wary. The former exhibited a bone-deep assurance that they had a place in the world and could count on its support. The other had none of that—with good reason, Arthur supposed. The dancers were obviously scraping to survive, and they had the suspicious air of alley cats poised to evade a kick. Señora Alvarez had mentioned helping opera dancers, he remembered. He understood better now what she’d meant.
Tom presided over the chorus of voices like a concertmaster, and it emerged that the missing girls had no family or connections in England. After a long speech from one girl in Spanish, Señora Alvarez relayed the opinion that they were all a bit prickly and had made few friends. Odile had a running dispute with her landlady, whose son had been killed by Napoleon’s army. Sonia had a quick temper. She’d accused another girl of stealing an earring and hadn’t really apologized when the jewelry turned up in a hidden corner. Maria was quiet and standoffish; many thought she was above herself.
“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.”
