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“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 purportedconde, 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 hewouldgo 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.
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.
