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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?”
