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“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.”
“But not harmed?” asked Arthur.
The pub owner shrugged. “Not so’s you’d notice. Or so’sIwould, at any rate. I reckon he’ll suffer a few clouts if he makes any trouble.”
“I’d like to clout him,” said Tom.
“If he starts a real fight, he’ll be thrashed,” Rigby added.
Arthur found he didn’t care.
“And he’ll be made to work for his keep, belike.”
“I wish I could be there to see it,” said Tom.
“You want to be tossed onboard as well?” joked Rigby.
Tom grinned and shook his head.
“One thing.” Rigby held up a cautionary finger. “You’ve got to lay hold of this fella yourselves. I ain’t getting involved with that.”
Even more certain that the man had had brushes with the law, Arthur nodded. Rigby’s reluctance was understandable. Arthur wasn’t keen on that part of it himself. “We are not going to tell Señora Alvarez until this is over.”
Rigby appeared to find this only natural. “I’ll see what ships is in port and send word with Tom about the possibles.”
He looked startled when Arthur held out his hand, but he took it in a firm grasp, and they shook on the bargain.
Ten
Teresa was not surprised when Lord Macklin didn’t appear at the workshop the following day, or the one after that. It was only what she’d expected. Now that he knew the truth, he wished to have nothing more to do with her. Of course. She fought off the sharp stabs of disappointment this knowledge brought. He was a leading member of society. He followed its strictures, valued them. It had been ridiculous to hope otherwise. She hadn’t, really, hoped. Yet her eyes strayed to the doorway anytime there was movement from that direction. And she was downcast when the cause turned out to be someone else.
She should forget that she’d ever met the English earl. Hadn’t she been continually wishing to do so? And so she would. Eventually.
Her painting went slowly, and without its usual verve, another reason for melancholy. She had decided to give up and was putting on her bonnet to return home when a note arrived for her. Writing in French, the opera dancer Jeanne informed her that she’d received a special invitation to go out driving in the country the following day. The gentleman was not among the ones they’d had suspicions about. Indeed, Teresa couldn’t quite place him, which seemed a signal in itself.
He’d promised Jeanne a fine meal on the outing and a gift of coin. He’d also told her not to mention it to anyone, as he didn’t care for people to know his private business. Well, he was out of luck there, Teresa thought. She’d convinced the opera dancers that secret assignations were not a good idea in the current situation, and that she, at least, should be told.
Note in hand, she looked around for Tom. He wasn’t in the workshop, though he had been earlier. She checked the outside courtyard. It was empty at this time of day. Perhaps he had been given a task at the theater.
But when she went over to Drury Lane, Tom wasn’t there either. This was unusual and began to concern her. It was true that he had no part in the play being presented that evening, but he was nearly always on hand to watch.
She found Jeanne preparing to dance, and they spoke together in French. Teresa discovered that the drive was to Richmond Park, which heightened her suspicions. “There are many beautiful flowers in that place,” Jeanne said. “He knows I love flowers. He has brought me bouquets. We shall go early, and I will be back in time to dance. There is no problem.” Nonetheless, she looked a little anxious.
“I do not think you should go,” Teresa said. Under the current circumstances, it was surely not a good idea.
“I need the money. I am lacking the rent, and this would pay for a whole month.” Jeanne looked stubborn. “You said that we should tell you of any invitations, and you would protect us. I have done as you asked.”
That was not exactly what she’d promised, but Teresa could see that Jeanne would not be convinced. Very well. She would do her best. Tom would return, and she would enlist his aid.
But the play began, and still there was no sign of Tom. Jeanne was set to meet her escort at nine the next morning. Teresa had no more time. Lord Macklin was lost to her. She would simply have to manage this herself. She was quite good at managing, very proud of her skills. There was no reason to feel forlorn.
She decided to use some of her carefully hoarded funds to hire a carriage for the day, and she knew just the driver to engage. She had ridden with him a number of times and chatted about his family and his ambitions. His hackney, on which he lavished the greatest care, had once been a nobleman’s carriage, sold when the peer had a new one built. It still looked polished and could easily be mistaken for a private vehicle.
Her plan made, Teresa went outside before the end of the play. The driver she wanted, Vining, was often to be found near the theater after a performance, on the lookout for those wanting a ride home. She found the man in his customary position and made her arrangements, telling him a good deal of the truth about their mission. Vining was moved by the plight of the dancers and was happy to follow along and make sure Jeanne came safely back. A good fare for a whole day sealed the deal.
After the play, Teresa walked home in the company of two of the actors. She paused at Tom’s lodgings on the way and learned that the lad was not there. “He said he’d likely be gone till tomorrow,” the landlady told her. “Has an invite from his lordship. Nice for some, to have rich friends.”
