Earl's Well That Ends Well Page 11

  “Until you convinced her that you were right.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Celia was a warm, intelligent, sensible person. I admired her enthusiasm for life as much as her beauty. I listened to her opinions and often came round to them.” He met her eyes. “As you have said, no one else was present in those moments. You will have to take my word for it.” His tone and his face promised that his word was good.

  Teresa gazed at him in confusion. The difference between what she knew to be true about the world and the scene before her was driving her distracted. She didn’t want to try to decipher it. But could anyone play a role all the time? Pretend to be reasonable and kind with every phrase, every action, every change of expression, even when no one seemed to be noticing? She didn’t think so. She was extremely sensitive to deceit; she would have caught him. It seemed this man was not playing some deep game that she hadn’t yet understood. He really was honorable and accommodating, as well as a dizzyingly handsome nobleman, a combination she had not thought possible. Her admiration, her intense attraction to him, was not foolish. It was merely madness.

  “So what else can we do to catch this crook-pated varlet?” asked Tom.

  Teresa started. She’d actually forgotten the lad was there. He’d been so uncharacteristically quiet. And she’d been so absorbed in the conversation. She noted a twinkle in Tom’s eyes.

  “We must realize that this phaeton driver has not actually been connected to the disappearances,” Lord Macklin replied. “We mustn’t stop looking for the kidnapper.”

  “I’ll keep on asking questions at the theater,” said Tom.

  “Carefully,” said the earl. “Someone who is abducting opera dancers won’t appreciate scrutiny. He might take steps.”

  “I’ll be subtle,” answered Tom, as if it was a joke between them. “I can be,” he told Teresa.

  Lord Macklin laughed. “That was the first evidence of your acting skills, I suppose.”

  “I cannot come out like this again.”

  Teresa didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until the earl asked, “Why not?”

  “It is not apropiado.” It was ironic that she should fall back on convention, but the truth was not acceptable.

  “Friends may go for a drive,” said Lord Macklin.

  “We are not friends.”

  Tom looked surprised.

  “You have some objection to being friends with me?” asked the earl. His face was unreadable.

  “Friends are equals. We can never be that. With the great difference in our circumstances.” Her life was calm and settled. He would turn it upside down. No, he already had. And she must fight her way back to safety.

  “You would find much in common with Miss Julia Grandison,” he said.

  Teresa blinked at this unexpected reply. She was nothing like the towering woman who had looked down her nose at everyone at the play. Was this some sort of insult?

  “Tom and I are friends,” Lord Macklin added.

  How much longer would she be shut in this carriage, her leg inches from his? His gaze was much too acute. Teresa looked out to see where they were. The outskirts of her neighborhood streamed by. “The cases are entirely different,” she said. This was true whether or not she believed in their friendship. Tom was a boy, and she was a woman on her own.

  “Ah,” said the earl.

  Now he would argue with her, explain where she was wrong and why she really should do just as he wished. Whatever that was. What was it?

  “Well, we can maintain a fiction of friendship while we pursue our inquiries,” Lord Macklin continued.

  “A fiction?” Teresa stared at him. Was this some English expression?

  “A simple…pact. That was your idea after all, wasn’t it?”

  “Mine?”

  “When you…claimed ownership yesterday?” Something glinted in his blue-gray eyes. Did he dare tease her about that? This man was unprecedented in her experience. Tom was watching them as if fascinated. It seemed his aristocratic friend’s sly manner wasn’t familiar to him either.

  “No obligations implied,” Lord Macklin added.

  “I owe you none,” she snapped.

  “Precisely. So, we are in agreement?”

  If this was the sort of discussion he’d had with his wife, he didn’t know the meaning of the word, Teresa thought.

  “We’ll have to be out and about looking for Odile and Sonia and Maria,” said Tom.

  And a lord could go where they couldn’t. Tom had made that point. Still, it felt as if he was siding with Lord Macklin against her. No obligations, Teresa told herself. He could expect nothing. “Yes,” she said.

  “What harm can it do?” the earl asked.

  She didn’t know, but she suspected.

  An hour later, Teresa sat in her small parlor with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits at her side and her mind in turmoil. Two sides of her were engaged in a rancorous inner battle. One was bemoaning all that she had lost. It felt constricted and sad in this limited English life. The other was grateful and happy to be in a cozy haven and wished never to venture out again. The two seemed equally strong, and each was quite disdainful of the other’s point of view.

  Seven

  Two days later the theater workshop was enlivened by a sudden influx of fashionable ladies. A ripple of greetings and buzz of reaction made Teresa turn from her painting to see the four young “investigators” come in. This bevy of well-dressed females flowed in among the craftsmen, their dresses and bonnets and wraps a swirl of moving color in the middle of the space.

  Tom went over to welcome them and offer introductions, which they happily accepted, and he took them around to explain the various tasks that were being performed. The ladies asked questions and complimented the artisans, seeming fascinated by this peek behind the scenes of theater production.

  When they reached Teresa, she wondered if they would think less of her because she worked here. She was also conscious that her old muslin gown, quite suitable for painting, was shabby compared with what they’d seen her wear before. Not to mention the streaks of midnight blue and crimson down her long apron.

  “How lovely,” said sandy-haired Miss Moran when the newcomers clustered around the flat that Teresa had been painting. “I feel as if I could walk right into the scene and climb up the hill to that castle.”

  “Your use of perspective is excellent,” said Miss Deeping.

  “How did you capture the feeling of moonlight?” asked Miss Finch. “I have tried to paint that and made a muddle of it.”

  Teresa could see no sign of mockery in their faces. She relaxed a bit and explained some of her techniques. Miss Finch in particular seemed interested.

  “My goodness, can you paint from the top of a ladder?” asked Miss Moran. She was gazing at the upper part of the landscape. “That must be fifteen feet high.”

  “The carpenters set up a platform for me when I am putting in the sky.”

  “Ah, that’s good.”

  “I like this place,” declared the red-haired heiress. “One can see that everyone enjoys what they’re doing and is good at it.” She nodded to Teresa. “I can see why you bring your talents here.”

  Teresa thought of mentioning that this was not some careless pastime. They were all paid, and the wages were vital to the craftsmen. But she decided not to. Miss Finch hadn’t meant to be patronizing.

  Miss Grandison edged closer to her. “We came to consult with you and Tom,” she confided in a low voice. “Though of course it is lovely to see your painting as well. But we wanted to speak to you, and we cannot visit the theater again because my aunt has made difficulties.”

  “I see.”

  “Tom told us that you stop for a sort of luncheon,” the girl continued. She held up a small box tied with string, and Teresa saw that they all carried similar offerings. “Is
this the right time?”

  “Near enough.” Teresa untied her apron and laid it aside.

  In the courtyard, the ladies brought out a positive banquet of cakes and tarts and small sandwiches, setting them out to be shared by all. Then they established themselves in one corner of the space where they could talk with some privacy.

  “We are not making a great deal of progress on the opera-dancer problem,” began Miss Deeping with a severity that appeared to include herself.

  “We have asked everyone we meet about Richmond Park,” said Miss Moran. “But quite a large number of people have visited there recently, with the spring flowers coming on.”

  “And none of them seemed particularly…sinister,” said Miss Grandison.

  “They don’t,” said Miss Finch. “That is how they operate. They seem just like anyone else, until the moment they turn cruel. When it is too late.”

  The look in her eyes and harsh tone told Teresa that she had endured some hardship. She felt an impulse of kinship.

  The others waited a respectful moment. Perhaps they knew what had befallen her, or perhaps they only heard the pain in her voice.

  “So we need to decide what to do next,” said Miss Deeping then. “What do you think?” She looked from Tom to Teresa.

  “I’ve asked at houses all ’round their lodgings,” replied Tom. “Up and down the streets. Nothing new there.”

  “It’s too bad one of us can’t join the opera dancers,” said Miss Moran. “We’d be on hand to see who approaches them and judge their intentions.”

  Teresa waited for exclamations of horror at this outlandish suggestion. She also concluded that Miss Moran didn’t really know what the approaches entailed.

  “Imagine me in a ballet,” said Miss Deeping. “I’d look like a poorly trained elephant let loose on the stage.” She thumped the tabletop with her fist. “Lumbering along.”

  “You aren’t big enough to be an elephant,” replied Miss Moran.

  “An ox,” said Miss Finch. “Or a donkey. Yes, like Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We could make you a papier-mâché headpiece.”

  Miss Deeping made a face at her.

  “The dancing master at school was always praising you, Harriet,” said Miss Moran.

  “That was not ballet,” Miss Finch pointed out. “And he was a…beslubbering boar-pig, as Tom would put it.”

  Tom gave her a nod and an understanding look.

  “What do you mean?” asked Miss Moran.

  “Monsieur Lagrange knew I was poor and powerless. Then. So he thought he could whisper his disgusting little compliments in my ear.” She shrugged. “And I do not believe he was really French either.”

  The other three young ladies looked shocked. Teresa was intrigued. It seemed Miss Finch had been impoverished, and now she was rich. Perhaps this was why she seemed the most interesting of them, although all four were out of the common way.

  “You never said anything,” said Miss Deeping.

  Miss Finch waved this aside. “There was no point. Nothing would have been done.”

  “You could write to your school now and tell them,” said Teresa quietly.

  The younger girl met her eyes. They exchanged a brief silent communication, and then Miss Finch nodded once.

  “I know you are not serious about becoming opera dancers,” Teresa added. “But you cannot, you know.” She looked around the group.

  “I wonder what my father would do if he found me there on one of his ‘visits,’” said Miss Grandison, who had been uncharacteristically silent.

  “Have an apoplexy?” suggested Miss Finch.

  Miss Grandison muttered something inaudible.

  “I’ve been hanging about with the dancers and keeping my eyes open,” said Tom. “I’ll go on with that.” He gave Teresa a sidelong glance, as if suggesting she might join him.

  The thought of frequenting the dancers’ retiring room, watching the gentlemen prey on them, most likely receiving unwanted attentions herself, filled Teresa with repulsion. Sad distaste welled up in her, turning the food sour in her stomach. But she still longed to help. “I will talk to each dancer again. I haven’t pressed as hard as I might.” Their situation set up rivalries. Many were reluctant to reveal good sources of income and so would not tell which gentlemen had been particularly attentive. Her impulsive “claiming” of Lord Macklin would help her there. If any girls had considered her to be competition, perhaps they wouldn’t now.

  As if her thoughts had brought him to mind, Miss Deeping turned to her and said, “Are you expecting Macklin today?”

  Here it was. They were not going to ignore her rash words as she had begun to hope. Teresa faced a circle of friendly, but inquisitive eyes. “No,” she said.

  “We thought he was often here,” the angular girl said.

  “No,” said Teresa again. “Often” was a vague designation. Who was to say what it signified?

  There was a short silence. The ladies seemed to be searching for the right phrase. Tom looked brightly interested, and gave her no help at all.

  “We don’t mean to pry,” said Miss Moran apologetically. “It’s just that we are rather protective of him.”

  “Why should a nobleman with his wealth and position need your protection?” The earl clearly didn’t. He…oozed assurance.

  “‘Protection’ isn’t quite the word,” said Miss Grandison. The other ladies all nodded. “More what he has given to us.”

  “Interest and…encouragement,” said Miss Finch.

  “An open mind,” said Miss Moran.

  “Acknowledgment,” added Miss Deeping.

  “Help when sorely needed,” said Miss Grandison.

  They began to exchange anecdotes about Lord Macklin’s role in their autumn adventure. They made him sound like some sort of guardian angel, scattering happiness across the land. It occurred to Teresa that this description would utterly revolt him. She smiled at the thought of telling him. “And what right had he to step in?” she asked after a while.

  “He worried about that,” said Miss Grandison. “Peter told me they discussed the matter.” She smiled. “He told me he’s learned a good deal from Macklin’s example.”

  Had the earl asked the young ladies to come here and plead his case? Teresa didn’t think that was it. And it didn’t matter, because there was no case. He had none. But these were intelligent women. Their opinions were of value, even though they didn’t know what aristocratic men got up to when their wives and mothers were not present. Look at Miss Grandison’s father. Still, they had affirmed her changing opinion of the earl. She was oddly glad about that. “I need to return to my work.”

  “You do like Macklin, don’t you?” asked Miss Moran.

  Teresa stood. Part of her yearned to be one of their carefree group and exchange girlish confidences. Another knew she never would be. “We are pretending to be friends while we search for the missing girls. Nothing more.”

  “Pretending?” repeated Miss Moran. The ladies all looked puzzled. They glanced at each other and then back at Teresa.

  “But…why should it be a pretense?” asked Miss Deeping.

  “That makes no sense,” said Miss Grandison.

  She couldn’t have stated it better, Teresa thought. Senseless was just the word to describe many recent occurrences. Her careful plan for her new life had not included an earl or any of these ladies—not even Tom, who had never been so quiet through a conversation in all the time she’d known him. As she had understood life, these young ladies should not be interested in the fate of a few poor dancers. They should ignore their existence. And hers. They should look through her, turn away as if she was invisible. All of this had happened to her not so very long ago. Yet now, here, it was not. No sense indeed. A quiver of emotion ran through Teresa. She turned away to hide her expression, and discovered the subject
of their conversation standing in the doorway to the warehouse. How long had Lord Macklin been there? What had he heard?

  Arthur moved, shaking off his surprise at finding five ladies where he expected only one. They sat in the corner of the courtyard almost as if they’d set up headquarters here. Señora Alvarez looked unsettled. Did she think he’d invited them? Her reactions were so often a mystery to him. Until he met her, he’d thought he was rather good at understanding people. He went over to join the group.

  Tom extended a laden plate. “Sandwich?” he asked.

  Not for the first time, Arthur envied the lad’s easygoing temperament. The young ladies looked brightly inquisitive. Very brightly. It was one of their skills as investigators, he thought. They could make one feel unprepared for an important examination. Did they think he had some news?

  “We were talking of our progress,” said Miss Ada Grandison. “And the fact that we’ve made very little.”

  “I spoke to the head of the Four-Horse Club. At great and boring length,” Arthur replied. He liked driving and riding, but he wasn’t obsessed with the minutiae of these activities. Or with the clothing he wore while engaged in them. “He was no help.”

  “I’m going to hang about the dancers and keep watch,” said Tom. “The señora will talk with each of them again. She thinks they may know things they don’t realize they noticed.”

  Señora Alvarez looked startled, then impressed.

  The other ladies continued to eye Arthur with a marked degree of attention. As if they were waiting for him to reveal secrets. Except Señora Alvarez, who was not looking at him. He was suddenly certain they’d been discussing more than the opera dancers.

  There was a stir from the workshop behind him. A voice boomed out an inquiry. Everyone turned, and in the next moment Miss Julia Grandison appeared in the doorway. Her formidable figure filled it completely, the feathers in her bonnet brushing the upper jamb.

  She scanned the courtyard and then descended on them like a striking bird of prey. “Ada, your maid said you were coming here.” She looked around as if mystified by the locale. “I must speak to you at once.” She loomed over the group. Miss Moran visibly winced. “Do you know what has been going on?” the newcomer added.