before your Waterloo. He always thought Napoleon would be coming back.” He’d relished the prospect, having found many benefits in turmoil. “He had no children. There was much confusion when he was gone. And in those years with him, I had learned how to plan and persuade.” As well as the hiding places of the grandee’s ill-gotten valuables through the war. She’d taken her chance, purchased aid, and set off on a long, hard trek to safety. Which she had achieved, Teresa reminded herself. “There. That is all. Now you know. And you see, I am not what you thought I was.”
She waited a moment, but he didn’t reply. Certainly he was shocked, appalled. How could he not be? He was a most respectable man, and respectable people despised her. But there was one more thing. “The ‘Conde de la Cerda’ could tell much of this story,” Teresa added. The man knew the general outline, if not all the details. “He will probably spread it about, since I’ve refused to help him worm his way into society. As if I could.” And now Lord Macklin would think she had only told her story because she was about to be exposed. Perhaps that was true. Would she have made these painful admissions otherwise? It hardly mattered. Either way, his opinion of her was destroyed. And she cared nothing about the rest of society.
Still, he said nothing. The silence was unbearable.
The carriage stopped to wait for another to cross ahead. Teresa pushed open the door and jumped out, rushing across the park to a gate nearby where she could flag down a hack. The earl would not come after her. Why should he? His pride must be bruised. He was probably angry. He would never want to see her again. Teresa saw a cab and raised her hand to signal.
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