by Jane Ashford
Striding along the street a few minutes later, he wrestled with his annoyance. For the life of him, he could not see how he had deserved the…judgment his supposed friend had levied upon him. He could call it nothing else. And he could only see it as unfair. She was as bad as Señora Alvarez. Two of them in as many days! It was outrageous.
Three
Arthur was still brooding over these encounters at the first great occasion of the season that year, a grand ball given by Lady Castlereagh. Standing to one side, watching the cream of society arrive, he found himself imagining Señora Alvarez here, vivid as a rose among daisies. He would like to dance with her, take her in to supper later, talk to her for more than a few minutes, and learn more about her. He wanted to show her that he was charming, he realized with chagrin. He wanted to make her smile as warmly at him as she had at Tom. But she wasn’t present, and she wouldn’t be at any of the festivities of the season, which suddenly seemed tedious.
She occupied his thoughts far more than any woman in his recent experience—the flash of her dark eyes, the enticing shape of her lips, the perfection of her form, and on the other hand, the…calculated impertinence of her manner. That was a good label for it. Purposefully insolent. She couldn’t really want to offend him. Could she? He would have said certainly not, any more than Mrs. Thorpe would ever insult him. Yet these things had happened. He should simply try to forget the woman. Yet he found he couldn’t.
Must he be bound by convention? Couldn’t he call on Señora Alvarez even if it was improper? Rebellion stirred in Arthur once again. He could do as he liked. Who would dare question him? And as if she stood beside him, he heard Mrs. Thorpe’s voice pointing out that the same wasn’t true for the señora. She would bear the consequences if gossip began.
Arthur set his jaw. He’d promised not to cause the lady difficulties. And he wouldn’t. He didn’t wish to! But neither would he avoid all chance of seeing her. He’d visited Tom at the workshop before; he could do so again. That would rouse no talk. He would show the señora that he was a friend worth cultivating. The resolve built in him as he realized that he wanted this more than anything he’d wished for in a long time.
More than he wished to be at this ball, for example. How would Señora Alvarez look at the bedecked and bejeweled crowd? How would Mrs. Thorpe? Arthur suspected, after his recent conversations, that it would not be as he saw them. He tried to summon their different points of view as he ran his eye over the people before him. But he didn’t know enough to do so, which was oddly frustrating. Most of the crowd was familiar, some of them even friends. And yet he wasn’t moved to go and speak to them. He knew they would exchange commonplace phrases that they’d used many times before. Was this his thirtieth season? More than that? Had he become jaded? He didn’t like that idea.
As if to illustrate the opposite end of the spectrum, a lively party came through the archway just then. The young Duke of Compton and his fiancée, Ada Grandison, were accompanied by her three close friends. Arthur had met all of them in the autumn under far different circumstances, and he knew this was their first venture into London society. Excitement showed on all their faces. The large and stately figure of Miss Julia Grandison, Miss Ada’s aunt, loomed behind them.
Compton came to join him while the ladies were detained by an acquaintance of the aunt. “My new coat,” said the younger man when he reached Arthur. He turned to show it off. “Perfection, according to Ada. Thank you for the recommendation of a tailor.”
“You look quite dapper.”
“Yes, as long as I don’t move about much,” Compton replied.
Arthur raised an interrogative eyebrow.
“Dancing lessons,” added the young duke in mock despair. “I keep tripping over my own feet in the quadrille. And that’s only when I can remember the steps. What fiend invented that devilish dance?”
“The French.”
“Some sort of revenge for Waterloo?”
“It came well before that. At the court of Louis the Fifteenth, I believe. Lady Jersey introduced it here.”
“A patroness of Almack’s whom I must not on any account offend,” said Compton, as if repeating a rote lesson.
“I don’t think you need to worry.” A wealthy young duke was too attractive a parti to be spurned, even if he was already engaged.
His female companions joined them then, and Arthur smiled at the picture they presented. The four young ladies wore fashionable new dresses and sported modish haircuts. Their appearance had been polished by someone with very good taste indeed.
“Is it true that Tom is to be in a play?” asked Miss Ada Grandison when Arthur had offered his compliments on their ensembles. Miss Ada’s authoritative eyebrows always hinted at a scowl even when she was smiling, as now. Arthur admired the way she wielded their expressive power. He thought she was going to make an admirable duchess.
“Yes,” he replied. “Tom has a small part in the new play at the Drury Lane Theater, Lord for a Season.”
“We must all go see it,” said Miss Sarah Moran, the shortest of the four young ladies. Arthur suspected that her sandy brows and eyelashes had been subtly tinted for her debut. Her light-blue eyes sparkled with interest in the chattering crowd.
“If Harriet can spare a moment from being lionized,” said Miss Charlotte Deeping. The tallest and most acerbic of the young ladies had been persuaded to wear ruffles, Arthur noted with amusement. Her black hair, pale skin, and angular frame seemed less spiky in this new guise.
Miss Harriet Finch turned on her, red-blond hair glinting in the candlelight. “Will you stop, Charlotte? I’ve asked you and asked you.” The volume of her protest caused nearby heads to turn. The glitter in her green eyes promised retribution. Oddly, of the four young ladies, she looked most apprehensive to Arthur. Since she was a considerable heiress, and thus could expect a warm welcome from the haut ton, he didn’t understand her stiff expression.
“I’ve never seen so many people in one room,” said Miss Moran, in an obvious effort to smooth over the dispute. “And all strangers. Nothing at all like a country assembly. What do you do if no one asks you to dance? Sit and watch?” She eyed the rows of gilt chairs pushed against the walls with disfavor.
“You know I’ve promised you my brothers,” replied Miss Deeping. “You won’t lack partners.”
Arthur thought he might have met one of her brothers last season. He recalled a lanky young sprig named Deeping among the dandy set. Even in a padded coat he’d looked rather like a toothpick.
“You mustn’t make them ask me,” said Miss Moran.
“Nonsense. What are brothers for if not to follow orders?” Miss Deeping gazed around the room. Finding what she sought, she beckoned.
A tall, slender young man approached—not the exquisite one Arthur remembered. This one looked like a male version of Miss Deeping, in plain evening dress. “What is it, Char?” he said.
“Ask Sarah to dance,” was the imperious reply. “Sarah, you’ve met Henry.”
Miss Moran murmured an embarrassed acknowledgment. The young man grinned down at her. “Honored,” he said, sketching a bow.
“Where are Stanley and Cecil?” asked Miss Deeping.
Her brother gestured vaguely at the crowd. “They’re about somewhere.”
“Well, find them and bring them here.”
“I thought you said you’d rather be a wallflower than dance with a brother,” teased Henry Deeping.
“That was before I saw the walls.” Miss Deeping surveyed the large ballroom with uncertainty. Not quite as assured as she liked to appear, Arthur concluded.
“Right.” Her brother offered an amused salute. “I’ll be back in a tic.”
“And don’t think you can slope off,” added Miss Deeping. “You know what Mama said.”
“We are to do our duty to launch our odious little sister into society.”
&n
bsp; “Beast.”
“I would say beauty, but I’m an honest fellow.”
“You are a pig,” said his sister.
With a grin and another bow, Henry Deeping departed on his mission.
“I won’t dance with Cecil,” declared Miss Finch. “He looks ridiculous. His waistcoats hurt one’s eyes. And all those fobs he wears clink when he moves. It’s the most distracting thing.”
“You can have Stanley,” said Miss Deeping. She seemed eager to make up for her earlier comment.
But before any of Miss Deeping’s brothers returned, a formidable dowager approached with a young man in tow. She introduced him to Miss Finch as a desirable partner, and he immediately asked her to dance. The beginning of a campaign to win a fortune, Arthur thought. He hoped Miss Finch might come to enjoy the process. Her demeanor suggested that so far she wasn’t.
Miss Ada smiled up at her promised husband. “We can show everyone how you have benefited from your dancing lessons,” she said.
The young duke grimaced. “Would you say ‘benefit’? But then, you are a generous creature.” When the pair had exchanged fond glances, Compton looked at Arthur. “Will you join me in a prayer that the first dance isn’t a quadrille?”
In fact, it was a country dance, to his obvious relief. Miss Deeping’s brothers turned up. The young ladies joined the set, and Arthur was left standing next to Miss Julia Grandison, wondering if he was obliged to ask the formidable lady to dance. There was nothing for it. He broached the subject.
“What? Nonsense. Of course I will not dance.”
Arthur was relieved. He was a good dancer. But partnering Miss Grandison must be rather like guiding a great frigate through a crowded channel. The potential for mishaps was high.
“You can do something for me, however,” she added.
Her tone made Arthur wary. He knew, because Miss Grandison had told him, that she was a lady bent on revenge, itching to punish her brother for past humiliations.
“Have you seen John?” she continued, confirming his suspicion. “He’s been peacocking about town bragging that his daughter is to be a duchess. As if he’d arranged the match all by himself, when in fact he did nothing. Less than nothing. My brother is odiously full of his own consequence.”
Arthur thought this was probably a fair assessment, but that didn’t mean he would be pulled into their quarrel. He was sorry that Miss Grandison had been drenched by an upended punch bowl in the year of her come-out. He was even sorrier that her brother had known of the plot to humiliate her, had done nothing to help, and had later pretended to have no connection to his beleaguered younger sister. The man was clearly an ass. Arthur actually wished Miss Grandison well in her quest to make her brother regret his sins. But he wouldn’t be a party to her plot.
“I need a gentleman who can reach John inside his club,” she continued. “White’s, that is.”
“Reach?” repeated Arthur.
“As a woman, I am barred from entry,” she said. She gave him a look. “As you know.” Her expression revealed what she thought of this exclusion.
Which many men saw as one of the chief benefits of their clubs, Arthur thought. Some avoided the females of their families for days on end.
“So I need an…agent to further my plans,” she added.
Visions of mayhem filled Arthur’s mind. What schemes would Miss Grandison require of her…henchmen? He tried to remember when a member had last been expelled from White’s. Hadn’t there been someone who cheated at cards?
“Well?” Miss Grandison was nearly his height and built on heroic lines. She challenged him eye to eye with a glare that might have quelled a riot.
It was best to be clear. If he hedged, the request would only rise again. “No,” said Arthur. He left it at that. Any embellishment might open a path to argument.
“I see.” Her tone sought to freeze him into a block of ice where he stood.
He couldn’t laugh. And to walk away would be rude. “Do you remember young Tom?” he asked as a diversion.
“Of course I do,” replied Miss Grandison. “There is nothing wrong with my memory, Macklin.” Her emphasis on the word made it clear that she wouldn’t forget his refusal to do her bidding.
“He’s appearing in a play at the Drury Lane Theater next week.”
“Is he? Well, I’m sure all his friends will be interested to see him on the stage.” Miss Grandison turned away. “Excuse me, I must speak to our hostess.”
Arthur hardly noticed her departure as the comment took root in his mind. All of Tom’s friends would want to see him perform. Of course. And Señora Alvarez was one of Tom’s friends. Ergo, she would wish to attend the play. Mightn’t he make certain that she could do so? In a manner befitting her noble bearing?
If this also gave him an opportunity to be in her company, where was the harm in that? There was none. The occasion would be unexceptionable.
His mind filled with plans to make this vision come true. Everyone he needed was at the ball tonight. He would speak to them before the evening closed.
* * *
Sitting in her parlor just before going up to bed, Teresa reviewed the plans she had put in place to solve the problem of Dilch. She had grown weary of his threats and his lurking in the street to taunt her. But even more, she had hated being saved by the sudden appearance of an earl the last time Dilch had accosted her. That was not her life now. She did not rely on any man’s protection, and most particularly not an annoyingly attractive nobleman. She’d vowed to take care of the neighborhood bully herself, and now she was ready to do so.
The wretched Dilch saw her as a helpless woman, an easy target. He had no idea what she’d been through in her life or what those years had taught her. He was also oblivious to the sentiment building in her neighborhood. Everyone was tired of the man’s posturing and attacks. Ending them simply required some organization, which Teresa was happy to supply. And so she had proceeded—gathering information, recruiting allies, and finalizing her plans.
Dilch didn’t actually live on her street. Teresa had set her maid, Eliza, to follow him home one day, and she’d discovered that he had rooms in a run-down place a little distance away. His wife and her mother lived there with him. They were not long-term residents. They’d taken the chambers less than a year ago. No one Eliza spoke to knew them well, or expressed any liking for Dilch.
The man came to their street to amuse himself, Teresa had decided, like a gentleman visiting his club. It was too bad that his idea of enjoyment was intimidating small shopkeepers into enduring his pilfering, cuffing children, and harassing any female unwise enough to enter his orbit. He liked to catch Teresa as she set out for the theater workshop at about the same time each day, walking along at her side murmuring salacious insults. And he had been even worse since she struck him with her bag of vegetables. Though not as much as one might have expected, she’d noted. At heart, he was a coward, and thoroughly despicable.
And yet he had no notion how small his depredations were. Teresa had seen villainy on a much larger scale. Despite his burly height, Dilch was a contemptible little man. Which didn’t prevent him from being a menace. A number of Teresa’s more vulnerable neighbors were afraid of him. One old woman who walked with two canes had stopped leaving her rooms altogether because she feared meeting him and perhaps being knocked to the ground.
And so Teresa had made a few visits, taking Eliza along to add to her consequence and wearing a gown of restrained elegance. She’d spoken to the retired prizefighter who ran a pub at the far end of the street and was endearingly passionate about justice. She’d called on a builder who lived a few doors down. Dilch had made the mistake of bullying this man’s two small sons while he was out at work and then laying hands on their mother when she tried to protest. Teresa had spoken to the pugnacious wife of the greengrocer and a woman who took in laundry two houses down. All of
these had passed the word to their friends. The whole of the street was aware and ready to act. They had only needed a leader, and they’d welcomed Teresa’s assumption of that position.
It was rather like what Tom had told her about organizing a play, Teresa thought as she pulled on her gloves the following morning. All was ready; people were in place. She wore her costume of a widow’s somber black in a cut and fabric that implied more riches than she possessed. They were ready to act in every sense of the word.
Teresa left her house and walked slowly down the street. She knew Dilch was nearby and had already extorted an apple from the fruit seller. A child had brought word of the man’s arrival half an hour ago, and Eliza had been dispatched immediately to do her part. It was time to finish this.
Right on cue, she heard heavy footsteps at her back. Dilch came up to flank her, matching her steps and leering. “Looking fine as a fivepence today, see-nora,” he said. It was one of his stock openings. The man had as little imagination as courtesy. He took a messy bite of his stolen apple and chewed. Then, predictably, he dropped his voice to a whisper as he sidled closer. “Not but what you’d look a deal better out of those clothes than in ’em. I could help you with that.”
Rather than stride on, eyes on the ground, teeth gritted, as she usually did, Teresa stopped and faced the man. Dilch looked startled, and for a moment slightly daunted by the anger in her eyes. Then he grinned and came closer, leering. He even reached out as if to touch her arm. Suppressing a strong desire to hit him, Teresa moved to one side, shifting Dilch into position. She saw Eliza appear at the end of the street with Dilch’s wife and mother-in-law in tow. She brought them close enough to hear, but kept them behind Dilch’s back.
The builder’s youngest son came by, passing much closer to Dilch than he would normally dare. Dilch gave the little boy a casual box on the ear, knocking him sideways. As agreed, the child fell to the earth and set up a howl, rather than simply fleeing.
His father shot from a narrow alleyway where he’d been waiting. The muscular builder took hold of Dilch’s lapels and lifted the man onto tiptoe. “What do you mean by hitting my son?” he growled.
