Page 5 of Earl's Well That Ends Well (The Way to a Lord's Heart 5)

“Never. Except in pictures.”

He nodded. “You reckon they’ll dress up some actors? Front and rear, like they done for the elephant last month?”

“I suppose so. If they have the costumes.”

“Huh. They’d need a few more this time. How many camels in a caravan, do you think?”

“An actual one? Many, according to paintings I’ve seen.”

Tom nodded. “Might need a deal of players then. I reckon I could be a camel.” He grinned. “Leastways the back part.”

Teresa laughed as he bit off a large hunk of bread and cheese.

“Mebbe I’ll ask if I can,” Tom added when he’d swallowed.

“Why not? I expect you’d be good at it.”

“You ever wanted to be up on the stage, ’stead of just painting for it?”

She hid a shudder. “Never.” The thought of all those people staring at her—ogling—was repellent.

“His lordship says it never hurts to try a thing. If you don’t like it, no need to go on.”

The advice of a man who had always had free choices, Teresa thought. Typical of the aristocrats’ view that the world belonged to them, to pick and choose as they pleased. But here was the opportunity she’d been looking for. “How did you come to know an earl?” she asked.

“I was walking south from Bristol when I came on a little boy running away from home,” Tom replied.

As he told the story of meeting Lord Macklin and traveling with him for some months, Teresa watched Tom’s face. This earl seemed to have treated the lad well, at least as far as Tom could see. There might well have been slights he didn’t notice, since Tom always seemed to expect the best. Clearly, he admired the older man. It didn’t occur to Tom that he had been a mere amusement, used to alleviate aristocratic boredom and continually at risk of being cast off. He had been fortunate; he’d found his own way out. Still, she felt protective. “People of that class put their own whims above all else,” she said.

“Class?” asked Tom.

“The nobility.”

He looked back at her with the acuity that flashed in his blue eyes at unexpected moments. “I ain’t seen that, but I reckon you would know better than me.”

“What do you mean?” She heard the sharpness in her voice.

“Well, I would have said you were nobility yourself, señora. Begging your pardon.”

“Don’t be silly.” She looked away. This was not a subject she would discuss. She wished she’d never mentioned this earl, particularly since it seemed there was no need to warn Tom off him.

“Lord Macklin’s coming by next week,” said Tom. “I told him about that thunder machine we’re building, and he wanted to see it.”

This was not good news. “Which day?” Teresa asked.

Tom gave her a sidelong look. “He wasn’t sure. He has lots to do.”

Or, he was an earl and saw no need to consider others. He would come when he pleased, and the rest of them must adjust. Well, she would avoid him. She could do that now. She didn’t have to observe every nuance of another’s moods and adjust her behavior in response. She’d been purposefully becoming more of a nobody for years, and she was comfortable with obscurity. Delighted with it. When Macklin appeared, she would slip away until he was gone. It was as simple as that.

Three days later, Arthur walked into the theater workshop and stopped near the door to admire the controlled rush of activity. He greatly respected the work of skilled craftsmen, and this was evident all around the huge room. And women, he noted, seeing Tom’s Spanish neighbor painting a landscape at the back.

He was here to visit Tom, of course, but he admitted now that he’d also hoped to see her again. The effect she’d had on him lingered in vivid detail. He couldn’t remember when he’d met a woman—or any person really—with such presence. Nor when he’d been so definitively rejected for no reason at all. A spark of resentment rekindled at the memory of their encounter.

He’d made some discreet inquiries in diplomatic circles, and discovered no information about a woman called Teresa Alvarez de Granada. But that meant nothing. The long war against Napoleon had dislocated countless people, and not all were known to the embassy. Indeed, one of his contacts had suggested that this sounded like an assumed name. Arthur felt certain that her nom de guerre disguised a noble lineage. The lady’s stance, her voice, her gaze had proclaimed it, even as she made no claims. That modesty had clinched the matter for him, actually.

He’d timed his visit for early afternoon. Tom had told him how the days went here, and he knew there was a pause for refreshment. He’d also brought a large box of Gunter’s lemon tarts to share out. It occurred to him now that they were a lure for a lady, like setting out bait to trap an elusive wild creature. The idea made him smile, and as he did, she turned and met his eyes. She went still, her brush suspended in one hand. The same shock as before ran through him. What was it about this woman that stirred him so? Her gaze was certainly not welcoming. In fact, she looked quite unhappy to see him.

Tom came over to greet Arthur and led him toward the back of the workshop. He gathered up Señora Alvarez as they moved past her, even though she made an evasive gesture, and Arthur wondered at this. At both of them, really. Tom’s twinkling sidelong glance was no help. They passed through a door at the back of the building into a small open space. “Ah,” Arthur said. “One would never know this was here.” Despite the shabbiness of the surrounding buildings, it was a pleasant area. Unmatched tables and chairs were scattered about. Tom took them to a table shaded by climbing vines and went off to fetch supplies.

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