“I know no one who would be of use to you,” Teresa said. Peron would be looking to attach himself to a rich man and benefit from the connection. That was his method.
He pretended surprise. “Have I asked?”
“You would, sooner or later. I saw no point in waiting. I tell you again, I have no connections.”
“That is hard to believe.”
“Why?” Teresa gestured at the room. “I live a frugal life. I do not go into society. How would I?”
Her unwelcome caller surveyed the place again. He appeared to find the sight distasteful. “I assumed you were simply waiting for your next…opportunity. Your charms have hardly faded.” He offered her a small bow.
Rage kept Teresa silent. It nearly choked her.
“If we joined forces,” he continued. “I’m sure we could…penetrate the upper reaches of—what do they call it here—the haut ton? Odd how they use a French phrase when they were fighting them for so long.” He tried a smile.
“No.” She bit off the word.
He drew back. “You are angry?”
He had the instincts of a toady, Teresa thought. He knew when he had offended.
“But this would be a great help to you,” he added. “Take you out of here.”
His disdain for her small home was infuriating.
“The lovely Teresa should be surrounded by luxury and adulation. I would like to see that restored to you.”
Did he actually believe this would sway her? If she had needed evidence that he understood nothing, this would have provided it. “You care only for your own advantage,” she replied.
“Mostly that,” he conceded. “Like anyone else.” His smile was meant to be self-deprecating, endearing. Teresa had seen it succeed. Today, it did not.
“I cannot help you,” she said.
His expression hardened. “Will not, you mean.”
Teresa shook her head.
“If I shared certain stories of the past, it could make things difficult for you.”
This, she had expected. The threat had hung in the air from his first appearance at her door. “With whom?” she asked. “I have told you I take no part in society.”
“Even your small, crude neighbors might be…surprised.”
She wasn’t sure how they would feel. But she knew that showing this man the least weakness was fatal. “Tell anyone anything you like. I don’t care.” She rose to show that this visit was over.
He remained seated. “I spoke too hastily. I beg your pardon.”
“There is no need.” She shrugged. “We simply have nothing to talk about.”
“You would throw away the chance…”
“Freely and utterly. And now I will bid you farewell. Conde.”
Eliza, who had clearly been listening if not comprehending, came out of the kitchen. She held a broom as if it was a weapon.
Frowning, the man stood. “If you oppose me…” he said to Teresa.
“I will not think of you again once you have gone. I hope you will extend the same courtesy to me. And do not come back here.”
“Cortesía? You appear to have forgotten anything you ever knew of it.”
“Perhaps I have.” She walked over to the front door and opened it. Eliza swept her broom over the floorboards, a homely movement that somehow suggested a guardian repelling invaders as well.
The visitor looked from one stony face to the other. With a muttered oath he strode out. Teresa closed the door behind him and shot the bolt. She resisted putting her back to the panels.
“What did he want?” asked Eliza.
“He is an acquaintance from Spain. He called to say hello.”
The maid’s expression was skeptical. “Didn’t sound like hello. Seemed like you had an argument.”
“We knew each other…before under different circumstances. He thought I could be helpful to him here in England. I told him I cannot. He was…disappointed.” It was only the truth, after all.
“So he ain’t coming back?”
Teresa had to be honest with her. “He may. I cannot stop him. But when he finds I mean what I say, he will give up.”
“I won’t let him in!”
Teresa was touched by the fierce loyalty on the girl’s face. “There is no need to worry. I can deal with this man.”
“Like you did Dilch.”
“As thoroughly, though not quite in the same way, I imagine.”
Satisfied, Eliza retreated with her broom. Teresa sat down again, wondering who had told Alessandro Peron she was here, down to her very address. She had thought herself anonymous, which was a good way to be hidden. But lately she had made new acquaintances, she noted, and people chattered. There need be no malice involved. Everyone loved a story, and perhaps she had become one. The idea made her grimace, but as she’d told the purported conde, it didn’t matter. She didn’t care about the polite world’s opinion. How could she?
As for Alessandro, he was a nuisance, but he would go away when he accepted the fact that there was no advantage to gain from her. He was not dangerous; he was only a leech.
And then she remembered Lord Macklin. He had the rank and wealth Alessandro was seeking. And if her Spanish acquaintance stuck his nose further into her life, he would discover that she knew an earl. He would find a way to make use of that without any help from her.
Teresa cringed. Lord Macklin had shown no sign of enjoying flattery. He certainly had no entourage to inflate his consequence. But Alessandro Peron was a very good toady. He could be beguiling when he exerted himself. He would scrape an acquaintance, particularly because Lord Macklin was curious about her. She was aware of this. And Alessandro could tell him things, some of which would change the earl’s opinion of her. No, be honest. They would destroy it.
Teresa felt a wash of despair. Was change not possible? Did the past never let go? She clenched her fists in her lap and fought an onslaught of memories. It was a long while before she subdued them.
* * *
He wanted to visit the theater workshop every day, Arthur thought, as his feet took him in that direction the following afternoon. Even though the people there were beginning to find his constant attendance odd. He was gaining an increasing reputation for oddities. His impulse, a year ago, to help a set of young men oppressed by grief had surprised everyone who knew anything about it and mystified countless others who didn’t. A hostess whose renowned summer house party he’d skipped this year was convinced he was concealing a scandalous intrigue. One old friend had asked if he was ill; another had posed oblique questions about financial reverses. Arthur’s “disappearance” from his customary haunts had tongues wagging even now.