And increasingly, of all the places he might have gone in London during the height of the season, he was most drawn to a room full of artisans. Or, in truth, to just one of them, the fascinating Señora Alvarez. He had come to care a great deal about her. It had progressed from his first admiration of her form and manner to something much deeper. He saw no need to deny it; he didn’t wish to.
Just lately, he’d thought that perhaps she felt the same. He’d glimpsed flashes of response, hints of encouragement, he believed. But when he tried to find out, she evaded. He had to talk to her. He was not some green boy, to moon about in silence. He wanted to know what she thought, what she felt. He had timed his visit today with that goal in mind.
He found her putting on her bonnet, preparing to leave her painting, just as he had planned. But she said, “I’m going to the theater to talk with the opera dancers. I’ve arranged time to speak to each of them alone.”
This wasn’t ideal, but the walk might offer a bit of time alone. He moved with her toward the door. “I will go with you.”
“No, thank you. I don’t require an escort. And your presence at the theater would be a distraction.”
She didn’t sound cold, only determined. Disappointed, Arthur watched her walk off down the street. He returned to talk with Tom, who was assembling the frame for one of the flats that would become scenery for a play. He’d become very skilled at this, Arthur noted. His hammer fell with rhythmic precision. “The señora off to the theater?” Tom asked.
“Yes.”
“I hope she finds something. I haven’t had much luck hanging about the dancers’ room after the performances. Too many ‘gentlemen’ to sort out.”
“You know why they are there,” said Arthur, curious about the lad’s point of view.
“Looking for what they can get. With the least cost. You see a good bit of that in the streets. Men trying to take advantage. A right bad lot, mostly.”
Arthur nodded. It always saddened him to think of Tom’s life as a child.
“And there’s women using men to keep ’em, when they don’t care a fig,” the lad added. “Toss ’em out like rubbish when something better comes along. A right mess. And families can muck it up even more. Look at that Romeo and Juliet.”
“There is happiness as well.”
Tom nodded. “You showed me that, this last year. Playing matchmaker.” He grinned to show he knew Arthur didn’t care for that word. “And now mebbe it’s your turn?” This came with a sly look.
Arthur did not reply.
“The señora, I mean,” Tom said.
“I gathered.”
“I thought you liked her.”
Arthur decided to admit it. “I do.”
“But you ain’t…haven’t told her so?”
“I shall.”
“Need any more help?” asked Tom with a grin.
“More?”
“I been giving things a little push when I could. I learned a deal watching you.”
“You have.” It wasn’t a question. Arthur saw it all in that moment. He was mostly amused, and a touch appalled, at Tom’s efforts.
“Just give me a sign if you need another.” Tom made an airy gesture with his hammer.
Tables turning, thought Arthur. Not a comfortable sensation. He shook his head.
“It’s a bit harder, eh?” asked Tom.
“What is?”
“This matchmaking stuff. You’ve been backstage, like, but now you’re out front. And it’s trickier.”
“There’s no question of matchmaking here.”
“There never was, with any of the fellows,” replied Tom with a grin. “Until, all of a sudden, the question was popped.”
His case was entirely different, Arthur thought. And then he remembered the idea that had occurred to him before he came down to London this year—a new happiness. Was this the result? Had that impulse moved him to…here? He hadn’t gotten that far.
Tom was watching him with open amusement.
Arthur wondered where he’d thought he was going when he decided to talk to the señora. If she was offering encouragement, what then? He examined the idea of Teresa Alvarez as a wife. His wife. And found it enormously appealing.
Tom was called to help with another man’s project. As it was clearly going to take some time, Arthur waved a farewell and left the workshop. His mind was so full of new thoughts that he nearly collided with a small man outside the door. The fellow offered him a bow, and said, “Good day, sir. I noticed you were speaking with the lady who left a few minutes ago.”
Arthur stopped, surprised. “Señora Alvarez?”
“Alv…ah, yes. I was coming up the street just now to pay her a visit. But she was away before I could speak.”
How then did he know that Arthur had been talking to her?
“I was acquainted with her in Spain, you see,” the man added.
Arthur examined him—slender, inches shorter than he. His clothes were foreign, as was his face with its dark eyes and aquiline nose. He realized that those eyes were making a thorough evaluation of him as well. They held a subtle gleam of cunning. “Indeed?” he said.
The man smiled. “Indeed. I am Conde Alessandro de la Cerda.”
“Macklin.” Arthur knew this was not enough information for a foreigner to identify him, but he found he didn’t care to say more. There was something about the man that he didn’t quite like. He was rather…professionally ingratiating. Arthur’s position in life made the type familiar. Though this fellow was quite good at it.
“You are also a friend of…Señora Alvarez?”
“I met her recently.”
“Ah, a most charming lady, as all her old friends would attest.”
A jumble of curiosity and caution, along with a lamentable tinge of jealousy, unsettled Arthur.
“Such an odd place to find her though,” the man added.
“Is it?”
The conde looked up and down the shabby street. “So very…primitive.”
“As opposed to?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where would you expect to find her? If not this sort of place.”
“Ah.” The man’s smile this time was satisfied, like a fisherman who felt a tug on his line. “A noble household with all of its…luxuries. Of course.”