Two

Teresa Alvarez de Granada tipped a handful of olives that she’d walked a good distance to purchase from a Levantine vendor into a shallow dish, discarding the twist of oily paper that had held them. She picked out one, closed her eyes, and bit down. The taste brought back the sunshine of her youth, the scent of lemons, the whisper of vine leaves stirring on an ancient pergola. Gone forever, but still remembered. She chewed memories. If only the good ones could be separated from the bad and kept like a casket of jewels to be taken out and admired at will.

Teresa spit out the olive pit and put it on the edge of the dish. Her eating habits were strange to many of the English. She didn’t much care for meat, certainly not the thick, bloody slabs of beef they enjoyed. A perfectly roasted chicken now and then perhaps. And she was fond of vegetables, both raw and cooked, which many of her new countrymen disdained as fodder for animals. Fortunately, she could make her own choices in this regard, as in all others now, gracias a Dios.

She looked around the front room of her tiny house. Her refuge was comprised of one fair-sized chamber downstairs with an extension behind for the kitchen and a place for her maidservant. A respectable woman couldn’t live all alone, here or anywhere. And she had become a respectable woman. Who would want to be solitary en verdad? She was no medieval hermit.

A little walled yard at the back contained the privy and a coal bin. She hoped to take up some of the cobbles in one corner for a small garden eventually.

A single bedchamber upstairs had slanted ceilings under the roof, two dormer windows, and space for little more than a bed and a wardrobe. But she owned the place; that was the important thing. And it was in good repair. The furnishings were scant but adequate and might be augmented in time. She’d managed a bit of color in the parti-colored shawl laid over the back of the drab settee and one of her own watercolors hung over the small hearth. She gazed at the sun-drenched landscape in the picture. She’d had ranks of rooms to wander through as a girl, before war came roaring over her land. If she’d known life would come down to this, she might have savored that space more.

Her home was far from the fashionable haunts where people like the Earl of Macklin attended glittering parties, Teresa thought. The tall nobleman young Tom had introduced would not find her here. He would disappear back into the ranks of English society. She’d glided through such opulent festivities in her time, long ago. She’d also had a surfeit of pain and terror—days when she had no money for food, when she had to cower in ruins to evade marching armies. She’d done things she despised. But she refused to be ashamed. She’d survived, as others had not. A plain, quiet life was just what she wanted now. It was such a magnificent luxury—that no one could give her orders or make demands.

Teresa turned away from the bitter recollection of some of those and glimpsed a flash in the mirror hanging beside the front door. Her earrings had caught the light and flung it back. She shook her head to admire the effect in the glass. Tiny sprays of emeralds glinted from chains of delicate gold filigree suspended from her earlobes. She had designed this pair herself, as she often did, and had them made, taking jewels that evoked old bad memories and turning them into something of her own, something she could cherish. Her collection of earrings was both an indulgence and a way to easily transport wealth when one might have to pick up and run without warning. Too many times she’d been forced to do that.

Those years showed in her face, Teresa thought. There were faint lines now, hints of deeper wrinkles that would come with time. Her hair was still black as night. Her figure was good. Men had called her beautiful, and that had been as much a curse as a boon. What had this Macklin thought when he looked at her?

She turned away from the mirror, rejecting the question. Whatever he had thought, she didn’t need to consider it. Gracias a Dios once again. An earl and his opinions and whims had no place in the frugal life she’d established for herself. No man did, she repeated to herself. That was over. She was safe. She had enough set aside to live on and could make her own choices. Did she propose to forget that this was far more than she’d hoped for in those dreadful years? Ciertamente no! There were no reasons, no grounds, for self-pity. Only gratitude.

“Eliza,” she called. “I am going to the workshop.” The Drury Lane Theater was preparing for a new play, and they wanted backdrops that showed a vista of mountains. Teresa, who was more than familiar with such scenes, had been engaged to paint them through the good offices of Mrs. Thorpe.

The meeting with that gracious lady had been a true piece of luck. One did not expect to encounter such a presence in this part of London, or find that she was a friend of young Tom.

The maid appeared in the kitchen archway. Teresa had hired a sturdy, taciturn young woman to help her. Eliza offered few words but a solid presence, which came in handy when Teresa went beyond her own neighborhood. She could walk by herself in certain areas. She knew them and didn’t stray into places where she might find trouble. If she had to roam farther, she took Eliza along, as well as a parasol with a stone knob well able to double as a club. Teresa’s demonstration of this function a few months ago had elicited one of the maid’s rare smiles.

“I’ll be back in the afternoon,” Teresa added. Eliza nodded and returned to the kitchen. Teresa put on her bonnet and gloves and set off.

The theater’s busy workshop was nearby. She heard the pounding of hammers before she entered the large open warehouse where carpenters constructed the flats that created the illusion of landscapes on the stage. The smell of paint enveloped her as she went inside. In one corner, artisans produced the smaller objects needed for the drama, such as bottles that broke over heads without injury. Seamstresses worked in a room at the back, though most actors wore their own clothes in the plays.

Workers called out greetings, and Teresa acknowledged them on her way to her area, where a partly painted scene waited. This shop was separate from the hectic world of the stage, and a different kind of camaraderie reigned here, that of craftsmen proud of their skills. There was some rivalry, but not the inflated self-regard and indulgences of temperament Teresa had seen in the casts now and then. Not all actors were as serenely confident as her new acquaintance Mrs. Thorpe.

Tom waved a hammer from the other side of the space. Teresa waved back as she removed her bonnet, gloves, and shawl and set them aside. She tied a long apron over her gown, which had short sleeves so as not to trail in the paint. She went to the table at the side where her brushes had been left clean and ready, opened paint pots, and set to work.

She had loved painting from her earliest years, and her favorite subject was sweeping scenes—mountains, castles, gardens, wide lawns or fertile fields, even opulent rooms. Animals too—herds of sheep or cattle, foxes peeking from the undergrowth, a dog or cat sitting to the side. The vistas sometimes included human figures in the distance as well, which was no problem. But Teresa didn’t do portraits. This was less from a lack of ability than a distaste for the process of reproducing human faces. One had to gaze so deeply into near strangers. And who knew which could be trusted? Or what incorrect message they might read into her gaze? She went back to the crag she’d begun sketching out the last time and immersed herself in the work. As usual, it occupied all her attention.

The theater provided bread and cheese and ale from a local inn around midday, which the workers supplemented with their own food. Most chose to eat in an oblong space behind the building, too rustic to be called a courtyard. It was rather a bit of ground left vacant when four buildings were constructed around it, a forgotten scrap of weedy grass. But the enclosure held the sun’s heat, and on an early spring day it was a pleasant place to sit. The artisans had painted country vistas on the blank walls, and someone had planted flowers and climbing vines. A motley collection of tables and chairs were scattered about.

Tom joined Teresa for the informal nuncheon, as he often did, and she was glad. She couldn’t remember when she’d met anyone easier to be friends with. He was so generally cheerful and interested in nearly any topic one could name. Surprisingly informed sometimes as well, considering the unfortunate life history he’d confided. Teresa sipped at the ale, preferring it to the thin, sour wine that could also be obtained. She knew where to procure good Spanish vintages when she wished to indulge, which was very seldom. She despised drunkenness and the disasters that came with it.

“This new play’s got camels in it,” Tom said.

“Does it?”

“A caravan from the mysterious East,” he intoned. Tom read all the plays they worked on, and he often had comments about the stories. “You ever seen a camel?”

“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.

Silence fell. There was no sign whatsoever that Señora Alvarez intended to break it. “Did you paint the walls?” Arthur asked her.

She looked at the country vistas that decorated the four blank walls. “Not these,” she said.

Did she mean that there were other walls, somewhere, that she had painted? This seemed unlikely. Arthur placed his pastry offering on the table and opened the box.

“Tarta de limón,” said the lady.

“Do you like them?” Arthur asked.

“One of my favorites,” she replied in an odd, almost accusing tone. She started to rise. “I must go…”

Tom returned before she could slip away. “What about our picnic?” he said. “It’s all planned.”

“Another time. You have a visitor.” She stood.

“But you must join us,” said Arthur. He meant it as a cordial invitation, but she looked offended.

“Must I?” The phrase was nearly a growl.

What the deuce was wrong with this woman?

“But there’s tarts,” said Tom. He took several from the box and set them out with the bread and cheese he’d fetched. The other pastries went to a table where people could help themselves. Tom also opened the small hamper he’d brought and extracted a packet of sandwiches, a stoppered jug, and six small cups that fit into each other as a stack.

Señora Alvarez stood rigid for a long moment. She was really angry, Arthur thought. That was obvious. But why? He could see no reason for it. No credible reason. He glanced at Tom to see if the lad understood and received a bland smile in return.

The lady whirled and strode back inside the workshop. Arthur wouldn’t have been surprised if she never returned, but she came back with a wedge of blue-veined cheese and a handful of olives in oiled paper. She cast these onto the table as if they were a challenge to a duel and sat down with the same defiant air.

Arthur took an olive and bit down with pleasure. “Ah.”

“You like olives?” she asked.

“Very much.” Her turned-down lips caused him to add, “Does that offend you somehow?” He could not help asking in a tone that implied whyever should it?

She shrugged. “Many Englishmen do not.”

“I am not ‘many Englishmen.’”

“No, you are an earl. We all know this.”

Before Arthur could respond to this unwarranted remark, Tom uncorked the jug with a loud pop. Arthur turned at the sudden sound to find that Tom was grinning as he poured cups of cider. What he found to smile about, Arthur did not know, but that was often true of Tom. They portioned out the food and began to eat.

One made polite conversation over a meal, Arthur thought. But neither of his companions seemed inclined to try. He racked his brain for a likely subject. “Were you fond of the theater in Spain?” he asked the señora. “Er, Lope de Vega? Cervantes?”

She looked at him as if he’d said something very odd. “No, I never saw plays until I came to England.” She sipped her cider as if it was the finest champagne. Her posture suggested that she wished he would disappear from her potential field of vision.

Arthur felt aggrieved. What the deuce was this? People did not treat him this way. Some disliked him, of course, as was their right. His life was not all ease and deference. But he could usually discover a reason for their aversion, and often amend it. Señora Alvarez had no reason. “When did you come to England?” he asked her.

“Some time ago.”

Her tone said she didn’t wish to talk about her life. Not to him, at least. That was very clear. “Are you enjoying London?”

“I have not been in London long.”

Arthur wondered where in England she’d been before, and what she’d done before that. But she clearly didn’t intend to tell him anything at all. Not one small fact about herself. Which was making this conversation ridiculous. Well, let it be then. “Did you ever meet Joseph Bonaparte?” he asked.

She stared at him, incredulous. “Of course not. Why would I?”

Her face was very expressive, Arthur thought, happy to have provoked a reaction at last. “I just thought you might have,” he answered. “Living in Spain.” And clearly among the nobility, he added silently.

“Joseph?” said Tom. “Is that another name for Napoleon?”

“Joseph was his brother,” Arthur replied. “He was made King of Spain.” And had been very unpopular with his subjects, he recalled then.

“A false king imposed on the country by a supposed ‘emperor,’” said Señora Alvarez.

There was fire, Arthur thought. Her dark eyes burned. Her lovely lips were pressed tight. He found himself wanting a real talk with her, to learn her history, her opinions, what inspired her prickly facade. “True,” he said.

“He has fled to America, where he lives off the jewels he stole from Spain.” She made a sound like pfft, coldly derisive. A flutter of fingers accompanied it.

“I didn’t know that,” he replied.

“It is said.” She bit into one of Tom’s sandwiches with elegant ferocity.

Silence returned to their group. Arthur searched for a topic to keep the conversation flowing. “You speak English very well,” he said to her.

She shrugged. “One must learn, since the English do not.”

It was true. Few of his countrymen bothered to acquire other tongues. But Tom said, “No es verdad.”

Señora Alvarez smiled at him. The effect was glorious, stunning. Arthur was reduced to wordless admiration.

“Most English people,” she corrected. “You are unusual.”

“I am that,” replied the lad with a grin. “Tendrás una tarta?” He offered her a pastry, and she accepted it with regal grace.

How in heaven’s name had she ended up here? Arthur marveled and sipped from his cup and reassembled his aplomb. “Good cider,” he said to Tom.

“Friend of mine brings it in from Kent to sell,” the lad replied.

“Everyone you meet is a friend,” said Señora Alvarez. “You should take more care.”

Arthur thought she looked sidelong at him as she said it. But that made no sense.

Tom shook his head. “Not everyone. I’ve met some bad ’uns. But not too many.”

“You can tell the difference?” Teresa asked. She did worry about that.

“Long’s I can remember,” Tom answered with a grin.

It was a sad admission, but Tom’s cheerful expression was irresistible. Teresa smiled back and then turned to discover that Macklin was smiling as well. Unguarded, Teresa met that smile head-on and was shaken by an inner tremor. The man was handsome at all times, but when he smiled, the effect was multiplied tenfold. More, something in his eyes seemed so benign, as if he was the soul of honor. No doubt he knew this and used the appearance to his advantage.

He and young Tom made quite the contrast, Teresa thought. Tom was a good boy, but he looked what he was, an inexperienced stripling whose lanky frame was as yet…untenanted. Despite his adventurous life, he had yet to accumulate the experiences that would define him. Macklin, on the other hand, looked thoroughly inhabited. His blue-gray eyes promised histories to recount and depths to plumb. Not to mention the prowess of his athletic body. He was unquestionably attractive. Teresa found herself wondering about his…not earl-ess, which would be an ugly word in any case. Countess… That was it, though why the English called them that when they had no counts she couldn’t imagine.

She pulled herself sharply back. Macklin was a snare, a deceit, designed to beguile before he struck. She did not need to learn that lesson again. Teresa rose. “I must go back to my work.”

“You haven’t finished your tart,” said Tom.

His tone suggested that he was teasing her, though she didn’t understand exactly how. She sometimes missed a nuance in her second, or really third, language. Teresa gathered all her dignity and rose. “I will take it with me.”

“You don’t want to get paint on it,” the lad said. “I reckon that’d be bad for you.”

“I will take care.” Teresa made it a mild reproach. Of course she wouldn’t sully her food. One of the other painters sometimes held a brush between his teeth. She never would. She picked up her pastry and walked away with a sense of making a lucky escape, and also of eyes fixed on her back as she moved.

Arthur followed her progress with an appreciative gaze. He supposed she was past thirty, but that only meant she had the lushness of maturity along with the lithe grace of youth. He couldn’t remember when he’d encountered a more intriguing woman.

“I’ll take another of those if you don’t want ’em,” Tom said.

Arthur turned back to find the lad indicating the tarts. He waved permission.

Tom ate half a pastry in one bite. “Señora Alvarez is a fine lady,” he said when he’d swallowed.

“She is indeed. Though not much inclined to talk about herself.”

“No.” He finished the confection in another bite.

The lad would understand about such reluctance, with the life he’d led. And he would keep any confidences he’d received, as he should. Arthur could wish that he was more forthcoming, however.

When Tom had consumed another tart, he said, “Shall I show you how we make thunder on the stage?”

This had been the excuse for Arthur’s visit. And in fact he was interested. But he also hoped for further conversation with Tom’s beguiling friend.

He never got that. Señora Alvarez had departed when they reentered the workshop. Arthur did discover that the noise of thunder was created by casting wooden balls down a wooden trough, the “thunder run.” The sound was surprisingly convincing. He took care to give Tom the attention and interest he expected, even as he plotted ways to learn more about the lovely señora.

And thus it was that on the following day, Arthur paid a call on his friend Mrs. Thorpe at the lavish town house of her banker husband. He was greeted with that lady’s customary aplomb—no sign of surprise despite the fact that he rarely made a personal visit. As always, Mrs. Thorpe’s black hair was immaculately dressed. Her rose-silk gown was a marvel of fashion, her face a model of classic beauty. Her blue eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence.

She sat in one armchair before the drawing room fireplace and directed Arthur to another. He noted again that seeing her felt rather like an audience with the queen. She certainly was a monarch of the theatrical world. When they had exchanged pleasantries, she waited with the poise of one of the greatest actresses of her generation. Arthur, on the other hand, was not entirely sure how to begin.

“Is it something about Tom?” the lady asked finally.

“No, no. He seems to be thriving.”

“He’s well liked at the theater.”

“As he seems to be everywhere.”

“Indeed. It is his gift.”

Arthur nodded. That was certainly true.

Mrs. Thorpe waited. That was her gift, a serene stillness.

“I wanted to ask about a lady you might know,” he said.

“A lady?” His hostess raised chiseled brows and smiled. In another the expression might have been mocking. Yet there was something warm and engaging in her face. It was impossible to take offense.

“Her name is Teresa Alvarez de Granada,” Arthur said. He wasn’t surprised that she found his awkwardness amusing.

“Ah.”

“She paints backdrops for Drury Lane, so I thought perhaps you had…encountered her.”

“Yes, I am acquainted with Señora Alvarez.”

Arthur felt a rush of eager curiosity.

“What is your interest in her?” Mrs. Thorpe asked.

“I met her when I was visiting Tom.”

“Ah?”

The single word was weighted with implication. Chiefly, it pointed out that he hadn’t answered her question. And what was the answer? “I was struck by her manner. Surely she must be a Spanish noblewoman?”

Mrs. Thorpe examined him. Arthur had seen her evaluate other people, but he’d never been the subject of such careful scrutiny. “I do not know her lineage,” she said. “She has not chosen to confide it, and of course I would not pry.”

Arthur’s disappointment was sharp.

“Obviously that is not her position now,” Mrs. Thorpe added.

“She lives near Tom’s rooms, I understand. He said she has a house there.”

“Yes.”

“An odd choice of neighborhood for a woman of her…”

“I’m not sure you could comprehend her choices,” interrupted Mrs. Thorpe. Her tone was quietly inflexible.

It was a subtle reprimand, but Arthur heard it and fell silent in surprise. He was not accustomed to being addressed so. He and Mrs. Thorpe had an established, cordial acquaintance. They had even schemed together on more than one occasion. He felt a spark of irritation. She knew he was to be trusted. He was only seeking information. “I believe I am quite capable of doing so,” he replied.

He endured another searching gaze. “I like and respect you, Lord Macklin, but I don’t think you can imagine what it is like to be a woman on her own, with limited means, in a foreign country. Your interest could cause difficulties for Señora Alvarez.”

“My interest is simple curiosity about a friend of Tom’s,” Arthur protested.

Mrs. Thorpe’s sharp eyes seemed to see right through him, down to the reaction he’d felt when he first met the señora.

Arthur felt himself flush. “I would never do anything to inconvenience or embarrass a lady,” he added. Of course not. “You know I wouldn’t.”

His hostess’s gaze remained steady for another few moments, then she sighed. “It’s never any use offering advice. So few want to hear it. I will hold you to that statement as a promise, Lord Macklin, because I like and admire Señora Alvarez.”

“You may certainly do so,” he answered. His voice sounded stiff, but he rather thought she deserved it. What had he ever done that she should doubt him?

Mrs. Thorpe nodded. “You are an honorable man.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I met Señora Alvarez one day when I’d gone to visit Tom. We fell into conversation after repelling the advances of a bumptious fellow in the street.”

“Dilch?” Arthur wondered.

“You have met him?”

“Observed only. An unattractive individual.”

“As Tom would now say, a churlish canker-blossom.”

They exchanged a smile, which heartened Arthur. He valued his friendship with Mrs. Thorpe.

“I enjoyed our conversation,” she continued. “And found other occasions to talk with Señora Alvarez. When I discovered that she was looking for occupation and that she was a talented watercolorist, I put in a word at the workshop. For several months now, she has been painting exquisite scenery there.”

Arthur nodded.

“Then recently, she was even more helpful. She stepped in to mediate a dispute among the opera dancers.” She cast him a look. “Many of them are émigrées, you know, and Señora Alvarez speaks Spanish, of course, but also French and some Portuguese and Italian.”

“She’s well educated then,” said Arthur. He’d known she must be.

“She also has sympathy for the girls’ troubles, which many do not.”

“Troubles?” Arthur had never thought much about opera dancers. Beyond appreciating their performances now and then.

Mrs. Thorpe looked disappointed in him, another unaccustomed experience. “They have quite a hard time of it, Lord Macklin. Low pay, and if they’re just five minutes late to rehearsal, they’re fined out of that small wage. They’re expected to pay for their shoes and costumes out of it, too. Many live on the verge of starvation and dangerously close to illness.” She frowned as if this could somehow be his fault. “And of course there are the gentlemen who consider their backstage room at the theater a marketplace for mistresses.”

Arthur knew this to be true. He had heard men joke about it. He had never been one of them, however.

“Some don’t mind the offers flung at them,” Mrs. Thorpe went on, as if taken by her own thoughts. “And indeed encourage them for the money they bring. But others feel forced. I do what I can to help out, and Señora Alvarez has joined me in that.”

“She has a caring heart,” said Arthur appreciatively.

Mrs. Thorpe raised her brows as if he’d missed an important point. “She does, but…”

“Yes?”

His hostess hesitated before adding, “The señora seems contented with her life as it is, Lord Macklin. Perhaps you should leave her alone.”

“What do you mean? I don’t intend to do anything to her.”

“Your interest is a thing.”

Rebellion stirred in his breast. “I wouldn’t do her any harm.”

“You won’t mean to. You’re a kind man. And yet, you are a man.”

“And thus a blundering fool?” Arthur had never been angry at Mrs. Thorpe in the years they’d been acquainted. Until now.

“Not that. But blind to certain things. It is not your fault. You are trained so.”

“Whereas you are all knowing?”

“Of course not. Yet you must admit I know more about the life of a woman than you.”

He couldn’t argue with that, though he wanted to. Fearing what he might say in his current mood, Arthur rose. “I shouldn’t keep you any longer.”

Mrs. Thorpe hesitated, then went to ring for a servant. “Further conversation does seem pointless just now,” she said, which only irritated Arthur further.

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.