Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  Jemminy! It was exactly like one of them engravings come to life: him in satin and lace, her in velvet, him leerin’, her pantin’ with lips parted, eyes closed, long silky lashes flutterin’ against her cheeks like tiny black fans. He squeezed her nipple harder and she moaned and arched her back and it looked like they were going to start copulatin’ any minute now. Eppie Dawson was going to be pea green with envy when I told her about it!

  “Clinton—” she moaned. “No—no—it isn’t—”

  “It’s what you want,” he told her.

  “No. I—I’m not—”

  “Don’t give me that malarky,” he said harshly, and his handsome face was suddenly hard, predatory. “Jon Hartley told me all about your little sessions in London—how you slipped off to meet him, how you couldn’t get enough. Don’t try that virginal act on me, Laura love. I know better.”

  “Jon—Jonathan Hartley is no gentleman!”

  She was angry. Her face looked hard, too, no longer soft and dreamy. He laughed, curling his arm tighter around her throat, holding her down there on the bench even though she was trying to get up. His hand was still holding her teat, squeezing it savagely now.

  “You—you’re no gentleman, either!” she cried.

  “You knew that before you agreed to slip off and meet me. Jon isn’t the only one who’s mentioned your name. William Brandt said the two of you had a jolly time in Bath last month when you were there with your aunt, said he was damn near worn out before you finally went back to London.”

  “Lies!” she protested.

  “I think not, love. I think it’s all true—and I think it’s delightful. I’m a better man than Jon Hartley or William Brandt, love—know a lot more ways to make a woman happy, make her squeal with pleasure.”

  “You—you invited me and my aunt here just so—”

  “Right,” he said, grinning.

  He let go of her then and stepped back, and Laura frowned and tossed her head and stuffed her teat back beneath the blue velvet. She stood up, looking all sulky now, looking like a spoiled child. Clinton Meredith put his hands on his thighs and leaned back a little, grinning at her.

  “I’ve heard all about you, too!” she snapped. “Raping serving wenches is more your style, I hear. I heard about those escapades in Oxford, how you raped the wrong wench—turned out she was the daughter of one of the dons. Cost your uncle a fortune to get you out of that jam, and he still couldn’t keep them from booting you out.”

  “I don’t deny a word of it,” he said amiably.

  “And then there was Lady Milburn. Forty years old if she’s a day! You just seventeen at the time. Quite a scandal that was.”

  “Lady M. was a magnificent instructor. Taught me everything I know.”

  “You’re a cad! A rake!”

  “And you, Laura love, are an aristocratic little whore. It’s obvious we were made for each other.”

  Jemminy! I exclaimed to myself again. This was better than Tom Jones, better than Roxana, a hundred times better than that dreary Clarissa. Eppie was going to die.

  “Tonight,” he said. “Leave your door unlocked.”

  “I may,” she said haughtily, “and then again I may not.”

  The grin widened on his beautifully chiseled lips. His gray eyes gleamed with devilish amusement.

  “You’ll leave it unlocked, all right,” he told her. “You can hardly wait. We’ll have a lovely time, love. Now I’d better go join the other guests.”

  And he strolled casually away, just as though nothing had happened. Laura tossed her head again, raven curls spilling loose, and then she scowled and adjusted her deep blue velvet gown. I expected her to stamp her foot. She didn’t. Instead, she smiled, looking as satisfied with herself as he had looked a few minutes before. She plucked one of the pink roses and sniffed it, and then she strolled away, too, and I found myself looking at the empty marble bench and thinking these bluebloods, beneath their fancy facades, weren’t at all different from other folks, just richer and better dressed was all.

  I was a little disappointed, truth to tell. I had expected ’em to be … well, kind of unique and rare, like those porcelain figurines they made in Sèvres, elegant and exquisite and beautiful to behold. Clinton Meredith was beautiful to behold, sure, I granted that, but he wasn’t one bit better than Bertie Anderson who’d laid every lass he could, got three of ’em pregnant and finally had to run away to sea to keep from bein’ beaten up by Mary York’s four brothers. Laura might wear sumptuous blue velvet and paint her face cleverly, might speak in a flat, tony voice, but those were the only things that set her apart from Masie Brown who took on four boys at a time in the haystack behind her father’s barn. As I thought about all this, I realized I’d learned an important lesson, one I’d remember always. Never, ever would I be intimidated by anyone just because they happened to be better born than me. I wouldn’t even be intimidated by the King himself, and Lord knew he was a randy buck, if half the things they said about him were true.

  Clinging to the limb with my knees, stretched out flat, my cheek resting on the rough bark, I watched sunlight dapple the trembling green leaves and thought about all this business of humping and roiling about on mattresses and in stacks of hay. I knew what they did, of course, had since I was nine—the man got hard and stuck his thing between the woman’s legs and they wiggled around and thrashed their limbs—but what I didn’t understand was why. Seemed kind of clumsy to me, seemed kind of silly as well. Eppie claimed it was supposed to be fun, but what did she know? Me, I’d rather be curled up in a big leather chair with a book in my hands and the cat in my lap, a dish of lemon drops nearby.

  Not that I ever had much chance to do that, I added to myself, not with all the chores Marie was always finding for me to do.

  Better be on your way back, Angie, I told myself, and I began scooting backward, the bark scraping my knees a little. The limb wobbled, seemed to sway, and the leaves rattled. I lost my balance, swung around, and then I was hanging from the limb with my knees and my hands and the limb swayed wildly and I heard loud padding noises and then snarls and then savage barking, directly beneath me. I looked down and saw three ferocious greyhounds leaping up high and snapping, trying their best to sink their fangs into my backside which was just barely out of reach. Jemminy! I clung to the limb and felt my face turning white and knew I was a goner for sure unless I could swing back up onto the limb. The greyhounds leaped higher and higher, yowling fiercely, and one of ’em got his fangs into my faded pink cotton skirt that was dangling down and I felt it tearing and then a big patch of it was gone and the dog had it on the ground, shaking it in his jaws like it was a dead rabbit. The other two tried to take it away from him and they all began to fight.

  Holding my breath, closing my eyes, summoning every ounce of strength I had, I swung my body up until I was stretched out flat on the limb again, looking down at the beasts, and then I seemed to freeze. I couldn’t move. I could only stare in horror at the yowling, scrambling, snapping animals tearing that scrap of pink cotton into shreds. I had to get out of the tree, get onto the wall, get down to the ground on the other side, but my body was locked into place and I could scarcely breathe, much less scoot back along the limb. The dogs finally abandoned the cloth and started leaping at the limb again, fangs bared, eyes gleaming fiercely, lithe, nimble bodies leaping higher, higher still.

  “Stay!” a voice roared.

  The three greyhounds promptly sat back on their haunches and looked as innocent and harmless as lambs, wagging their stumps of tails playfully. I saw a man approaching—dirty black boots, soiled black breeches that clung to his long legs like a second skin, a coarse white cotton shirt with full bell sleeves gathered at the wrist, opened at the throat and all stained with sweat. I saw the dark, unruly hair on top of his head, and then he looked up and I saw his face and gulped, knowing I was really a goner this time. The Bastard scowled, staring up at me with savage eyes so dark a brown they seemed almost black. The dogs were whini
ng and thumping their tails, waiting for instructions. I knew he was going to feed me to ’em, me just twelve with my whole life ahead of me.

  “Come down out of that tree!” he ordered.

  “Not on your life,” I told him. My voice was surprisingly firm.

  “Come down this instant!”

  “Up your arse, you bleedin’ sod!”

  That incensed him. He balled his hands into fists, scowling even more. I was still paralyzed with fright, but there was a curious excitement as well now, a bold, jaunty feeling inside that was almost pleasant, strange as that might be. He glared at me. I stuck my tongue out at him. I would have given him the finger, too, something I rarely did, but I was afraid to let go of my grip. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, angry as a bear, and here I was up in the tree, out of his reach, looking directly into those angry eyes. Eppie wouldn’t believe a word of it.

  “Little girl—” he began.

  “I’m just four years younger than you, you sod. You ain’t so bleedin’ old yourself, so don’t try patronizin’ me.”

  “You got a tongue on you, don’t you?”

  “I ain’t—aren’t—I’m not afraid of you, that’s for bloody sure.”

  I was lying, of course. I was scared spitless, but at the same time I was actually enjoying myself. Didn’t make sense, I know, but that tingling excitement grew and grew until it was almost as strong as the fear. I suppose I was feeling what soldiers are said to feel when they are in the thick of battle and bullets are flyin’ all around ’em, a curious elation in the face of mortal danger.

  “I want you to come down,” he said.

  “So you can hang me by the thumbs? So you can put me on the rack? So you can feed me to the greyhounds? Fat bloody chance.”

  “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

  “Expect me to believe that? I know all about you. I know what you do to poor, innocent mites who fall into your clutches—” I was going good now, really beginning to get into it. “You take ’em to the stables and tie ’em up and stuff a gag into their mouths and get out the hot pincers and thumbscrews and laugh maniacally as you torture ’em for hours on end.”

  I thought I saw him smile. I couldn’t be sure. He was as tall as Clinton Meredith and much leaner. Looked like a beanpole, he did, with his thin, foxlike face and wide, cruel mouth and those sleek black eyebrows that slanted up from the bridge of his nose and then arched and swept back down. He wasn’t no beauty, that was for sure. His face was deeply tanned, and I could smell sweat and manure all the way up here.

  “Will you come down if I send the dogs away?” he asked.

  “I might,” I said.

  “Get!” he yelled.

  He clapped his hands together smartly and the greyhounds yelped and scampered away. He stood there beneath the tree, ever so casual, waiting for me to swing down, but I wasn’t about to be taken in by his tricks. He was a sly one, sure, thought he could sweet-talk me into lettin’ my guard down. I was enjoying myself immensely now, not at all scared since the dogs had gone. I knew he didn’t really torture poor mites, but it was fun to pretend he did. Gave me a cozy thrill.

  “Are you coming down?” he asked. His voice was testy.

  “What’ll you do to me if I do?”

  “I’ll lead you around to the back gate and see you safely off the property.”

  “No thumbscrews? No hot pincers?”

  “If you don’t come down this minute I’m liable to choke you to death with my bare hands!”

  “Go grab yourself,” I taunted.

  And then his dark eyes glittered and his wide mouth curled up at one corner and he jumped up and caught hold of a low-hanging branch and began to pull it savagely and the limb began to shake violently and it was like I was riding a bucking horse. I flopped and flipped, hanging on for dear life, my body banging against the rough bark, and then suddenly I was tumbling through space and a pair of strong arms caught me and both of us crashed to the ground as he lost his balance. The Bastard grunted loudly and blinked, stunned by the impact, and I tore free from his arms and leaped to my feet and he grabbed my ankle and gave it a jerk and I fell back down—splat!—landing flat on my chest.

  I was dazed and dizzy and beginning to see black clouds all around, and then steely fingers clamped around my wrist and I felt myself being hauled to my feet. The clouds evaporated and I knew real terror when I saw the look in his eyes and knew the stories about him were probably true, and I balled up my hand into a tight fist and slammed it into his jaw and kicked his shin with my bare feet and tried my best to knee him in the groin, but he merely scooped me up under his arm and hauled me over to the marble bench and sat down on it and pulled me across his knees.

  I screamed. He clamped a brutal hand over my mouth. He whipped up what was left of my skirt and whipped up my cotton petticoat and I squirmed furiously as I felt the cool air on my bare bottom, for I was wearing no underpants. He slammed his palm down and there was a loud popping noise like a gunshot and a hot stinging pain that made me jerk and squirm all the more. He spanked me thoroughly, viciously, all the while smothering my screams with his other hand, and while the pain was awful it wasn’t nearly as bad as the humiliation. When he finally stopped, when he finally moved his hand from my mouth, I scrambled up and adjusted my clothing and looked at him through a silvery blur of tears I couldn’t control.

  He didn’t say anything. He looked perfectly calm now, sitting there on the marble bench.

  “I hate you!” I cried.

  “I’m not surprised,” he replied. “Most people do.”

  I rubbed my bottom and glared at him through the tears. They were spilling over my lashes now and streaming down my cheeks. Hugh Bradford was totally unmoved—for that was his name, Hugh Bradford. They weren’t likely to call him Hugh Meredith, were they? My bottom was smarting something terrible, but it wasn’t hurt nearly as much as my pride. No one had ever spanked me before, and I felt curiously weak and vulnerable, not myself at all.

  “Come,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll take you to the back gate. Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

  “I never wear shoes. I hate ’em.”

  “Don’t wear underpants, either, do you?”

  “You’re a brute!”

  Hugh Bradford grinned to himself. I flushed.

  He took hold of my wrist and started walking through the gardens, tugging me along beside him. He was awfully tall—I barely came up to his chest—and he was as lean as a whip. You wouldn’t think anyone so thin could be so tough and powerful. One thick black V-shaped wave slanted across his brow, the point just above his right eyebrow. I’d never seen anyone with such a dark tan, such wicked eyebrows. His nose was long and thin, his mouth much too wide, the lower lip full and curving. He wasn’t no beauty, true, but that foxlike face was striking. You weren’t likely to forget it.

  “What were you doing up in that tree?” he inquired.

  “Spyin’,” I said, “and I saw plenty, too—I can tell you for sure.”

  “It’s not nice to spy on people.”

  “Who said I was nice? Ask anyone you know about Angie Howard and they’ll tell you I’m a terror. I got—have—a dreadful reputation for gettin’ into mischief, gettin’ into scrapes. I’m as tough as any boy,” I added.

  “I don’t doubt it,” The Bastard replied.

  He sounded bored, and that aggravated me. Even though he was a mere four years older than me, I could see he considered himself an adult, considered me a child, unworthy of serious notice, and for some reason I wanted to look important in his eyes. I wanted him to see me as something more than a pesky brat. Even though he had spanked me—hard, too—and even though his fingers were digging into my wrist and he was jerking me along beside him not at all gently, I wasn’t angry with him anymore. Maybe it was because, when they weren’t smoldering with anger, those dark brown eyes of his looked so sad and … resigned. Couldn’t be much fun bein’ a bastard, havin’ everyone know it. />
  “Howard,” he said. “Any kin to Solonge Howard?”

  “She’s my stepsister. You know her?”

  “I’ve met her,” he said dryly.

  Now that was interesting. Solonge had come home one day a few months ago and said she’d seen him walking down the lane and said he was utterly uncouth, but she hadn’t said she’d met him. Solonge looked like a vision and acted ever so refined, just like Janine. She was always bringing home stockings and ribbons and perfume and such. How she came by ’em was a mystery indeed.

  “Solonge is a beauty,” I said. “So is Janine. I’m the plain one in the family.”

  He didn’t disagree, and that riled me a bit. He could have at least said I had nice eyes. Solonge was right. He was uncouth, a skinny, gawky lout who smelled of sweat and manure and belonged in the stables. I stubbed my toe and stumbled. He gave my arm a rough jerk, almost pullin’ it out of its socket. I cried out in protest, but he kept right on walking, tugging me along like I was some kind of unwanted baggage.

  “I may not be a beauty,” I said tartly, “but I’m smarter’n either one of ’em. Read all the time, I do. When I’m not doin’ chores or climbin’ trees or gatherin’ mushrooms in the woods, I’m always readin’ books—grownup books, too. I ain’t—I’m not interested in ribbons and laces and attractin’ a rich man like those two. I’m gonna do things with my life.”

  “Shouldn’t wonder if you did,” he replied, voice dry as dust. “You’re Stephen Howard’s daughter.”

  That startled me. What did he know about my father? His face was as cool and bored as ever, and he gave my arm another jerk as he led me through the back gardens. The greyhounds came leaping out again, prancing all about us as friendly as pups, and Hugh Bradford spoke to them sharply and they looked woeful and disappointed and loped away. From the distance came the merry, tinkling noises of the garden party.

  “I wanted to see the swells,” I said suddenly. “That’s why I climbed over the wall and up in the tree. I saw ’em passin’ through the village in their fancy carriages and—and I wanted to get a better look at ’em.”