Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Jamie,” I said.

  He grunted. I ran my fingers across his chest.

  “I think you’d better get up,” I said.

  “Ummm,” he moaned, grimacing.

  I smiled. I poked him in the ribs with my fingertip.

  He awoke with a start. He sat up. He heard the noises and saw the clock.

  “My God!” he cried. “Everyone’s up!”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I could murder you, Angel! Why did you let me sleep so late?”

  “It’s not my fault. I just woke up myself.”

  “The halls are swarming with servants! People are mobbing the lawn! Mrs. Lindsey is probably lurking on the stairs! I’m stark naked and have nothing to wear but my robe! How in hell am I supposed to get back down to my rooms?”

  “That’s your problem,” I said sweetly.

  He grabbed my throat. Life with James Lambert might be hazardous and hectic, but it would certainly never be dull.

  Book Three

  Angel

  London

  Chapter Thirteen

  The footlights blazed, illuminating the wonderfully authentic dressing room set with its mildewed walls and littered dressing table and rack of gaudy costumes. In tight plum-colored velvet breeches and a white silk blouse with full belling sleeves, I primped before the mirror, chestnut waves piled atop my head and concealed by a jaunty plum felt pirate’s hat. I grinned and looked at the big box of chocolates and smothered a giggle. The audience grew hushed with expectancy as the dressing room door opened and Megan stepped onstage, a vision in golden brocade. There was a scattering of applause, for ever since her appearance in a minor role in The Goldsmith’s Wife three years ago, Megan had been a favorite with the public, one of the most popular supporting players on the London stage. She paused, giving me a haughty look, then swept regally over to the mirror and began to fuss with her long auburn waves.

  “How are you feeling, Moll?” I asked sweetly.

  “Very well, thank you!” she snapped.

  “You look a little yellow,” I told her. “How’s your stomach?”

  “A bit nervous,” she confessed, “but it isn’t every night a girl goes to Whitehall. I must say, Nell, you’re being very big about it. I know you hoped to attract the King yourself—capering about in those indecent tights—but he didn’t even see you with me on hand.”

  “’Tis true,” I said mournfully. “With the beautiful Moll Davis on stage, no one’s going to notice little Nell Gwynn—not even the King. We’ve been rivals for a long time, Moll, but I do wish you success tonight. That’s the reason I brought you the chocolates.”

  “So kind of you,” she replied. “They’re delicious—a most unusual flavor.”

  “Why don’t you have another?” I suggested.

  Megan took one of the chocolates and plopped it into her mouth, then began to unhook her gown. I scurried over to help her, repressing another giggle. A lout in the pit gave an appreciative whistle as she stepped out of the gown and smoothed down the bodice of the extremely revealing yellow silk petticoat. She hung the gown up on the rack and, suddenly, clutched her stomach in agony.

  “Something wrong, Moll?” I inquired.

  She stared at me and then stared at the box of chocolates, and realization dawned. I made a face at her. She lunged at me, knocking the hat off my head, seizing my hair.

  “You’re a whore, Nell Gwynn!”

  “And tonight I’ll be the King’s whore! Moll Davis is going to be quite indisposed.”

  I pulled free and gave her a shove. She stumbled and almost fell and then lunged at me again, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me savagely. I made a fist, driving it into her stomach. She screamed and tumbled to the floor, pulling me down with her. We rolled about, fighting viciously and doing a most impressive job of it after weeks of rehearsal. She kicked and thrashed and pulled my hair and I rolled free. Megan stood up on wobbly legs and made a retching noise and then rushed offstage. I leaped nimbly to my feet, brushed myself off and then took the golden gown from the rack and held it up in front of me.

  “I’ll wear a hooded cloak over it,” I said. “No one will be any the wiser. They’ll think I’m Moll. Tonight Your Majesty is going to have a marvelous surprise. Little Nellie is going to Whitehall!”

  The curtain fell to thunderous applause, and I hurried off into the wings. Megan caught me and gave me an exuberant hug, beaming.

  “We did it, luv! I was afraid we’d never be able to pull it off properly. You were magnificent!”

  “So were you,” I assured her. “I thought you were actually going to pull my hair out by the roots.”

  “I think we have another success, luv. My Charming Nellie is bound to run for months!”

  “Out of the way, ladies!” a stagehand barked. “We’ve got twenty minutes to dismantle the set and put up the next one. You’re in the way!”

  “Pardon us for breathing, luv,” Megan told him. “You look a bit nervous, Angel.”

  “Opening nights always give me the jitters. I just know something is going to happen in the last act. Those damn spaniels! He would insist on using them.”

  “They behaved perfectly during rehearsals, luv. Come on, I’ll walk you to your dressing room. Dottie will give you a cup of tea. You’re going to be wonderful in the last act, though I’m not at all sure about that oaf who’s playing the King. I never could understand why Lambert took him on in the first place. He’s a complete boor, hasn’t a jot of acting experience.”

  “He’s terribly handsome, though,” I teased.

  “If you like the rugged, military type. I understand he was a soldier before he decided to try his hand at acting. He’s far too tall,” she continued, “and altogether too sure of himself. Thinks he’s God’s gift to the ladies. He accosted me in the Green Room after rehearsals last night, got very cheeky with me, tried to steal a kiss!”

  “Oh?”

  Megan shoved a long auburn wave from her temple as we moved down the hall. “I gave him what for, I can assure you. Sent him packing good and proper. Six feet four if he’s an inch, and the body of an athlete. I never could abide men with dark blond hair and roguish brown eyes, luv.”

  “Charles is a dear,” I told her. “He might not be a consummate actor yet but the ladies in box, pit and gallery don’t seem to mind a bit. You could actually hear them sighing when he stepped onstage in Act One. He’s going to be very successful.”

  A door opened and the actor in question stepped into the hall, momentarily blocking our way. Charles Hart was indeed tall, and his brown eyes were indeed roguish, though his dark blond hair was currently concealed by the long, rolled brown wig he wore as King Charles II. In the silver-buckled royal blue pumps, the white silk stockings and the breeches and frock coat of royal blue brocade, he cut an impressive figure indeed. The frock coat was embroidered with silver floral designs, and silver lace spilled from his throat and cuffs. He smiled a most engaging smile and executed a low bow, exuding virility the elegant attire merely accentuated.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Sloan.”

  “Hello, Charles,” I said. “Ready for our big scene?”

  “A bit nervous,” he confessed. “I still haven’t got the hang of this acting business, I fear. Should never have let Lambert talk me into it. I know I made a fool of myself earlier.”

  “You certainly did!” Megan snapped. “Posturing like a peacock! I’m surprised they didn’t boo you off the stage.”

  “That’s very unkind, Megan,” I scolded. “Untrue, too. The ladies adored you, Charles. You did a very competent job.”

  He thanked me with his eyes. I liked Hart a great deal. In his late twenties, he had a casual, confident air and none of the posturing artifice of most actors. Big, easygoing, good-natured, he was extremely attractive. Megan hadn’t bothered to slip a robe over the revealing yellow petticoat. Those roguish brown eyes took in the breasts encased in fragile yellow lace, then looked back at me.

 
“Blew my lines twice,” he said. “If Brown hadn’t covered for me I’d have frozen completely.”

  “We all blow our lines now and then. You’re going to be tremendous in the last act, Charles. Don’t fret. We’re going to knock them dead.”

  “Rather face a firing squad,” he told me, and then he turned to Megan and smiled another smile. “You going to the party at Bedford’s Coffee House afterwards, Mrs. Sloan?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “Since Lambert’s giving it for the cast and crew, since this just happens to be the biggest role I’ve ever had, I thought I would go home alone and sulk.”

  “Hear you haven’t got an escort. I’d be happy to take you.”

  “That’s terribly sweet of you, luv, but I wouldn’t feel right about breaking one of my cardinal rules.”

  “What rule is that?”

  “Never associate with an actor outside the theater. We’re in rather a hurry, Mr. Hart. Do you think you could let us pass? Angel has a costume change, and I have things to do.”

  Hart grinned, not at all put off by her snippy behavior. He reached up to rub the deep cleft in his chin, wide lips curling. He knew Megan was attracted to him—it had been obvious to everyone since the first day of rehearsal—and he was content to bide his time. He made another bow and stepped aside. Megan gave him a frosty look as we moved on past. Hart chuckled, strolling on toward the stage.

  “The nerve of him!” Megan exclaimed. “Just because he looks like a rough hewn Adonis he thinks he can just snap his fingers and have any woman he wants! All the super girls might swoon at the sight of him, but I’ve got self respect. I’ve also got far too much good sense.”

  “How long has it been since Andrew left?” I inquired.

  “Three months,” she said. “The flat has been rather lonely, but I’m well rid of him. Do yourself a favor, luv, never fall in love with a lawyer. They’re always cross-examining you.”

  We reached the dressing room door. Megan gave me another hug, told me she would see me during curtain calls and hurried down the hall to the small dressing room she shared with Mrs. Perry, who played Castlemaine. I opened the door and stepped inside, astounded anew by the baskets of flowers that took up every foot of available space. There were pink roses from Gainsborough, lovely mauve hyacinths from Boswell, glorious blue larkspurs and purple iris from David Garrick and a gigantic basket of red-veined, pearly white tulips from Richard Sheridan, Betsy’s brother, who wanted me to play the lead in his next play. Dottie looked up as I entered, the inevitable cup of tea in her hand.

  “Here you are, dear. We’ve got—what? Twenty minutes?”

  “Thirty-five,” I said. “I don’t appear for the first fifteen minutes of Act Two. Charles has an argument with Castlemaine and a confrontation with the Duke of Buckingham.”

  “We’ve plenty of time, then. I’ll make you a cup of raspberry tea, dear. You look as though you need one. Nerves frayed?”

  “Shredded,” I confessed. “Thank God for you, Dottie. I could never make it through an opening night without you.”

  Dottie smiled and began to brew the tea, looking quite elegant in a watered gray silk gown with a white lace fichu and a purple velvet waistband, a purple velvet bow affixed behind her high gray pompadour. Her eyelids were coated with mauve shadow, her lips painted pale pink. Dottie had helped me dress when The Goldsmith’s Wife opened three years ago—what a nervous fit I had been in that night—and, although I had a dresser of my own, Dottie had taken over the job every opening night since. It had become a tradition.

  “Were you watching from the wings?” I asked.

  “I saw most of the first act. It seems to be going beautifully. The audience loves it.”

  “I hate this play!” I snapped. I slipped off my pumps and perched on the edge of the dressing stool to remove my stockings. “It should be light and engaging, a comedy. It’s altogether too ponderous and heavy-handed, too much emphasis on history. I told him so, but he’s the playwright. It’s the most ambitious, the most spectacular play he’s ever mounted—I quote, of course. If he would concentrate less on spectacle and more on character he just might produce something critics would appreciate.”

  “He’d rather please the paying customers,” Dottie said kindly. “It’s going to be another huge success, dear, just like all six of the other plays you’ve done together. It seems the combination of Angel Howard and James Lambert invariably ensures success.”

  “It’s me they come to see,” I told her.

  “That sounds suspiciously like something Coral Tallent would have said, my dear.”

  “I suppose it does. I’m sorry, Dottie. You know I’m always a horror opening nights. Poor Mrs. Tallent. I wonder what became of her.”

  “She’s probably selling apples—or herself—on a street corner somewhere. I take it you and Lamb had a fight this afternoon.”

  “Last night,” I said. “I begged him to abandon the spaniels. He insisted on keeping them in for historical verisimilitude—as if the public gives a damn about that. Charles the Second was always surrounded by a pack of frisky spaniels so we must have spaniels onstage during the last act. I can smell disaster.”

  I took off the white silk blouse and wriggled out of the plum velvet breeches. Dottie hung them up and handed me a blue silk robe which I slipped on, tying the sash around my waist. She stirred a spoonful of thick honey into my cup of raspberry tea and handed it to me. I sipped it slowly, sitting at the dressing table, studying my face in the mirror. I was twenty-four years old now, and little of the girl remained. The fresh glow of youth had been replaced by a patina of cool sophistication. Three years working in the theater and living with James Lambert gave a girl maturity, all right. Angela had been transformed into Angel, the girl into a woman.

  “I look old,” I complained.

  “You look grown up,” Dottie corrected me. “You’re far more beautiful than you were three years ago, and you know it.”

  “So much has happened during those three years,” I sighed.

  “So much indeed. You’ve had the lead in six hugely successful plays. You’ve become the most famous, the most popular and the most beloved actress on the London stage—all because Lamb believed in you.”

  “I’ve worked like the devil,” I said defensively.

  “You have indeed.”

  “The critics say I have flair and style and a delicious light touch,” I informed her. “They say I’m wasted in these turgid historical melodramas.”

  “I’ve read the reviews, dear.”

  “Davy Garrick wants me to join him at Drury Lane.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Richard Sheridan wants me to do his next play. The Rivals was a glorious success with critics and the public. The School For Scandal ran for months last year.”

  “I know, dear. I did the costumes.”

  “Oliver Goldsmith bemoans the fact that I wasn’t in the original production of She Stoops To Conquer. He wants me to play Kate Hardcastle in the revival he plans to do next November.”

  “You’re very much in demand,” Dottie agreed. “You clearly don’t need Lamb any more. Why don’t you accept one of those highly tempting offers?”

  “One of these days I just might!”

  Dottie smiled to herself and handed me a clean cloth, and I began to pat my face and freshen my makeup. When I had finished, I brushed my hair until it fell in gleaming chestnut waves. Dottie took my silver and violet gown from the rack, handling it with loving care. It was the most elaborate, the most expensive gown she had ever done, and she was justifiably proud of her craftsmanship. I took off my robe and put on the silver-tissue petticoat with its half dozen full, spreading skirts. The bodice was cut quite low, leaving most of my bosom bare, the waist extremely snug. I stepped into the high-heeled violet slippers, and Dottie helped me into the gown.

  “Where is Lamb?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him tonight.”

  “He’s skulking around the front foyer, tearing his ha
ir, suffering the agonies of the damned, convinced the play will be a disastrous failure—you know how he is opening nights. He’s never fit to live with until at least sixty people pound him on the back and assure him the play will run forever.”

  I slipped my arms into the short puffed sleeves and adjusted the bodice as Dottie began to do up the tiny hooks in back. This done, she spread the skirt out over the underskirts, smoothing it carefully, then stepped back. Framed by baskets of flowers, I stood in front of the full length mirror. The shimmering silver cloth was embroidered with tiny violet silk flowers, and the skirt parted in front, draped to display a sumptuous violet velvet underskirt. With the short puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, the form-fitting bodice cut daringly low, the gown was a bold, magnificent creation.

  “It’s absolutely gorgeous, Dottie,” I said. “It must have taken weeks to embroider all those delicate violet flowers. I—sometimes I still miss working at the shop.”

  “And I miss you, too, dear. I have the Simpson sisters now. They’re very skillful, very efficient, work like Trojans but, alas, have all the personality of prunes. I get the work done, but the place isn’t the same since you and Megan left. I’m proud of you both nevertheless.”

  “Megan’s done wonderfully well. Jamie didn’t want to use her for The Goldsmith’s Wife—I had to fight for her—and then she almost walked off with the play. Audiences love her.”

  Andy Dobson rapped on the door and opened it to inform me that the curtain was going up. I patted my hair and then put on the glittering diamond and amethyst necklace Dottie handed me. The loops of diamonds flashed with a shimmery fire, the amethyst pendants glowing a warm violet-pink. Although merely paste, they looked real enough, especially crafted by one of London’s finest jewelers. I sighed, fastening the matching bracelet around my wrist.