Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  James Boswell rescued me, pulling me away from the journalists and handing me a glass of much-needed champagne. Brick red hair neatly brushed, brown eyes full of mischief, he glowed with robust health and exuded hearty charm, looking particularly spruce in a brown velvet frock coat and mustard silk neckcloth. I did a double step as his hand reached for my bottom.

  “You haven’t changed one bit,” I said wryly. “That overactive libido of yours is going to get you into big trouble one of these days.”

  “Can’t resist a well-shaped derriere,” he confessed, “and yours, my dear Angel, is the shapeliest in London.”

  “Thank you for the flowers you sent. They’re lovely. Thanks for rescuing me from Fleet Street, too.”

  “They adore you, those chaps. Always writing articles about Angel of Covent Garden, the most beloved actress in London, simple, unaffected, still does her own shopping at The Market and refuses to give herself airs. The only other person who gets as much coverage is Lord Blackie himself. You’re the idols of London—the gentleman housebreaker who wears only black and the actress who is still one of the people.”

  “I’m not sure I care to be classed with a notorious criminal.”

  “Oh, Blackie’s a hero. Robs only the aristocrats. Never commits violence and speaks in a soft, cultured voice behind that black hood he wears. Invariably gallant to the ladies whose jewels he lifts. Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, swears he actually kissed her hand before climbing out the window. Very romantic figure, Lord Blackie. Half the grandes dames in London secretly cherish the hope he’ll steal into their bedchambers some lonely night.”

  I sipped my champagne, glancing around the crowded room, not at all interested in the habits of the much-written-about thief whose nocturnal jaunts were so avidly followed by the public. Boswell lifted a glass of port from the tray of a passing waiter and studied my decolletage with an appreciative eye.

  “You, my dear, have changed,” he informed me. “The beautiful, rather pensive girl I first met at Gainsborough’s studio has turned into an incredibly alluring woman.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Why don’t you ditch that devilishly handsome rogue you’re living with and run off with me?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said.

  Boswell grinned. “Fighting again? One hears of your frequent scraps, but you’re still together, I see. Never known James Lambert to be faithful to one woman for so long.”

  “He wouldn’t dare look at another woman,” I said. “He values his health too much.”

  The Scot chuckled and, catching sight of a particularly buxom young blonde super in a low-cut pink gown, gave me an affectionate hug and headed in her direction. I finished my champagne. Dottie was chatting with David Garrick. Jamie was charming the gents from Fleet Street, plying them with goose-liver pate and oysters baked in wine sauce and regaling them with humorous backstage anecdotes. The large room with its low-beamed ceiling, vast brick fireplace and whitewashed walls hung with copper pans was filled to capacity, a festive air prevailing. Megan, exquisite in a yellow silk gown, was flirting amiably with a trio of actors and studiously ignoring Charles Hart, who stood by with lazy grace and observed her antics with wry amusement. A charming young girl in deep blue taffeta waved at me and came over, pulling along a stocky, ruggedly handsome young man in dapper brown suit and a rather startling pink silk waistcoat embroidered with orange and gold flowers.

  “You were marvelous,” the girl exclaimed. “I loved what you did with the spaniels.”

  “Thank you, Betsy.”

  “You’ve met my brother, of course?”

  “Of course. How are you, Mr. Sheridan?”

  “Disgruntled,” the young playwright said. “I hate to see an actress with your talent wasted in a clunker like the one I just witnessed. You’re far too gifted to be with Lambert. I’m still bitter about not getting you for A School For Scandal.”

  “It was a glorious play.”

  “Would have been better had you been in it.”

  “Richard’s always been blunt,” Betsy told me, giving her brother a disapproving look, “and he’s much worse since his success. I told you he was going to be successful, remember?”

  “I remember it well,” I replied. “I’m sorry you disliked the play, Richard. I’m sure I could arrange to have your money refunded.”

  “The play was Lambert’s usual melodramatic claptrap, but you were enchanting, as always, even if you were upstaged by a pack of spaniels. I’m writing a new play, Mrs. Howard, and I intend for you to play the lead, even if I have to challenge Lambert to a duel.”

  “I’m flattered, Sir. Where on earth did you get that waistcoat?”

  “Like it?” he inquired. He grinned, the somber, arrogant playwright giving way to the brash youth of twenty-six. “Betsy says it’s much too fussy, but I think it’s elegant.”

  “You have distinctive taste,” I said.

  Young Mr. Sheridan blinked, not sure whether or not that was a compliment, and his sister smiled and led him over to the buffet tables laden with a tempting array of edibles. Gainsborough, in powdered wig and a sky blue frock coat, managed to extricate himself from the journalist pumping him with questions and came over to greet me. The wig, of course, was slightly askew, and the lace at his throat and wrists looked a little limp. He hugged me and rested his cheek against mine for a moment, and then he held me at arm’s length in order to examine me more closely.

  “Not the girl I painted,” he observed. “Older and wiser—but even more beautiful. Maturity becomes you. When are you coming to visit us again? It’s been months since you’ve been to the studio.”

  “I dare not visit too often. Mrs. G. keeps feeding me all those teas, and I have a figure to think of. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Off to Bath for a short visit. She’s sending you a package. Vanilla and chocolate truffles, I believe, filled with creamy nougat and bits of chocolate. Her latest enthusiasm.”

  “I’ll be strong,” I promised.

  “The play was delightful, Angel. You were the very soul of Nell Gwynn. I loved the bit with the spaniels—haven’t laughed so hard in ages. Very clever of Lambert to liven it up that way. Tell me—how ever did they train that mutt to piss on cue?”

  “It was not in the script,” I informed him, “and if I hear one more word about those bloody spaniels I’m going to scream. I told Jamie they were a mistake, but—I’m getting angry all over again. Let’s have a bite to eat, Mr. G. You can tell me all about Sir Joshua Reynolds’ latest masterpiece.”

  Mr. G. groaned at the mention of his archrival’s name and followed me over to the tables. There were oysters on the half shell, smoked oysters, fried oysters, oysters baked in a variety of sauces, also sliced lamb, roast beef, baked chicken, ham, with all the trimmings. The journalists had already made quite a dent, I observed, and the liquor supply had already been replenished. The party was costing us a tidy sum, but cast and crew had earned it after long months of work, and the gents from Fleet Street would undoubtedly make the ticket-buying public well aware of My Charming Nellie. Mr. G. and I took our plates over to a corner table and he told me about his feud with the Royal Academy while we ate. They weren’t hanging his paintings prominently enough and he was thinking about resigning. Who needed the R. A. anyway?

  Dottie left early, around one, accompanied by David Garrick, who would see her home. Mr. G. left shortly thereafter, complaining that he was far too aged for these noisy, all-night theatrical parties and making me promise to come see him soon. Several of the journalists made friends with the super girls—there was a bevy of them in this particular production—and happily departed with an attractive new companion for the rest of the night. Boswell couldn’t keep his hands off the young blonde in pink who, fortunately, was more than receptive to his hearty vulgarity and left with him at three, both of them pleasantly tipsy. I smiled when I saw Megan finally condescend to talk with the patient, lethargic Hart, who plainly intended to have her.

>   Jamie was moving around the room, attentive to all the women, slapping men on the back, radiating vitality and magnetism. Wavy brown hair tousled, green-brown eyes full of good humor, he grinned at an actor’s wry remark and gave him a poke on the arm, then moved on to compliment Betsy on her gown. He was a magnificent host. He was a magnificent man, devastatingly appealing in his black and white attire. Catching my eye, he smiled that engaging smile and waved. I nodded coolly. I wasn’t really angry with him, not any longer. It was impossible to stay angry with him. He was a rogue, bossy and overbearing, but I could easily hold my own, and if he had bullied me, he had also nurtured me and devoted all his energies to making me the success I had become. Beneath that rowdy facade, beneath all the bravado and emotional pyrotechnics was a thoughtful, utterly endearing man, and I considered myself the luckiest woman in London. Not that I’d ever let him suspect it.

  I circulated, chatting with our guests, exhausted to the bone but charming nevertheless. Young Richard Sheridan had had far too much to drink and was vociferously declaring himself the greatest English playwright since Shakespeare, vowing he’d crack the skull of anyone who didn’t agree. His sister managed to get some coffee into him and get him out of the place before fisticuffs occurred. I was drinking coffee myself when Megan came over, pouting prettily and pretending an outrage she was far from feeling.

  “I can’t get rid of him,” she complained.

  “Who?” I inquired.

  “Charles Hart! He wants to take me home. I told him it was a very short walk, just across the piazza to Henrietta Street, but he insists. He claims it isn’t safe with Lord Blackie on the prowl. I told him I’d take my chances with Lord Blackie, but the lout won’t take no for an answer. What am I going to do, Angel?”

  “Let him walk you home.”

  “He’ll want to come up,” she protested.

  “I imagine he will.”

  “The place is a mess. He’ll probably try to take liberties.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “A hell of a lot of help you are. Very well, I’ll let him escort me home, but if he thinks I’m going to flutter over him like those silly supers he’s due a big surprise. He tries anything funny with me and he’ll find himself nursing a black eye. Good night, luv. See you at the theater tomorrow evening.”

  “Have a nice time,” I said sweetly.

  It was almost four-thirty when the last guest finally staggered out, and I sighed with relief as Lambert gave a sheaf of bills to the weary proprietor and told him to pass them around among the help. He brought my long crimson velvet cloak and helped me into it, then draped a black cape around his shoulders with a dramatic flourish, white silk lining flashing. I was silent as he led me out into the night. The carriage was still waiting.

  “It’s a lovely night,” he said. “Want to walk?”

  “I suppose.”

  Lambert dismissed the carriage and took hold of my elbow and led me across the piazza. Moonlight brushed the stones with pale silver, and St. Paul’s was a dim gray mass shrouded with velvety black shadows. Our footsteps rang on the stones, echoing in the stillness. The sky was a misty gray lightly tinted with violet and sprinkled with dimming stars. It would soon be dawn and The Market would be bustling as produce men set up their stalls and prepared for the day’s business. Glancing up, I saw that a light was burning in the flat above Brinkley’s Wig Shop, and I smiled to myself, suspecting that Megan had met her match at last.

  “Very successful party,” Jamie said as we started down Bedford Street.

  “Very,” I agreed. “I’m glad it’s over. I plan to sleep forever.”

  “Saw you talking with Sheridan,” he remarked. “I suppose he was trying to lure you away from me again?”

  “You suppose right.”

  “Impudent rapscallion! Twenty-six years old and two phenomenally successful plays. Thinks he hung the moon.”

  “So do most of the critics,” I taunted.

  “You could play the lead in his next play, of course. We don’t have a contract. You could become the critics’ darling. You have the talent. You don’t have to settle for mere popular success.”

  “I know.”

  “Of course, I’d kick you from here to Coventry if you even considered such a step.”

  “You might try,” I said.

  We turned on Chandos Street, heading for St. Martin’s Lane where the house we had taken three years ago was located. The September night was pleasant and cool without being chilly. The air was filled with all those familiar smells I had come to love: mellow old stone, lichen, ivy, crushed flower petals. Covent Garden had its own atmosphere, its own aura, even at this hour. Jamie slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him, matching his stride to mine. I reveled in his nearness, his strength, his warmth. I had been alone for such a long time, and now I belonged, to this enchanting district, to this fascinating and infuriating man who had changed my life.

  “Still mad at me?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “You’re an unreasonable wench.”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted.

  “Artistic temperament. You’ve more than your share. I suppose I may not be the easiest person to get along with myself.”

  “You have your moments,” I told him.

  “Oh?”

  “Now and then,” I said.

  He chuckled and squeezed my waist. He was clearly eager to kiss and make up. I thought that was a lovely idea.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rain pattered softly, softly, and I sighed in my sleep and turned and was aware of the emptiness there and opened my eyes. The sheets smelled of his body, the pillow was dented, but he was gone, and that was bewildering. I always woke up first and he was always there, sprawled out, tangled in the bedclothes, breathing deeply, and I always smiled and stroked his bare chest and he always grunted and curled his lips and I teased him until he woke up and he was always surly and groggy and usually he rolled over on me and I struggled and we made love before getting up, a divine way to begin the day. That emptiness beside me was disorienting now. I sat up, blinking, and I saw the dim gray light in the room and the rain slipping and sliding down the windowpanes in silver-gray patterns and saw the clock and saw that it was well after one in the afternoon. He had been undressing me as dawn broke. My crimson brocade gown was draped carelessly over a chair, the crimson tulle petticoat spreading on the floor like gigantic petals, his black frock coat hanging limply on the arm of another chair. I stretched and smiled, feeling the pleasant soreness in my limbs, remembering.

  Jamie Lambert might have his faults, might be mercurial and temperamental, volatile and often overbearing, but in the bedroom he was superlative, the most satisfying lover a woman could hope to have. He was rough and playful, greedy and gentle, teasing and tender, demanding and dominating and, always, as intent on my pleasure as he was on his own. Afterwards, he invariably curled arms and legs around me and slept soundly, making me his cushion, and that heaviness and warmth gave me a delicious sense of security. Yes, he was a superb lover, inventive and inciting, and I had no complaints on that score. I stretched again and listened to the rain pattering on the roof, wondering where he could be. I missed that nude, slumbering body, missed that warm skin, those unruly locks of dark brown hair moist with perspiration, those lips half-parted in sleep, ready to be kissed. Habit was deeply ingrained, and I didn’t like waking up alone in bed. Those weeks he spent alone in Tunbridge Wells, working on his plays, were always hellish for me, always sorely dreaded.

  Getting out of bed, I looked at the untidy litter in the bedroom and shook my head. Moving into the adjoining dressing room, I performed my ablutions and brushed my hair, then dressed, putting on a cream linen frock with narrow brown and gold stripes. Back in the bedroom, I hung up our clothing, put shoes away, straightened the piles of books, manuscripts and journals that covered the long table. Even-in the dim gray light the room was snug and charming with its pale ivory walls, low-beamed ce
iling and polished hardwood floor scattered with worn oriental rugs in soft hues. I made up the bed, smoothing down the heavy yellow-gold brocade counterpane. Curtains of the same brocade hung at the row of windows overlooking the walled herb garden in back of the house.

  Yes, Angel of Covent Garden did all her own housework, but I didn’t mind at all. The house on St. Martin’s Lane was small, bedroom, dressing room and landing on this floor, drawing room, study and kitchen below, with staircase and foyer. It was very old, suffused with character, and legend had it that it had belonged to Aphra Behn over a hundred years ago. I liked to believe that that colorful and determined lady had penned some of her boisterous and scandalous plays within these walls, that she herself had laid out the herb garden with its intricate patterns.

  Leaving the bedroom, I crossed the landing and moved down the narrow staircase with its polished golden oak railing and worn golden-brown runner. Posters of all six plays I had done hung along the wall of the stairwell. The foyer below was lined with golden oak bookcases, each crammed to overflowing. Jamie was as avid a reader as I and haunted Miller’s on Fleet, invariably returning with a plethora of dusty tomes. A lamp was burning in the foyer. Raindrops dripped on the fan-shaped panes above the large white door which, I noticed, was not locked. He had obviously gone out, not bothering to lock the door behind him. I frowned as I paused in the foyer, and my frown deepened when I smelled the odor drifting strongly from the kitchen. Something had been burning. What? Bacon? The odor was overwhelming, and I rushed through the study and into the kitchen in back of the house. The mess I encountered there made my blood turn cold.