Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “He’s charming,” Megan told me a while later after talking with him. “Terribly polite and well bred. I can hardly believe he used to be the randy hellion you described.”

  I gazed at Lord Meredith, engaged in conversation with Betsy Sheridan across the room. “People change,” I said. “People grow up. It’s been five and a half years since—since I cracked him over the head with a champagne bottle and left him on the floor at Marie’s Place. After that he returned to Greystone Hall and settled down, married, took an interest in the estate, and then he lost his wife. He’s a different man.”

  “Some men sow their wild oats early, get it out of their system. I guess he falls into that category, although I must say, luv, there’s still a lot of randiness remaining. That voice, those heavy eyelids drooping over those smoky eyes—he’s wonderfully virile, despite that polite reserve.”

  “You noticed,” I said.

  “So did you, luv.”

  “I’m human, Megan. I noticed.”

  “And?”

  “And, as I said earlier, I have no intention of becoming involved with him. He’s an aristocrat. I’m an actress, quite beyond the pale. I won’t refuse his friendship, but anything else is out of the question.”

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  People began to depart around four-thirty, and by five everyone had gone except Megan and Charles and Clinton. Charles said he was still a mite hungry and suggested we finish the food. Megan gave him a stern look and informed him they had plenty to eat at home, then shoved him toward the door. She told Clinton how very pleased she was to have met him, gave me a hug and left with Charles in tow. Tabby had tactfully disappeared. Clinton smiled.

  “I like your friends,” he said.

  “I’ve been very blessed when it comes to friends,” I replied. “They’ve all been wonderful to me.”

  “You’ve made quite a life for yourself,” he told me. The smile lingered on his lips. “The schoolmaster’s daughter from a small village in Kent has come a long way.”

  “I’ve worked very hard.”

  “I admire that,” he said quietly.

  “Are—are you going to be in London long?” I inquired.

  “I’ve opened the house on Hanover Square. I don’t know how long I’ll stay. That—depends on a number of things.”

  There was a moment of silence. Both of us were rather ill at ease now, the implication of his last words all too clear. I smoothed a lock of hair away from my temple and asked if he would like another glass of wine, and Clinton shook his head.

  “I must be going myself. I—uh—I was wondering if you might like to come riding with me tomorrow. I ride in the park every morning at eleven, then have a light lunch back at the house.”

  “You ride in this weather?” I was surprised.

  “It’s very invigorating. One dresses warmly. Will you come, Angela?”

  “I—I’m afraid I don’t ride,” I confessed. “In fact, I’ve never even been on a horse.”

  He smiled again, amused by my tone of voice. “Then I will have the pleasure of teaching you,” he replied. “I have a beautiful little mare in my stable, extremely gentle. You’ll love her. I also have a ladies’ riding saddle. Let me give you your first lesson tomorrow.”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Come, Angela,” he said teasingly. “Be adventuresome. You might be a little sore from the experience, but I can assure you you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “Well—”

  “My carriage will pick you up at ten-thirty. All right?”

  “I’ll be ready,” I said.

  He was right. I did enjoy myself, and I was indeed sore after the first lesson. Very. It was a lovely day, crisp and cold, but the sun was shining brightly. I wore a long sleeved blue velvet gown, black kid gloves, black boots and a heavy black velvet cloak with violet silk lining, the hood pulled up over my head. Clinton looked handsome in his black riding habit and white silk stock. The mare he had selected for me was a gentle chestnut named Cynara, and I did love her, at once. Nevertheless, I was a bit nervous as Clinton helped me up into the saddle. He was wonderfully patient, giving me careful instructions and correcting me when I made an error. There were few people in the park that chilly day, and we were soon moving under the ice-encrusted tree limbs at a leisurely trot, Clinton firmly restraining his powerful gray stallion who longed to gallop. It was frightening at first—I was certain I would fall off—but after a time I managed to relax and enjoy myself thoroughly.

  Returning to Hanover Square, we had a light, lovely lunch in the dining room of the small, beautifully appointed town house. Soup was followed by fillets offish cooked in wine sauce and served with asparagus, with cheese and fruit afterward. The food was excellently cooked by his chef, flawlessly served by a footman in livery. We had coffee in the small drawing room, in front of a crackling fire, both of us relaxed and feeling quite exhilarated after the exercise. Clinton said I had the makings of a fine horsewoman and said we must definitely continue the lessons.

  “Tomorrow,” he added.

  “Isn’t—isn’t that a bit soon?”

  “You have to keep right at it. And, as I’ve been so exemplary an instructor, I think I should have a reward.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think you should let me take you out to dinner tonight after the play.”

  “I can scarcely refuse,” I told him.

  And so I learned to ride. Dottie made me a beautiful riding habit of garnet velvet with a wide-brimmed garnet velvet hat to match, black plumes sweeping down over one side of the brim. I wore it with my black kid gloves and boots, feeling quite elegant, cutting a dashing figure, I felt. Clinton was quite pleased with my rapid progress, said I was a natural horsewoman, said I had a perfect seat. I told him I’d never had any complaints. He grinned at that. March was mild, pure blue skies soaring overhead, brilliant sunlight spilling over the pathways in the park, and in April, as the trees began to green, as the first daffodils opened up delicate yellow faces to the sun, Cynara and I were racing right alongside Clinton and his stallion, aptly named Hercules. We rode almost every day, and it was wonderfully invigorating.

  We lunched together at Hanover Square, having long, leisurely, relaxed talks afterward, and he took me out after the theater four or five nights a week. How lovely it was to have so polite, attentive and considerate a companion. That he was wealthy and as handsome as a young god made it all the more enchanting. Although he made no secret of his feelings toward me, Clinton was completely proper and treated me with the utmost respect. He was content, it seemed, merely to be in my company. At first I was pleased that he made no advances, that he left me at the door with a squeeze of the hand and a fond good night, but after a while I began to wonder if I wasn’t just a little disappointed. I was not at all immune to his dazzling good looks and the potent sensuality held in tight control behind that careful reserve. Although I certainly didn’t love him, I couldn’t deny the strong physical attraction I felt, and although I truly had no intention of becoming romantically involved, I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he took me into his arms and kissed me. His restraint was much more titillating than any overt move could have been.

  “He still hasn’t kissed you?” Megan asked me one evening before the play.

  “He’s been a perfect gentleman,” I told her.

  “I find that terribly odd, luv.”

  “He respects me.”

  “And he’s madly in love with you—it’s as plain as anything. I would have thought he’d have made a move long before this. I suppose after what happened at your stepmother’s place all those years ago he’s afraid he might scare you off if he got too randy.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “He—he is in love with me. I know that.”

  “And you, luv? How do you feel about him?”

  “I—I’m quite fond of him. I enjoy his company a great deal. He’s everything a woman could want in an escort.”

  “A woman
wants more than an escort, luv,” she said sagely. “Despite rumors to the contrary, we have needs, too—just like men.”

  “I’m content with things as they are, Megan.”

  “Oh?” she inquired.

  “Perfectly,” I said.

  I tried to sound convincing.

  I was thinking of all this one afternoon in early May as I walked to the stationer’s on Great Queen Street, off Drury Lane. Clinton and I had not gone riding that morning, as he had business to attend to, but he was taking me out after the play tonight to an elegant new dining establishment where he planned to introduce me to the delights of Russian caviar. Smiling to myself, I stepped into Lavvy’s and selected new cream note paper and envelopes and dawdled a bit, examining the prints for sale. There was a new series by young Thomas Rowlandson, who did satiric drawings in the vein of Hogarth, as well as prints of the latest works by Gainsborough, Reynolds, and “that upstart” Romney, who both men claimed was stealing their style. I was looking at a print of Romney’s portrait of Countess Bessborough when I became aware of someone staring at me, the stare so intense it was almost like physical touch.

  Putting down the print, I turned ever so casually, and I felt my pulses leap when I saw him standing there at the counter as Lavvy wrapped up the ream of writing paper he had just purchased. His rich brown hair was unruly, tumbling untidily over his forehead, and there were smudgy gray shadows beneath the green-brown eyes that stared at me with such intensity. His face looked pale and drawn, making the slightly crooked nose more pronounced, and I observed that he could use a fresh shave. Though his clothes were clean, they looked a bit shabby, looked as though he might have slept in them. The brown broadcloth frock coat was superbly cut but well past its prime, and his emerald green neckcloth was carelessly folded. The fingers of his left hand were ink stained. He gave me a curt nod, then paid Lavvy for the paper and took the bundle from him. I moved over to the counter, feeling strangely lightheaded.

  “Aren’t you going to speak, Jamie?” I asked.

  “Hello, Angel,” he said. “You’re looking quite fit.”

  “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  “I suppose you think I look like hell?”

  “As a matter of fact, you do.”

  “I’ve been working.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “Damn! I’ve dreaded this. I’ve lived in fear I’d run into you accidentally one day.”

  “I’ve lived with the same fear,” I told him. “Isn’t that a little ridiculous? We’re both adults, after all. I’m not going to bite you, and I seriously doubt you’ll bite me.”

  “You never can tell,” he said grumpily.

  I had to smile at that. Jamie scowled. I paid Lavvy for the note paper and envelopes and brazenly asked Jamie if he would like to go with me to Button’s for coffee and some cheesecake. He hesitated, scowling, clearly not enchanted by the idea, and I waited, my eyes holding his with a challenging look. After a moment he shrugged, said he guessed it couldn’t hurt anything and opened the door for me. He was silent all the way to Button’s, walking in long, limber strides, clutching the ream of paper under his arm. I found his brusque, rude manner extremely irritating, but I could understand why, rumpled as he was, he wouldn’t be overjoyed to see me.

  Eyebrows were raised and there was a buzz of whispers as we entered Button’s together, for it was the favorite haunt of theatrical London and, of course, both of us were immediately recognized by its inhabitants. Covent Garden would be rustling with rumors tomorrow, I reflected, waving to a trio of journalists, smiling at a table of actors. Jamie’s mood didn’t improve one bit as we were shown to a choice corner table. Scowling, eyes belligerent, he tugged at his already untidy green neckcloth and glared at the waiter who brought the coffee and cheesecake I had ordered.

  “Mrs. Gainsborough claims this is the best cheesecake in all London,” I remarked. “She’s been trying to get them to give her the recipe for ages, but they stoutly refuse to divulge it.”

  “Must you keep chattering on and on like a bloody magpie?”

  “Those happen to be the first words I’ve addressed to you since we left Lavvy’s. I don’t know why you’re so nervous, Jamie. Just because we no longer live together doesn’t mean we can’t be civil, does it?”

  “So you think I’m uncivil, do you?”

  “I think you’re acting like an absolute ass.”

  He scowled, looking quite murderous, and then, after a few moments, he emitted a deep sigh and reached up to shove the dark brown locks from his brow. The gray smudges under his eyes had a faint mauve tint, and there were slight hollows beneath his cheekbones. He hadn’t been getting enough sleep, I thought. Probably hadn’t been eating properly either. He was like a little boy in so many ways, one of those men who definitely needed someone on hand to take care of him. According to Megan he was quite alone in those grubby rooms on High Holborn.

  “I guess I have been acting like an ass,” he admitted. “This isn’t exactly easy for me, Angel.”

  “Nor is it a picnic for me,” I said, “but we can’t spend the rest of our lives living in fear we’ll run into each other. Covent Garden isn’t that large. It’s bound to happen occasionally. I—” I hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I just thought it might be nice if we could be grown-up about things. I thought we might even be friends.”

  Jamie didn’t reply. He took a sip of his coffee and gazed moodily about the room. He wasn’t going to make it easy for either of us, I thought. I toyed with my cheesecake, wishing I’d never asked him to come. After several moments of silence he took another sip of coffee, set the cup down and looked at me with frosty green-brown eyes.

  “You were right about Mary, My Queen,” he said in a flat voice. “I imagine you were quite pleased with yourself when it failed so abysmally. I imagine you gloated for weeks.”

  “On the contrary, I was very sorry. I had hoped it would be a great success for you.”

  “‘Mrs. Howard wisely declined the part,’” he quoted.

  “I can’t help what the journalists wrote. I know how much it meant to you, Jamie. I wanted you to have a success.”

  A bitter smile played on his lips. He pushed his plate of cheesecake aside. “You’ve certainly done well for yourself. I’ve rarely read such plaudits. ‘Free of lugubrious melodrama, Mrs. Howard proves herself a consummate comedienne, pure perfection as Kate. She radiates vitality, wry good humor and overwhelming charm in a performance that is sheer enchantment.’”

  “They were very kind,” I said.

  “Not kind. Factual. You deserve every word of praise they gave you. Your Kate is perfection. You’ve proven yourself one of the greatest actresses of the age. All you needed was a role worthy of your talents.”

  Something I was never able to give you, he implied. I made no reply, knowing anything I said would be taken the wrong way. I took another sip of the hot, aromatic coffee and made another stab at the creamy cheesecake with the prongs of my fork.

  “I hear there hasn’t been an empty seat since it opened,” he said. “Had a hard time getting a ticket myself. Is it true you’re closing in June?”

  I nodded. “It was originally planned for a limited run of three months. We extended the run to six, and then the management decided to let it run until June the first. The Tempest will move into The Haymarket then.”

  “And what will you be doing next?” he asked.

  “I—I have no idea. There’ve been offers, of course, but—nothing I find particularly interesting. Megan tells me you’re writing a new play.”

  “Finished it last week,” he told me. “I’m making a few revisions now. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a backer, a rich textile merchant from Leeds with more money than good sense. Thinks it might be fun to invest in the theater. Actually enjoys lugubrious melodrama.”

  “You’re terribly unfair to yourself, Jamie. You’re—at what you do, you’re the best there is. The public loves your plays.”


  “Yeah. They simply adored Mary, My Queen.”

  I let that pass. “What is the new one about?”

  “It’s a comedy set in Shakespeare’s England,” he informed me. “It’s about a winsome, capricious young lady-in-waiting who falls madly in love with Richard Burbage when Shakespeare’s troupe comes to perform for Good Queen Bess. She flees the palace, disguises herself as a boy and, with Will Shakespeare’s help, becomes a member of the troupe, playing Ophelia to Burbage’s Hamlet—with all the predictable romantic and comedic complications.”

  “It—it sounds delightful, Jamie!” I exclaimed, genuinely enthused. “What a clever idea!”

  “It’s a romp, really, pure entertainment, with no heavy historical overtones to muck up the pace. Much of the action will take place at The Globe, backstage and on. Jack Wimbly, your Tony Lumpkin, has already said he’ll play Shakespeare, and I’m hoping to get Hart for Burbage if The Henchman ever shuts down. With the right actress to play young Lady Amelia I’m relatively sure we’ll have a long and healthy run.”

  “A lot will depend on her,” I said.

  He nodded. “The whole play revolves around her.”

  “She must be very good.”

  He nodded again, watching me.

  “I—I’d love to read it, Jamie.”

  Jamie looked at me for a long moment, and then he got to his feet. A wintry smile flickered on his lips.

  “I’m afraid that would be a waste of your time, Angel. You’re far too distinguished an actress to sully yourself by appearing at The Lambert again. What would your beloved critics think? Thanks for the coffee—I believe it is your treat? I must get back to work now. Nice seeing you.”

  He turned and left, moving purposefully toward the door with the ream of paper under his arm. He might as well have slapped my face. Never had I felt such utter humiliation. I was sure my cheeks were burning, and I could feel unwanted tears welling on my lashes. Oh, Jamie, I thought, that wasn’t necessary. That really wasn’t necessary at all. If your intention was to wound me, then you have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. I forced the tears back and forced myself to finish my coffee, acutely aware of the eyes watching me. Finally, composed, I paid for our coffee and cheesecake and left, waving to the journalists once again and smiling at the actors, giving the best performance of my life.