Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I—understand,” I replied.

  “I detested him, I freely admit it, and I had good reason. We got into some rousing fights when we were children—I fear I taunted him, called him a beggar boy, a bastard. Children can be very cruel. When he wouldn’t allow us to become friends, I decided we might as well be enemies—and we were. I just ignored him later on. I had more interesting things to do with my time than bait the sullen boy who cleaned the stables and lived over them.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  “Now?”

  “How—how do you feel about him now?”

  Clinton hesitated a moment, his gray eyes thoughtful as he considered my question. His mouth tightened. “I try to be charitable,” he said, “but in his case it’s difficult. I suppose I should feel pity for Hugh Bradford, for he was a pitiful figure, but I don’t. I could never forgive him for what he did to my uncle. I haven’t given it much thought in recent years, but I suppose I still hate his guts. Not very admirable of me, I’ll admit, but that’s the way I feel.”

  His eyes were cool now, his mouth still tight, and I felt a chill inside me. He must never, never know about Hugh and me. It was the one thing he could never accept, I realized, the one thing that could seriously jeopardize our relationship. As gentle, as compassionate and understanding and intelligent as Clinton was, he could never come to terms with the fact that his wife had been in love with his bastard cousin, the man he held responsible for his uncle’s death. Seeing the tight set of his mouth, the uncharacteristic coldness in his eyes, I felt the chill and felt afraid and felt a tremulous quiver in the pit of my stomach. I stood up, my skirts rustling crisply. All my years on the stage came to my aid, but I still found it difficult to speak in a normal, casual voice.

  “You do look terribly tired, darling. You’ve been working much too hard these past few days. Why don’t you have a nice hot bath, and then we’ll have dinner. Henri is preparing pressed duck with orange sauce, I believe, with a salad of lettuce and marinated artichoke hearts—your favorite.”

  “Sounds delicious. And after dinner?”

  I moved over to him. I rested my palm on his cheek. His eyes were no longer cold. They were warm now, full of affection, and his mouth curved in a playful smile.

  “We’ll find something to do,” I said.

  “I imagine we will.”

  “I love you, Clinton,” I said. There was a catch in my voice. “I love you very much.”

  “Convince me.”

  He pulled me into his arms and tilted his head and kissed me for a long, long time, and I clung to him and finally pulled back. Heavy eyelids drooped over his eyes. His lips were parted, ready to savor mine again. I gently extricated myself from his arms.

  “A bath first,” I said, “and then dinner and then, if you’re not too weary, we might continue this upstairs.”

  “You can count on it,” he told me.

  It rained again the next day and the next, and then the gray sky cleared and the rain was gone and the land had a new-washed look and the air was full of the pungent scents of wet soil as I rode Cynara, both of us exhilarated by the exercise. The sky was a lighter gray, pale and pearly, cloudless, with a faint violet hue, and the earth was brown and gray and black with a few green accents. It was glorious to be out again, the cool breeze in my face, lifting my cloak behind me, my hair tumbling and flying. Clinton had apparently forgotten our talk about Hugh Bradford and was concentrating on finishing his paperwork so we could enjoy our stay in London. Orders had been forwarded to the staff on Hanover Square, and everything would be ready for us when we arrived a week from now.

  “Enjoy your ride, Milady?” Ian asked when I returned to the stable.

  “It was wonderful, Ian.”

  He took my hand, helping me from the saddle.

  “Cynara enjoyed it, too, I wager. Looks perky, she does. Did ’er good to get out. ’Is Lordship ’ad me take ’Ercules out for a bit of exercise this mornin’, too, as ’e wasn’t able to ride ’im ’imself.”

  “I imagine Hercules appreciated that.”

  “Appreciated it more that I did, I can tell you. Beast is so big an’ so powerful, ’ad a ’ard time holdin’ ’im back. Thought ’e was goin’ to throw me off for sure. I was relieved as all get out to find all my bones intact when we got back.”

  “Hercules is a bit frightening,” I said, handing him the reins. “I often worry he’ll get too excited and bolt when my husband is riding him.”

  “Oh, ’Is Lordship never ’as any trouble with ’im, Milady. ’E’s the best rider I ever seen, ’andles ’Ercules like ’e was a baby.”

  I stroked Cynara’s damp cheek before Ian led her away. “Give her an extra portion of oats after you’ve groomed her, Ian. She’s earned it.”

  “I’ll do that, Milady.”

  Crossing the cobbled yard, I entered the house through the side door and took off my cloak, hanging it on a rack in the back hall, feeling flushed and glowing, feeling wonderful. It was almost time for lunch, and Clinton would be meeting me in the drawing room at twelve. A footman nodded to me as I entered the front foyer. I heard voices coming from the drawing room. Clinton was already there and … my word, we must have a guest! Who could it possibly be? I felt a moment of panic. My hair was still all atumble, and the hem of my garnet riding habit was spotted with flecks of mud. I couldn’t conceivably meet anyone looking like this. As I moved toward the staircase, intending to go up and change, Clinton and another man came out into the foyer, both their faces grave indeed.

  “—feel sure we haven’t got anything to worry about,” the stranger was saying, “but it’s going to be a dreadful nuisance, Milord, and it’s going to consume a tremendous amount of your time.”

  “He claims he has proof?”

  “He claims to have, yes, but I’ve no doubt we’ll be able to prove it insubstantial. He has a great deal of money, it seems, and he’s hired the best advocates money can provide.”

  “He hasn’t hired you, Burke. I feel confident we’ll win.”

  “Thank you, Milord. I feel confident, too.”

  Both of them saw me standing there by the staircase then. The stranger seemed embarrassed. Clinton looked vaguely perturbed, but good breeding came to the fore and, moving over to me, he took me by the hand and led me over to the stranger and performed introductions. The man’s name was Jonathan Burke, and he was an advocate from London. Tall, lean, rather stern, he had coppery-red hair and grave brown eyes and looked to be in his early forties. He was soberly dressed in brown, a dark green neckcloth at his throat.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Burke,” I said. “You’re my husband’s legal adviser?”

  “I have that honor, Milady.”

  “There—there isn’t any problem, is there?”

  “A minor matter,” Clinton said quickly. “Burke came down from London to apprise me of it. He was just leaving.”

  “Surely you’ll stay for lunch, Mr. Burke?”

  “I’m afraid there’s no time, Milady. I’m sorry about that. I would enjoy it immensely.”

  His voice was deep and melodious and full of sincerity. Although still grave, his brown eyes were friendly. Burke might have a sober demeanor, but he was neither cool nor disapproving. I could tell that he admired me, and I suspected that he had seen Angel Howard perform on stage a number of times, a suspicion he confirmed later on. He said that it had been a pleasure meeting me and that he hoped to see me in London. I said I would look forward to it. Clinton led him to the door and stepped outside with him, and I moved on into the drawing room, both puzzled and disturbed.

  I moved over to the fireplace, a terrible dread growing inside me. When Clinton came in, the expression on his face did nothing to reassure me. His eyes were a stony gray. His lips were pressed into a tight line. His cheeks were ashen. Burke had obviously arrived soon after I left for my ride. What had been important enough to bring him all the way from London for so brief a conference? Clinton stepped over to the liquor
cabinet without speaking and poured himself a shot of brandy. I noticed that his hand was trembling as he lifted the glass to his lips. I had never seen him so upset.

  “Clinton, what—what is it?”

  He didn’t answer. He drank the brandy and set the glass aside, and then he made a valiant effort to control himself. He took a deep breath and ran a hand across his brow, and then he sighed. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but each word might have been chiseled from ice.

  “Hugh Bradford,” he said. “He has returned to England.”

  Oh, dear God, I thought. Dear God, no.

  “He’s been in Italy, it seems, looking for proof that my uncle was legally wed to his mother. It took him almost two years, but he feels sure he has finally found that proof.”

  “That—that’s why Burke came to see you.”

  He nodded curtly. “Bradford claims that he’s the rightful heir to Greystone Hall and all the holdings.”

  I thought sure my knees would give way beneath me. They didn’t.

  “My bastard cousin has gotten together a shrewd team of legal advisers,” Clinton said. “They’re taking the case to court. The son of a bitch thinks he’s going to become the new Lord Meredith.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s going to be all right, I told myself as I straightened the lapels of his dark gray frock coat. Everything is going to be all right. This will pass. Hugh will lose. He’s bound to lose. Burke says his proof is tenuous at best, and there’s no reason why Clinton should ever find out about Hugh and me. He sighed now as I fussed with his deep blue silk neckcloth and reminded me that the carriage was waiting, that he was due at Burke’s office at ten and it was nine forty-five now. We were in the foyer of the house on Hanover Square. I gave the neckcloth a final pat and moved back. Seeing the worried look in my eyes, Clinton reached for my hand and gave it a tight squeeze.

  “There’s no reason for you to be so worried, my darling. We’re going to win—it’s a foregone conclusion. Burke just wants to go over some matters with me today. The case won’t come to court for at least three months.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ll be gone most of the day, won’t be back until four at the earliest, and then, I promise, we’ll concentrate on enjoying ourselves. No more legal conferences until after the holidays.”

  “We’ve been here for three days already, and you’ve spent every day with Burke. I—I can’t help but worry.”

  “Today will be the last day,” he told me. “I don’t like this any more than you do, darling, but it’s necessary.”

  “I suppose it is,” I said, resigned.

  He squeezed my hand again. “And what are you going to do all day while I’m going over tedious legal details with Burke? Something exciting?”

  “I’m lunching with Megan,” I replied, “and then we’re going to Dottie’s for the final fitting of her wedding gown. The wedding’s next week, you know, and—”

  “I know, darling. I must rush now, really.”

  He pulled me to him, kissed me thoroughly and then released me, reaching for the heavy gray cloak he had draped over a chair earlier. Swirling it in the air, he draped it around his shoulders and adjusted the long folds. Putnam, who had accompanied us to London along with Mrs: Rigby, opened the front door for him, and, giving me a reassuring smile, Clinton strolled outside and to the waiting carriage. I stood there in the foyer for a few moments, deeply perturbed, and Putnam asked me if there was anything I required. I shook my head and went back upstairs to get dressed for Megan, who would be here at eleven.

  I washed thoroughly and made up my face, using a faint blush on my pale, drawn-looking cheekbones, applying a deeper pink to my lips. My eyes were a worried violet-gray as I rubbed a suggestion of mauve shadow onto my lids. I must try to put it out of my mind. Clinton had complete confidence in Burke, was certain we would win, and, as he had pointed out, the case wouldn’t go to court until sometime in February. As I arranged my hair, I finally admitted to myself that it wasn’t the court case that worried me so much. It was the fact that Hugh Bradford was here in the city at this very moment, that he undoubtedly knew I had married his archrival and become Lady Meredith, that he might decide to do something impulsive and Clinton would discover we had been lovers.

  Megan arrived at eleven fifteen, radiant, vivacious, stunning in a topaz silk frock. Her merry chatter was irresistible, and my spirits lifted considerably. We had a delightful lunch at Button’s, various theatrical folk stopping by our table to congratulate Megan and tell me how much they’d missed me the past few months, how lovely I was looking. It was glorious to be back in Covent Garden again, in my own milieu. No, I reminded myself, not my milieu any longer. Jack Wimbly gave me an exuberant hug and told me about the marvelous new role he would soon be rehearsing.

  “Play a lovable scamp, I do,” he informed me. “Actually get the girl at the end of the show. The lead! Can you believe it? No more supporting parts for our boy Jack.”

  “I’m thrilled for you, Jack. I know you’ll be wonderful.”

  “Always am, luv. Always am. Marriage agrees with you, Milady. You’ve never looked more delectable.”

  “What about me?” Megan inquired.

  “With that turned up nose? Can’t imagine what Charles wants with a drab like you, luv. Must be out of his blinkin’ mind.”

  Jack grinned a wide, enchanting grin, tugged her hair playfully and then moved jauntily away to join his friends. Megan stuck her tongue out at him. They adored each other, of course, and Jack was going to be Charles’ best man next week. There was no camaraderie like that among theater people, I reflected, eating Button’s delicious steak and kidney pie. How I loved the jovial give and take, the generosity of spirit, the breezy, carefree attitude hiding a fervent dedication to their craft. Megan continued to talk excitedly about the forthcoming wedding and the reception Clinton and I were giving afterward at Hanover Square.

  “Charles is growing more and more nervous,” she confided, signaling a waiter. “His face grows paler by the day, and he looks frightened of his own shadow. Yesterday, as a lark, I sneaked up behind him and yelled ‘Boo!’ and he almost jumped out of his skin.”

  “Poor Charles.”

  “He’s afraid I’ll back out of it—can you imagine that? I told him I’d be at the church even if they had to carry me on a pallet. He’s such a darling, really. We’re going to give up the flat over Brinkley’s after all this time and buy a house. And he wants me to go on acting, too. We’ll do plays together, he says. How did I get so lucky, luv?”

  “Clean living, I suppose.”

  The waiter came over to our table. “Dessert, luv? No? You’re sure? I guess I won’t have any either. We’re not due at Dottie’s for another half an hour, we’ve time for coffee. Two coffees, George, and, oh hell, bring me one of those divine raspberry cream tarts. I’ve been eating everything in sight, luv,” she confided as the waiter left. “Nerves. Dottie will scream if I’ve put on any weight. Promise me you’ll have half the tart.”

  The air was crisp and cool and invigorating as we left Button’s and, moving across the piazza, passed St. Paul’s, where the wedding would take place. Even in winter Covent Garden had its rakish, colorful atmosphere, vendors selling hot roasted chestnuts and gingerbread men, pretty young ingenues walking with their beaux, The Market as busy as ever with fruit, vegetables and lovely hothouse flowers. “Angel’s back!” a man yelled, seeing me on the street. I smiled and waved, loving the recognition. I hadn’t realized quite how much I missed all this, though of course I was wonderfully happy with my new life. Being Lady Angela might not be as much fun as being Angel Howard, but my husband’s love for me was more than compensation.

  “I’m wonderfully blessed,” I mused aloud.

  “What’s that, luv?”

  “To have Clinton,” I said.

  “Of course you are. We’ve both been blessed. Maybe it is clean living, luv. Can’t think of any other reason why we’ve been so fortu
nate.”

  Dottie was brisk and businesslike when we got to the shop, taking us into the fitting room, making Megan strip to her chemise and slip into the billowy pale peach gauze petticoat she would wear beneath her wedding gown. Megan took a deep breath, trying to disguise the fact that the waist was a mite too snug, but Dottie’s shrewd eyes missed nothing.

  “You’ve gained at least three pounds!” she accused.

  “Couldn’t help it, Dottie. I’ve been so nervous.”

  “I’ll have to let the waists out!”

  “No you won’t. I won’t eat a bite until the wedding, I promise. Not a single bacon roll with mustard, not a single slice of chocolate cake.”

  “Let’s try on the gown. I just don’t understand it, Megan. Here I work my fingers to the bone getting all these things ready for you, seven complete new outfits, plus your wedding gown, and you stuff yourself like a pig. It’s bloody inconsiderate.”

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic, Dottie,” I told her. “You’re not onstage now.”

  “I must say you’re looking splendid, Milady. Slim as ever. You’re going to be needing some new things, too, I daresay, and now that you’re a member of the aristocracy I intend to charge the sky. No more courtesy rates to the profession, I can assure you. I have a living to make.”

  She took a sip of raspberry tea and reached for a chocolate biscuit, her eyes narrowing critically as Megan slipped on the sumptuous wedding gown over the petticoat. They had decided against white, too conventional and not terribly appropriate as Megan was far from virginal. The gown they had finally agreed upon was pale peach-colored velvet, the skirt and large off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves overlaid with pale, transparent peach gauze appliqued with white velvet lilies outlined in white seed pearls. The wedding veil would be of matching peach gauze.

  “I can hardly breathe,” Megan protested as Dottie hooked the gown up in back.

  “It’s your own fault, you little slut. I don’t suppose it’s too tight, and you’ve just eaten lunch, of course. At any rate, there’s no time to let everything out.”