Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I arrived late,” he told me. “I was working, you see, lost track of time. You know how it is when I’m involved with a new play.”

  I nodded, smiling, remembering. Jamie smiled too, a hesitant, tentative smile, as though he weren’t sure if we were enemies or friends. I moved over to him and took both his hands in mine and squeezed them.

  “It’s good to see you, Jamie. I’m so glad you came. Have you seen Megan and Charles?”

  “I spoke to them when I arrived. I also spoke with your husband. Seems like a fine fellow, Angel.”

  “He is,” I said.

  “He’s a very fortunate man.”

  His voice was low, that unique, exciting voice I remembered so well, and those green eyes flecked with brown held mine, still full of yesterdays, conveying far more than words. I was still holding his hands. I let go of them and stepped back, feeling awkward and embarrassed, covering it with a polite, artificial smile that didn’t deceive him at all.

  “What—what are you doing back here by yourself?” I asked. “Have you eaten? Would you like a glass of champagne?”

  “I was back here by myself because I wanted to be alone for a while, because I saw you across the room and felt a terrible loss and didn’t feel like speaking to anyone. I’m not hungry, and no, I wouldn’t like a glass of champagne.”

  “I see.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that, Angel. I didn’t mean to. I intended to be proud and arrogant and indifferent, to show you I didn’t give a damn you were married, that you didn’t mean a bloody thing to me, but I—I’m not that good an actor.”

  “Jamie—”

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I went for five years without ever telling you what you meant to me, without telling you you were the world to me, and it’s hardly fitting for me to tell you now. I lost you. Because of my goddamned pride and artistic temperament I let you get away, and that was the greatest mistake of my life.”

  “You—”

  “I love you, Angel. I always did. Fool that I am, I never told you. I took you for granted. I was jealous of your success, had the crazy notion it threatened me, threatened our relationship. I—I was desperately afraid you would leave me, and you did. I drove you away. I was the world’s greatest fool. I suppose I deserved to lose you.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Jamie.”

  “It was my own bloody fault.”

  I was deeply moved, and I was frightened, too, frightened by what I felt and what I saw in his eyes. There was a loud burst of laughter in the doorway as a group of jolly young actors and their girlfriends came spilling into the room, all of them a bit the worse for champagne. Jamie scowled, and I smiled graciously at the intruders and asked if they were having a good time. The boys grinned. The girls giggled. A husky young lad with merry blue eyes said it was the best party ever, best champagne, too, and I really was an angel for having them. I smiled again and took Jamie’s hand and led him out of the room.

  “You may not want any,” I said, “but I could definitely use some champagne.”

  We moved down the foyer, through the colorful, noisy crowd. I let go of his hand. He was still scowling, already regretting his lapse, no doubt, and wishing he had never spoken. Dottie saw us together and arched a brow. Jamie gave her a curt nod, the temperamental playwright beholden to no one, that damnable pride of his securely in place again. We went into the dining room and I fetched a glass of champagne and sipped it as we stood near the buffet, the party swirling around us.

  “I’m sorry about Amelia Mine, Jamie,” I said. “It was a glorious play. Dottie sent me a copy. It—it should have been a huge success.”

  “It would have been if the woman I wrote it for had done the lead. That was my fault, too. That afternoon at Button’s—” He paused, the scowl deepening. “I had to show you I didn’t need you.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Shakespeare said it all. ‘What fools these mortals be.’ We pay dearly for it. I think I will have a glass of that champagne.”

  He went to fetch one, pausing to speak with Jack Wimbly who came over to greet him. They chatted for a few moments and then Jack stumbled away, looking for the stunning brunette who had mysteriously vanished. As had Boswell. Before he could get back to me with his champagne, Jamie was stopped by several other people. He had become something of a recluse in recent months, and all his friends were delighted to see him again. The scowl had vanished when he returned. He gave me a rueful smile.

  “Sorry I took so long,” he said.

  I smiled. Both of us were relaxed now.

  “Poor Jack,” I said. “I fear James Boswell has made off with his girlfriend.”

  “Striking brunette in pink? I saw them slipping out together as I came in. Don’t know what the bloke has, but the ladies dote on it.”

  “You mentioned a new play, Jamie. Is it coming along well?”

  He nodded. “It’s writing itself, it seems. Full of drama, full of comedy, very little melodrama and lots of human interest. It’s going to be the most—”

  “—spectacular, most ambitious play you’ve ever mounted,” I said. “Is it another historical drama?”

  “In a way. I’m writing the Aphra Behn play, Angel.”

  The play I had begged him to write for me, the role I had wanted so badly to play. The son of a bitch! It was my play. It had been my idea in the first place. I remembered the lively discussions we had had about it, my enthusiasm and encouragement, my disappointment when he decided to do the awful Mary, Queen of Scots play instead. I felt a sharp pang now. Bitterness? Resentment? Regret? A combination of all three, with a healthy dose of anger as well. I longed to stomp on his foot and throw my champagne into his face. I smiled instead. It was a very tight smile.

  “I’m sure it will be marvelous,” I said.

  “You always wanted me to do this play.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s going to be my best, Angel. I—I’m having a few financial difficulties at the moment, but I’m sure I can get it mounted. It’s going to put me back on top again.”

  His voice was determined, full of conviction. He had no idea I was angry and was so bloody dense and insensitive it would never even dawn on him that I might be. He hadn’t changed one bloody bit. I seethed silently, and then I realized how silly I was being. Poor Jamie. He would always have the power to rile me and set the sparks flying. My anger vanished, and I felt ashamed of myself for being so petty. I wished him well. I really did. I hoped the play would be an enormous success for him.

  I smiled again, warmly this time. Jamie smiled back.

  “You’ve done very well for yourself, Angel,” he said.

  “I—I suppose I have.”

  “A title, wealth, a place in the country, a mansion on Hanover Square—” He shook his head. “It’s a far cry from the house on St. Martin’s Lane.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “Do you love him?” he asked.

  I nodded. “He—he’s a wonderful man. He’s been very good to me. I’m very, very happy.”

  “I’m glad,” he said. His voice was quiet now, and the sadness was back in his eyes. “I love you, Angel. I suppose I always will, but I let you get away and—I’m glad you’re happy,” he continued. “I’m glad you have all the things I could never give you.”

  I’m not going to cry, I told myself. I’m not. I won’t.

  “Thank you, Jamie,” I said.

  “Guess I’d better leave now. Have to get back to that third act. Wish me luck.”

  “I—I wish you all the best,” I whispered.

  He smiled a brave, heartbreaking smile and looked into my eyes, and then he nodded and set down his champagne glass and left. I stood there, watching him move through the crowd, leave the room, and the party continued to swirl, bright and festive, colors blurring, everything misty, and I have no idea how many minutes may have passed before Megan came up to me and took my hand, her eyes full of concern.

 
; “Are you all right, luv?” she asked nervously.

  “I—why, yes. I’m fine.”

  “I saw you talking with him. I should never have placed his name on the list. I should have known seeing him would upset you. Here, take this handkerchief. Wipe your eyes. I don’t think anyone else noticed. They’re all too tipsy.”

  I took the handkerchief and dabbed at my eyes. Megan frowned.

  “Was he awful to you?” she asked.

  “Not at all. He—he was—Oh, Jesus.”

  “Let’s go upstairs, luv. You need—”

  “No,” I said. I gave the handkerchief back to her. “I’m fine now. It just—I’m all right now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded. I squeezed her hand. Then I went to find my husband.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The January sky was gray and dreary and frost was gathering on the windowpanes, but in the breakfast room at Greystone Hall everything was bright and cheerful. In Boswell Clinton had a table companion who could match him dish for dish, and they had already devoured a mound of eggs, a plate of sausages, half a ham, innumerable hot rolls with butter and preserves. Dottie contented herself with a kippered herring and a piece of toast, and Goldsmith nodded at the table like a sleepy owl, occasionally blinking at his plate of food and taking a bite. With coffee cup in hand and a silver pot nearby, I marveled at Boswell’s heartiness, Clinton’s enthusiasm. We had all stayed up very, very late last night talking, and I for one would have been content to sleep later, but Boswell and Goldsmith were leaving at ten this morning and good manners demanded I see them off.

  “Have some more bacon, Goldy,” I said. “You’ve hardly eaten anything at all.”

  Goldy blinked, yawned, smiled, nodded off again. Wearing the familiar old brown coat that was deplorably rumpled and much too large, a shabby mustard-colored neckcloth at his throat, he looked like a lovable, befuddled derelict, as indeed he had been of late. After the largess of the Haymarket revival slipped through his incompetent fingers, he had disappeared into another of those dusty rooms to scratch away at his articles, forgetting to attend Megan’s wedding and failing to tell any of his friends where he was staying. They eventually discovered his whereabouts and rescued him, and now Boswell was taking him to Scotland for a few weeks in hopes the trip would clear out the cobwebs. Poor Goldy seemed to have little say in the matter, amiably shambling along in the wake of the dynamic Scot.

  “—not at all worried,” Boswell was saying, “go where I please without a care. People in Seven Dials have a code, just like we do, and as long as you don’t break that code, you’re safe as houses. Thief in Seven Dials might slit a throat for tuppence, but he’d never squeal on a mate. I get along splendidly with all of ’em—they know I’ve got a sympathetic ear. Every man loves to gab about himself. Denizens of Seven Dials are no different. I’ve heard some hair-raising tales, I assure you.”

  “We heard quite enough of them last night,” Dottie informed him. “I, for one, would like to finish my breakfast without hearing about body snatchers and murderous fiends. Not all of us are fascinated by crime and criminals, my dear sir.”

  Boswell gave her an exasperated look. “You women are such squeamish creatures,” he complained, forking another sausage. “Very well, I won’t tell you about the severed heads—chap I met had a whole collection of ’em, let me examine the lot—but I must, I simply must tell you about The Grand Cyprus. Without question the most amazing fellow I’ve ever met. A great artist. I’d even go so far as to employ the word genius.”

  Dottie sighed and gave him a look. “I’m sure we’ll be enthralled,” she said dryly.

  “Lives in a hovel in Seven Dials, he does, dark, filthy place reeking with foul odors—both his rooms piled high with old papers and bottles of ink and a variety of exotic tools. He’s a forger. Show him a document, he can duplicate it. Tell him what you want, he can run it up—so perfectly executed it’d fool the greatest expert. Wills, birth certificates, bank notes—man’s incredible. Has his own press and a secret process for aging paper. You want something two hundred years old, he’ll fix it for you, paper’ll be yellow and brittle, foxed, you’ll swear it’s genuine.”

  “Fascinating,” Clinton said.

  “Utterly,” Dottie added.

  “The man’s an artist, I tell you. Does a brisk business and you’d be surprised at his customers. Some of the noblest names in the country have visited that filthy hovel, incognito, of course. Johnson lost a very important document a few weeks ago, and it was imperative he have it for his lawyer. He was in an uproar, making everyone miserable. I slipped off to Seven Dials and paid The Grand Cyprus a visit—next night Johnson located the document between the pages of a book. Fake, naturally. He never knew it. Neither did his lawyer. Problem solved simple as that. Really put one over on him. Irony is he found the original a week or so later.”

  “And?” Clinton inquired.

  “Raised bloody hell with me when I confessed what I’d done, then he roared with laughter. Couple of nights later I took him down to meet the man. Two of them hit it off at once, of course.”

  “Kindred souls,” Dottie observed.

  “Expedition made a fascinating entry in my journal—The Grand Cyprus like a ragged Buddah, Johnson like a bear, the two of them huddled together over the printing press, gabbing about type and techniques.”

  “When are we going to read these incredible journals you’re always talking about?” Dottie asked.

  “Oh, they’ll never be published. Much too frank and racy, keep ’em for my own edification. Enumerate all my sins, all the foibles of my friends. Some spicy entries about you, Angel. Wrote about the first time I ever saw you sitting on the dais in Gainsborough’s studio, looking like a goddess in your scarlet velvet gown. I made a cheeky remark—remember?—and you told me I could go take a—” He deliberately cut himself short, grinning broadly. “Thought my ears would burn. Gainsborough actually blushed.”

  “Tell us more,” Clinton pleaded.

  “Don’t you dare,” I warned.

  “You were an adorable minx back then—haven’t changed one bit. I have to confess, Lord M., I’ve always been madly in love with her, tried my best to win her. Wench wouldn’t give me a tumble. The minute I saw her I knew she was going to take London by storm—as, indeed, she did.”

  “It’s just as well those journals of yours are not going to be published,” I remarked.

  “It would be disastrous,” he said proudly. “Half my friends would be after me with cleaving knives. The other half would be quietly leaving the country. Inflammatory material! Soon as I finish one, I stash it away in a hiding place—have a secret cache of them in a castle in Scotland. No, the journals of James Boswell will never see the light of day.”

  Goldy snored loudly and tilted sideways, almost tumbling out of his chair. Boswell frowned and propped his friend back up and we finished breakfast shortly thereafter. At ten Clinton and I accompanied our literary guests out to the coach Boswell had hired for the trip. That gentleman was still chattering volubly, and Goldy was still nodding on his feet. Boswell shook hands with Clinton and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Goldy grinned and hugged me warmly, looking bemused. Both men thanked us for our hospitality.

  “Hope everything goes well with your case,” Boswell told Clinton. “Chap doesn’t have a prayer of winning. Harassment, pure and simple. They’ll throw it out of Justice High Court in record time—I know something about law, as you know. Shame the papers are making such a big to-do about it.”

  “It was inevitable they get hold of it,” Clinton replied. “I threw three chaps from Fleet Street off the property myself two days ago. One of them was actually trying to break into the house. Blacked his eye for him, marched him to the gates. Bradford can court them all he likes, give them interviews every other day, but I prefer to maintain my dignity.”

  “Smart decision. Stick to your guns. Case is coming up when—sometime in early March, right? I’ll be back in p
lenty of time to sit in on the proceedings. Can’t wait to see those six sober judges in their scarlet robes and long white wigs boot the bastard out of court.”

  He bustled Goldy into the coach and clambered in himself, closing the door and leaning out the window for a final good-bye. The coach pulled away a moment later, and Clinton and I waved, standing there on the front steps as slate gray clouds roiled in the darker gray sky. Clinton had enjoyed their brief visit, I knew, but he seemed preoccupied now, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark, the wind ruffling his blond hair. He was thinking about Hugh, thinking about the forthcoming court battle and brooding about the endless stories that had been appearing in the London papers. Involving as it did a Lord of the Realm married to a celebrated actress and a wealthy, mysterious stranger who claimed he was the genuine heir, the Meredith Case contained all the elements Fleet Street thrived on, and it had caused a sensation, driving even the bloodiest murders off the front pages.

  Hugh delighted in the attention he was getting and was constantly inviting journalists to the plush, luxurious apartment he had rented and giving them new fuel for their stories. I lived in terror he would reveal his former relationship with the new Lady Meredith. Wouldn’t the gents from Fleet love that little item. I took Clinton’s hand now and held it firmly as we watched the coach disappear around a curve in the drive. Although Clinton ignored the newspaper articles as best he could and tried to go on about his business as though nothing were amiss, I could sense the tension building up in him. An even-tempered man, he was finding it more and more difficult to contain his steadily mounting anger against the man who was trying to destroy him.

  “It’s chilly out here,” I said. “We’d better go back inside.”

  “What’s that?”