Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  Lost in thought, he hadn’t paid any attention to my words. I squeezed his hand and then linked my arm in his, leading him back into the foyer. He sighed and shook his head, smiling apologetically. I stood up on tiptoe and gave him a light kiss.

  “Sorry to be so distracted,” he said. “Had something on my mind.”

  “I understand, darling.”

  “Where’s Dottie?” he inquired.

  “In the sitting room, I believe. Said it was much too cold for her to go traipsing outside just to tell those two scoundrels good-bye. She made her farewells earlier.”

  “I’m so glad she’s come down to keep you company for a while, what with me being so busy with Burke. He’s coming down again this afternoon, incidentally, wants to go over some family records with me. He’ll be staying the night.”

  “I’ll tell Henri. I—I’ll be so glad when this is over.”

  “There’s no need for you to worry, my love. Burke and his team have been working around the clock, as you know, breaking down Bradford’s ‘evidence.’ As Boswell said, he hasn’t a prayer.”

  “Even so, it—it’s been a terrible strain on you.”

  “One copes,” he said, “and I fear I’ve been terribly moody of late. All those newspaper articles, all those bloody journalists sniffing around—it has been a strain, I admit it, but it will soon be over. Until then, I hope you’ll bear with me.”

  “You’ve been wonderful, Clinton.”

  “I’ve been a moody brute,” he said, drawing me to him, “but I’ll make it up to you when this is over.”

  “Oh?” I said lightly.

  “We’ve never had a honeymoon. Immediately after the wedding we came back here and I immersed myself in estate work. Dreadfully unfair of me. I’m surprised you didn’t leave me.”

  “I’d never leave you.”

  He kissed my cheek, the tip of my nose. “Come spring, we’ll take a trip, go someplace very romantic. Intimate candlelight dinners. Luxurious lodgings. Long, lazy days strolling hand in hand beside some sparkling blue lake. Long, lovely nights on silken sheets.”

  “It sounds divine.”

  He kissed the tip of my nose again and let me go. “But now alas, I need to go to my office and get things ready for Burke. I won’t be having any lunch today, not after that enormous breakfast. You and Dottie will have to do without me.”

  “What about afternoon tea? Will you and Burke be joining us?”

  “Depends on how things go. At any rate, I’ll see you at dinner this evening. Wear something lovely to impress Burke. I believe the fellow’s smitten with you.”

  He grinned and gave me a quick kiss, then sauntered off toward his office. I found Dottie in the small, cozy sitting room in back of the house. It was an intimate room, snug and informal, books and papers scattered about, a fire burning in the fireplace, a row of windows looking out over the back gardens. Dottie had ensconced herself on the comfortable deep blue sofa, sewing in her lap, a battered and much-annotated copy of The Country Wife on the table in front of her.

  “They get off?” she inquired.

  I nodded. “I enjoyed their visit. Poor Goldy—I hope the trip to Scotland wakes him up.”

  “He’s probably plotting another masterpiece,” Dottie said. “He’ll wander about in a daze for months on end, then hide himself away in one of those dusty rooms and write something like She Stoops To Conquer or The Vicar of Wakefield. Befuddled and absentminded he might be, but the man’s a genius.”

  “And utterly endearing.”

  “Which is more than I can say for your friend Boswell. How that man loves the sound of his own voice. He’s a brilliant conversationalist, of course, but the man does go on. You look a bit distracted, dear. Is something bothering you?”

  I stepped over to the fireplace to warm my hands. “I’m just worried about Clinton. This has all been very hard on him, Dottie. I—somehow I feel responsible.”

  “That’s ridiculous, my dear. You’re in no way responsible. Hugh Bradford would have pursued this even if you weren’t Lady Meredith.”

  “That may well be, but I feel he—he’s been much more vindictive because I am married to Clinton. All those stories he’s given to Fleet Street about being neglected and abused and living in ‘the stables while the golden boy’ lived in splendor. Those stories about Lord Meredith’s cruelty, his wife’s drinking, Clinton’s wild youth and wenching—” I cut myself short, frowning. “It’s all so sordid.”

  “And most of it is true,” Dottie pointed out gently. “Clinton was hardly a saint in his youth—you’ve told me so yourself—and Bradford did live over the stables. It’s in wretched taste, of course, but you really can’t blame him for making the most of it, vying for sympathy.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said.

  Dottie set her sewing aside. Her gray watered-silk skirts crackled. The purple velvet bow fastened to her pompadour was slightly crooked, and her mauve eye shadow was smeared. A heart-shaped black satin beauty patch was affixed to her left cheekbone. Her lips were a vivid pink. The eccentric theatrical makeup somehow seemed natural on her, emphasizing her mellow warmth, the compassion in those wise and lovely eyes. I was so glad she had decided to come spend the month with us. Her presence was a great comfort, easing the strain for Clinton and me both.

  “It has been hard on Clinton,” she said, “and he has been moody—angry, too, though he’s tried his best to contain it. That’s perfectly understandable under the circumstances, and all the more reason why you must be strong and supportive. He needs you.”

  “I know that,” I replied. “I—I mustn’t let him know how much all this upsets me. I must be as bright and cheerful as possible.”

  “You’re an actress, dear. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  Leaving the fireplace, I stepped over to the windows and peered out at the bleak gray sky filled with clouds. A breeze caused the evergreens to shiver in the gardens. The white marble benches looked bare and abandoned. Dottie got up to pour herself a cup of raspberry tea. She poured one for me as well, adding a spoonful of honey.

  “You and your raspberry tea,” I said fondly, taking the cup. “The remedy for all ills.”

  “It can’t hurt, dear,” she informed me. “This will all be over with soon enough,” she added. “I have great faith in that man Burke. A solid, sensible type, most reassuring.”

  She settled back down on the sofa, and I sat down in one of the overstuffed gray velvet chairs, feeling better already.

  “I have faith in him, too,” I told her. “I’ve no doubt we’ll win. The priest Hugh brought back to London to testify for him is eighty-nine years old and his memory is almost completely gone. He claims he married Lord Meredith and Hugh’s mother, yes, but Burke says any testimony he might give will be virtually worthless because of his senility. He did keep a daily journal—somehow or other Burke got a look at it, says it’s genuine—but there’s no record of a wedding ceremony, only a mention of the fact that the couple came to visit him and a notation of the sum of money Lord M. gave him ‘for services rendered.’ That’s inconclusive, to say the least.”

  “I should think so.”

  “There’s also a yellowing guest registration book from a hotel in Naples. It’s signed ‘Lord and Lady Meredith’ in Lord Meredith’s handwriting, but again that proves nothing. How many men take a woman to an hotel or inn for illicit purposes and sign her in as his wife?”

  “Legions, I should think. And that’s all he has?”

  “Basically. Burke says that in order to win the case he’d have to have a legitimate record of his parents’ marriage, a record of his own birth as well. No such documents exist, and I’m convinced they never did.”

  “So there you are,” Dottie said.

  She finished her cup of tea and took up her sewing again, her needle darting in and out of a piece of violet silk brocade. She told me about the visit she had made to Number Seven, Maiden Lane just before leaving London. The newly married Harts were
firmly established, the rooms freshly painted, furniture all in place. Megan was not much of a housekeeper, Dottie confided, which was no surprise to me, but a bit of dust and disorder only made the place seem homier. They had a cat, Kitty, to keep out the mice, and Charles himself had been putting new carpeting on the staircase, wielding the tack hammer with aplomb. He would be opening in April at the York, playing a dashing brigand in Her Secret Lover, and Megan had been offered several substantial parts, too, although she hadn’t as yet decided which one she would take. They were, of course, blissfully happy, bickering at each other constantly and loving every minute of it. It was, Dottie said, a match made in heaven.

  “Megan’s proud as can be of that gorgeous set of Sevres china and the silverware you and Clinton gave them for Christmas,” she added. “She refuses to use it, keeping it for ‘special occasions.’ They at off the old cracked pottery they used at the flat.”

  “I look foward to seeing them when we’re in London. Dottie—” I hesitated a moment. “Have—have you seen Jamie? How is he doing?”

  Dottie took a final stitch and then put her sewing down again. It seemed to me her expression grew guarded. “I saw him two days before I left London,” she said carefully. “He came by the shop. He’s finished his play. He let me read it. It’s magnificent, Angel, far and away the best thing he’s ever written. It’s witty and bright in places, delightfully droll, and there’s genuine feeling in the dramatic scenes.”

  “I’m so pleased for him.”

  It was true. I was pleased. I hoped he had a great success and received all the plaudits he deserved. He’d be impossible, of course, strutting around with an ego that would make Sheridan’s look small. I smiled to myself, visualizing him preening at Button’s, standing everyone to drinks. Perhaps he’d buy some new clothes, I thought, he sorely needed them, and perhaps, at long last, he would feel secure about his talent. I felt a tender warmth inside as these thoughts took shape, and the smile lingered on my lips. Dottie got up to pour herself another cup of tea.

  “It will probably never be produced,” she said.

  I looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

  She poured her tea and added a spoonful of honey, stirring it thoroughly. A frown creased her brow. “I didn’t intend to tell you this,” she said hesitantly. “I didn’t want to upset you—you’ve got enough on your mind at the moment.”

  “Tell me what?”

  She looked at me with sorrowful eyes, and I felt a sudden chilliness in my blood. It quickly grew into panic, and I gripped the arms of the chair tightly, so tightly my knuckles grew white.

  “What is it, Dottie? Is—He’s not ill? He’s—”

  I stood up. I could feel the color leaving my cheeks.

  “He’s perfectly all right,” she said, “although I daresay he’s not taking proper care of himself. He’s thin as a rail, and there are shadows under his eyes. He’s got a pallor, too, looks like he hasn’t had enough sleep, but that’s not what I was referring to. He’s in trouble, Angel.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Financial trouble.”

  Relief swept over me. I sighed, irritated with Dottie for alarming me so badly. Financial trouble! That was nothing new. He was always in financial trouble, and somehow he always managed to pull through. Damn Dottie with her sorrowful eyes and hesitant voice, frightening me that way. I gave her an exasperated look and sat back down while she took a sip of tea. I didn’t really care if he was having financial trouble. Served the sod right. Jamie Lambert and his troubles were no affair of mine, hadn’t been for some time. He’d pull through and find backing somehow and the play would be produced and some other actress would play Aphra Behn, the role I might seriously have considered killing for a year ago.

  “It’s serious this time,” Dottie said.

  “It’s always serious,” I said wryly.

  “You don’t understand, Angel.”

  “I lived with him for years. I understand perfectly.”

  “He’s going to lose The Lambert,” she said.

  “Lose The Lambert?” That took me aback. “How could he possibly lose The Lambert? It’s his theater. It was his father’s before him. It—why, it’s the very cornerstone of his life and career. It’s been shut down a couple of times when times were bad, but—”

  “He mortgaged it,” she said. “In order to finance Amelia Mine he put The Lambert up as collateral. The textile magnate from Leeds didn’t come through, Angel, backed out at the last minute, and Jamie went to a group of ‘private investors’ from The City, smooth, shrewd types who happily advanced him the money he needed in exchange for his signature on several papers.”

  “He didn’t?” I said.

  “He did.”

  “The idiot. The bloody idiot.”

  “He has until the end of the month to repay the loan, with interest. Had Amelia Mine succeeded, there would have been no problem, but—” She shook her head. “It was a foolhardy thing to do, granted, but he was so certain the play would succeed.”

  “The bloody idiot,” I repeated.

  I sat there fuming while Dottie gave me all the details of the transaction, providing names and specifics, and the picture grew bleak indeed. Whoever held those papers Jamie had signed owned The Lambert for all practical purposes, and unless he could come up with two thousand pounds by the end of the month, those smooth, shrewd gentlemen with offices on Threadneedle Street would boot him out completely and take over the theater themselves. I went white when Dottie told me the interest being charged. He would have done better had he gone to one of the criminal sharks in Seven Dials. Two thousand pounds! The son of a bitch was living in a squalid room and eating sardines when he ate at all and he didn’t have two pounds to rub together, much less two thousand. I longed to crack a vase over his head for being such a blithering fool.

  “This will destroy him,” Dottie said grimly.

  “It probably will.”

  “If he loses The Lambert he’ll lose all his spirit, all his will to go on. He’ll give up completely. He’ll become a ruin.”

  “It serves him right,” I snapped.

  “You don’t mean that, dear.”

  “I do, too. He deserves to be ruined!”

  I was furious with him, absolutely furious, for I knew in my heart that it would indeed destroy him if he lost his theater, knew he would be a broken man, all those dreams of his turned into dust. It was his own bloody fault for being such an idiot, of course, but that only made me angrier. I seethed all afternoon long, and by six I had begun to blame myself. If I hadn’t been so successful in She Stoops To Conquer, if he hadn’t been so determined to show me he could succeed without me, he’d never have done anything so foolhardy as signing those bloody papers. It was totally unreasonable of me to feel in any way responsible, I knew that, but the feeling persisted, along with the anger, and as I went upstairs to dress for dinner I had determined what I must do and decided just how I would carry it off.

  I dressed very carefully, selecting a rich red silk brocade with tiny flowers embroidered in a deeper red. The gown had full puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, a low-cut neckline and formfitting bodice. The waist was snug, the skirt spreading out in luxuriant folds over half a dozen red gauze underskirts. The gown was bold and dramatic, most unsuitable for Lady Angela but perfect for Angel Howard, and Angel was going to be giving a performance tonight. Opening my jewel box, I took out the diamond and ruby necklace Clinton had given me for Christmas. It was exquisite, large pear-shaped ruby pendants framed with diamonds and suspended from diamond loops, the rubies glowing with deep red fires, the diamonds flashing brilliantly. I put it on and fastened the matching ruby and diamond bracelet around my wrist, and then I stepped back to examine myself in the mirror.

  My hair was carefully styled with gleaming chestnut waves arranged artfully atop my head and three long ringlets dangling down in back. My makeup was perfect, eyelids brushed with subtle blue-gray shadow, high cheekbones accentuated with rouge, l
ips a deep pink. The jewels were stunning and, though undeniably provocative, the gown was spectacular. I felt rather wicked as I moved down the gracefully curving white staircase. Clinton was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, and when I saw the look in his eyes I knew that I had chosen the right strategy.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “You look incredible.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Definitely. That gown—I don’t believe you’ve ever worn it before.”

  “Not since we’ve been married,” I said demurely. “You said I should wear something lovely to impress Burke.”

  “The poor man’s going to be dazzled. I’m dazzled myself. Don’t know how I’m going to concentrate on dinner. I’m going to be thinking very, very wicked thoughts and counting the minutes until we can be alone.”

  “Perhaps I should go back up and change into something a bit more demure,” I said.

  “No time,” he said cheerfully. “Burke will just have to suffer, as will I. Did anyone ever tell you you were a positively delectable specimen of feminine allure?”

  “Not in those precise words.”

  “You are, my love. Believe me.”

  “You’re not entirely without appeal yourself.”

  He arched a brow. “Oh?”

  “I suggest we join our guests,” I said.

  Dottie and Jonathan Burke were waiting for us in the library. Burke stood up, solemn in dark brown suit and black vest and a jabot of starched white ruffles. His brick-red hair was pulled back and tied at the nape with a black ribbon. A sober, serious-minded man very much aware of his own dignity, Burke was always in control of himself, guarded in his responses, but I could see that he was indeed dazzled. A woman always can. Dottie looked at the gown, looked at me, lifted one brow and frowned, clearly wondering what I was up to. I stepped over to Burke and took his hand in both my own and told him how delighted I was to see him again. He made a polite reply, slightly discomfited by my effusive greeting. Dottie coughed. I let go of Burke’s hand. He stepped back and began to fidget with his jabot. He was going to present no problem. I knew that at once. Like many men who led quiet, relatively uneventful lives, he was intrigued by the colorful, glamorous world of the theater, which I represented to him, and though he might not react openly, he was not at all immune to feminine charms.