Angel in Scarlet (20 page)

Whips cracked. Horses neighed. A fistfight broke out between the driver of the cart and a burly footman who leaped down from one of the carriages, both of them yelling furiously. A swarm of urchins spilled into the street, snatching up the eels, and a plump dame with a beauty patch stuck on her rouged cheek pulled back the curtain of her sedan chair and peeked out to see what was causing the delay. Another exciting drama taking place right before my eyes. Happened all the time in London. Never knew what you were going to see. The color and noise and vitality of this huge, bustling metropolis was always fascinating, I thought, watching as impatient drivers bounded down to set the cart back up and separate the fighters. The footman's jacket was torn, the cart driver's nose bleeding profusely. He scrambled back up onto the seat, clicked the reins and drove on, leaving pieces of barrel and flopping eels to be ground under the wheels of vehicles that followed.

Underwood's print shop was in a dingy court off Fleet Street, crowded between a stationer's and a shop with windows displaying heaps of dusty pottery, a cat snoozing contentedly amidst them. A bell over the door jingled as I entered Underwood's. The place was filled with dust and clutter, boxes of paper stacked against the walls, ink-smeared rags on the floor, but there was a wonderful smell of glue and grease and old linen. Underwood's was shabby, true, but the work produced in its back room was of the finest quality. The playing cards we used had glossy blue backs, bordered with a rim of silver, a silver
M
in the center of each. Elegant, indeed, and designed by Underwood himself, a cantankerous old recluse who, it was said, hadn't left the back room in over a decade. Slept on a pile of rags beside his printing press, he did, food and necessities brought in by a series of assistants.

“May I help you?” a hearty voice inquired.

His current assistant stepped through the curtains leading to that mysterious back room, a tall, muscular blond with merry brown eyes and a most engaging grin. He wore a thin black leather bib apron over his coarsely woven white shirt and tan cord breeches. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, displaying forearms and biceps, and a wave of that thick blond hair dipped down rakishly over his forehead. His eyes filled with male appreciation as he studied me, and his grin broadened. I rarely saw that honest, good-natured appreciation in a man's eyes. Couldn't help but be flattered.

“I've come for some playing cards,” I said. “I'm Angela Howard.”

He arched an inquisitive brow, still in the dark. I could hear the printing press grinding away in the back room, its clatter punctuated by an occasional hoarse oath.

“Marie's Place,” I added. “Two dozen decks of playing cards were to have been delivered today. My stepmother sent me to see about them.”

“Oh,” he said. “
Her
!”

I smiled. The youth smiled, too, and then, his voice full of apology, informed me the cards wouldn't be ready for several hours. My distress was clear, and my expression caused him no small amount of concern. He explained that they were terribly behind, with a huge number of back orders to fill, and I gave him a woeful look and said I quite understood. He took a deep breath, made a decisive nod and promised me he would get right on them himself.

“Tell you what,” he added, “since you'll have to make another trip and as you've gone to so much trouble already, why don't we take a pound off the price? My way of making it up to you for the delay.”

“That—that would be very generous,” I replied, thinking hard. “I wonder if it would be possible for you to give me a receipt for the full amount? I'd be ever so grateful.”

He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Sure thing,” he said, and a few minutes later I left the shop with a receipt for five pounds, a pound to spend as I pleased and a promise that the cards would be ready by five o'clock this afternoon. Pulled a fast one on Marie, I had. Didn't feel the least bit of remorse, either. My stepmother would undoubtedly have the vapors and go into a swift decline if she knew someone had done her out of an entire pound, but I had bloody well earned it. I had earned myself a holiday, too, and I had the whole afternoon to do whatever I wished. Might go gaze at Westminster Abbey. Might stroll through the park and throw bread crumbs to the ducks. Might even visit one of the waxworks that were so popular—Mrs. Salmon's was said to be a wonder, with all the Kings and Queens in full regalia and hair-raising tableaux featuring savage aborigines.

I'd love to see the aborigines, but first, of course, I must pay a visit to Miller's on Fleet, just a short walk from here. Rarely had more than a few pennies to spend there. Who knew what treasures I might find today, with a full pound in my pocket? I turned onto Fleet and hurried past the booksellers' shops and printing establishments and cozy-looking coffee houses. Newsboys raced past, waving the latest broadsheets, shouting the news. Poets and journalists stood in front of doorways, ardently discussing literary matters. Plump gentlemen in wigs and frock coats idly examined the volumes piled up on tables in front of the bookshops, but I wasn't going to waste my time looking for bargains, not when Miller's was up ahead.

Miller was an enormously fat, lethargic chap who loved to read and, as a youth, hadn't been able to afford new books. Coming into a small inheritance some years ago, he had decided that there might be a great many people unable to buy new books, a great many others who would eagerly sell volumes they had already read, and he had gone into the used-book business, eventually opening the shop that had become a mecca for book lovers of every stamp. Miller sold everything, the finest classics, the most sensational thrillers, journals and magazines, too, all for a fraction of their original cost. Shopgirls flocked to Miller's to find vicarious romance for a few pence. Scholars searched industriously through the dusty stacks hoping to locate a rare tome long out of print. Oliver Goldsmith was a regular customer, and even the great Dr. Johnson was said to frequent the place on occasion, though he had harsh words to say about the dog.

The smell of dust and mildew assailed my nostrils as I stepped into the shop. Strong enough to knock you flat, it was, but that was all part of the charm. The gloom, too. The front windows were so dirty only feeble rays of sunlight seeped in, and Miller had a terror of candles. You had to be really passionate about books to frequent Miller's, for the shop was like a labyrinth, shelves covering all the walls and most of the floor space with only tiny aisles between. Books everywhere. Cramming the shelves. Piled on the floor. Stacked on the wooden steps leading up to a gallery that was itself so stacked with reading matter one feared it would come toppling down on one's head. The dog Dr. Johnson so detested thumped its heavy tail and yawned lazily as I came in. As big as a pony and as shaggy as a sheep, it was curled up comfortably on a nest of yellowing medical journals, its head resting on a battered copy of Dr. Johnson's famous dictionary. Perhaps
that
was why Johnson detested the beast, I thought, smiling to myself.

“Hello, Hercules,” I said warmly. “Remember me?”

Hercules thumped his tail a couple of times, yawned again and settled his heavy jowls on the enormous compilation of words. I entered the maze of bookshelves and was soon caught up, my eyes greedily searching out titles. Greek drama. Latin grammars. Volumes of sermons. Books on crime and punishment and botany and boats and every subject imaginable. Novels by the thousands, blood-and-thunder thrillers brazenly sharing the shelves with the finest prose, tepid romances leaning timidly against the bawdy works of Fielding and Defoe. Stacks of books on the floor made progress hazardous, but I moved deeper into the maze and soon came upon Miller himself, lolling heavily in an overstuffed chair with bottom sprung and nap threadbare, the poems of John Donne in his hands.

Miller looked up, blinked and shifted position, no more eager to stir himself than Hercules had been. Round face pasty, spectacles covering watery blue eyes, thin brown hair splayed over his brow in a monkish fringe, Miller brushed a fleck of lint from the lapel of his rumpled brown frock coat and adjusted his soiled tan neckcloth. A cup of cold tea sat on a stack of books at his side in a chipped saucer, a half-eaten bun beside it.

“Miss Angela Howard, isn't it?” he drawled lazily. Miller remembered the names of all his customers, even those, like me, who rarely came in and weren't able to spend much. “Haven't seen you in a while,” he continued.

“I've been very busy,” I replied.

“Browse on,” he said, waving a plump hand at the shelves. “Ring the bell up front when you want to pay.”

He took a sip of cold tea and immersed himself in Donne, and I wandered on down the narrow aisles, turning, finding myself near the book-laden steps leading up to the gallery. A title caught my eyes. I stopped, startled, unable to believe what I saw. I reached up and touched the dusty, faded blue binding, my fingers trembling.
A General History of The Most Famous Highwaymen
, by Captain Charles Johnson. My eyes were moist as I took down the battered volume and examined the thumb-marked pages. Yes, it was the very same copy Father had let me keep that afternoon over eight years ago when I had come home after my first encounter with Hugh Bradford in the gardens at Greystone Hall. Marie had sold it along with all the other books after Father's death, and it had turned up here, through some miracle, to be reclaimed at last.

I brushed away the tear that trailed down my cheek. No, I wasn't going to give way to the grief still in my heart, nor was I going to entertain the flood of memories the book brought back. My father was gone, and I had come to terms with that loss in my own way. Hugh Bradford was gone, too, not a single report of him since he had bound and gagged the footman and fled the stables two and a half years ago. The pain was still in my heart, the love as well, unreasonable though it be, and I tried never to think of those wickedly slanted brows, those moody brown eyes, the emotions and sensations he had stirred that evening under the stars.

The noisy rustle of skirts and clatter of heels shattered my reverie, and I was amazed to see a radiant, attractive young woman hurrying down the aisle toward me. Stumbling over a pile of unshelved books, she uttered a very colorful curse, her vivid blue eyes full of exasperation. Her long auburn waves bounced wildly about her shoulders. Her white silk frock had bright cherry red stripes and was cut extremely low. The heels of her cherry red slippers were extremely high. Something told me she was not one of Miller's regular customers.

“Quick, luv, I've got to hide!” she exclaimed. “Show me
where
!”

Without a moment's hesitation I took her arm and led her over to the wooden stairs and told her to crouch under them. She obeyed promptly, disappearing among the shadows. I caught a whiff of exquisite perfume and heard a sneeze as I turned back to the shelves, examining the titles with studied nonchalance. A minute or so later I heard heavy footsteps stumbling about the maze of shelves. “Megan!” a husky voice called. “I know you're in here somewhere!” There was a thud, a crash, the sound of books toppling to the floor, followed by a groan and an expressive “
Damnation
!” I listened, fascinated, as the footsteps began to tromp again, drawing nearer, and then a tall, ruggedly attractive chap with dark bronze hair and angry brown eyes appeared at the end of the aisle where I stood. He was wearing a superbly cut brown broadcloth frock coat and a yellow silk neckcloth, both garments decidedly the worse for wear and both quite dusty at the moment. The fingers of his right hand were ink-stained, I observed, and there was a smudge of dust on his cheek.

“
You
're not Megan,” he said. He looked thoroughly out of sorts.

“Definitely not,” I informed him.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Who?”

“Girl who popped in here not more'n five minutes ago. Perky little thing with long auburn curls and saucy blue eyes, wearing a frock with red and white stripes and a pair of preposterous red shoes.”

“Haven't seen anyone like that,” I lied. “In fact, I don't think anyone has come into the shop since I've been here.”

“You're
sure
?”

“Certain,” I said.

“Damn! I could have sworn I saw her come in here. Maybe it was the shop next door—I was halfway down the street when I spotted her.”

“It seems you've made a mistake, sir.”

“Yeah, guess I have,” he grumbled. “Damn. Left me flat, she did. Just up and left three months ago because I had to spend so much time working on my articles and couldn't squire her about town. Disappeared, she did. I've been looking for her ever since. London's a big city,” he added.

“I know,” I replied.

He shook his head, looking very unhappy now, and then he turned back into the maze, stomping about the place until he finally located the front door. I heard it open, heard it close, and then I stepped over to the stairway and informed the girl it was safe to come out. Skirts rustling crisply, she emerged a moment later with dust on her cheeks and cobwebs in her hair. Her blue eyes were full of admiration.

“You were
mar
velous, luv!” she cried. “I heard everything, and I couldn't have carried it off better myself. I've had
train
ing, too. Do yourself a big favor, luv. Never fall in love with a journalist.”

“I'll try not to,” I promised.

“Larry's actually rather sweet,” she confided, “but the moment he asked me to marry him I knew I'd better clear out while I still had a chance. Journalists are all a bit mad, you see. Think they're geniuses, the whole pack of them. Think a girl should sit at their feet in rapt admiration. I left him a
note
,” she added. “Some men just never give up.”

She pulled a mirror out of her reticule, let out a cry of horror when she saw her face and began to remove the dust from her cheeks with a handkerchief. This done, she brushed the cobwebs out of her hair and told me it had been terribly
spooky
under there, and then she smiled a lovely smile.