Angel in Scarlet (59 page)

“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
ner
vous, 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.

“You're very quiet tonight,” Clinton said nine hours later.

It was after one o'clock in the morning and we were driving back to Leicester Fields in his lovely white and gold carriage. I was sitting across from him, the wide skirt of my violet-gray satin gown spread out on the seat. I was wearing the diamond and sapphire necklace Clinton had given me, and he was pleased by that, for this was the first time I had worn it. Moonlight streamed through the windows of the carriage. The silver haze burnished his pale blond hair, gleamed on the lapels of his white satin frock coat, softly brushed his handsome face.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I—I haven't felt too vivacious tonight.”

“Perhaps you didn't enjoy the Russian caviar,” he suggested.

“The caviar was magnificent, Clinton. I could develop a taste for it quite easily.”

“Perhaps it was the champagne.”

“The champagne was delicious.”

“Perhaps it was the company, then,” he said.

“The company was the best of all. I—I can't tell you how much your kindness, your courtesy, your thoughtfulness have meant to me tonight. I must be the most fortunate woman in London to have so—so wonderful a companion.”

“I'd like to be more than a companion, Angela,” he said quietly. “Surely you must know that.”

I looked at him, feeling very vulnerable, feeling very grateful for all his kindness, all his patience, and I knew I couldn't refuse him, nor did I want to. I had loved two men, foolishly, fervently—for, yes, I had loved Jamie, too, I admitted that now—but neither of them had loved me like this man did, nor had either of them shown one tenth the consideration or concern for my happiness. I didn't love him, no, but I wanted very much to make him happy.

The carriage turned quietly into Leicester Fields and pulled up in front of Number Ten. The footman leaped down and held the door open for us, and Clinton handed me down, holding my hand lightly. Moonlight silvered the yard. My satin skirt rustled softly as he led me up the pathway to the door. A light was burning in the foyer. Tabby was undoubtedly waiting up for me, but she would vanish discreetly when she saw I had a guest. We stopped in front of the door. The lilacs were blooming, scenting the air with their fragrance.

Neither of us spoke. Clinton took my hand and pressed it gently and looked into my eyes. He saw my answer there. He let go of my hand and rested his on my shoulders and then, tilting his head slightly, leaning down, he kissed me and I curled my arms around his shoulders, returning the kiss with a tenderness that matched his own. I felt his need, felt mine as well. Clinton pulled back, and I rested my hand on his cheek.