Angel in Scarlet (72 page)

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
al
ways 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, lips 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.

I deliberately set about charming him. While the role I was playing might be best suited to the talents of a Mrs. Perry, I played it to the hilt but with considerably more finesse than that lady would have employed. Clinton was delighted that I was so vivacious, so considerate of Burke, so attentive. Dottie kept casting me dark looks throughout dinner, not taken in for a minute. Conversation centered around the theater—neither man cared to discuss the forthcoming legal battle—and I regaled Burke with bright and amusing anecdotes and he finally confided that he had seen almost all my plays and had been an admirer for years. Later, over dessert, he unbent enough to confess he had actually purchased a reproduction of
An Angel in Scarlet
.

“A remarkable painting,” he observed. “I wish I could have seen the original.”

“You mean you've never seen it? My husband purchased it—it's hanging in the drawing room. I'll show it to you myself.”

After the dessert plates had been removed I asked Clinton to escort Dottie to the library, where we would take our coffee, and, linking my arm in his, led Burke to the drawing room. Candles glowed brightly, the light imbuing the portrait with vibrant life. The pensive girl in scarlet velvet looked down at us, and I released Burke's arm so that he could move closer. He inspected the portrait for several moments, silent, and then he turned to look at me. The woman in red silk brocade smiled quietly, her eyes attractively troubled. Burke saw the troubled eyes, and his own were immediately concerned.

“Is something wrong, Lady Meredith?” he inquired.

I nodded, the helpless, hopeful female now. “I'm so glad to have this opportunity to speak to you alone. There—” I paused, a deliberate, theatrical pause that made him even more attentive. “There's something I'd like you to do for me if—if it's possible. I don't know all the legalities involved or even if you
could
do it, but—”