Angel in Scarlet (68 page)

“How dare you come here,” I said.

“Surely you knew I would?”

“You must leave at once. My husband—”

“Your husband is with his legal counsel, Jonathan Burke, and they are in Burke's office—they've been cloistered there for hours. I checked before I came here. I didn't wish to cause you any embarrassment, Angie. I even gave your butler an assumed name.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.”

His wide pink mouth curled into a smile, and his eyes never left my own. “You're looking unusually beautiful, Angie.”

“And you're looking unusually prosperous,” I replied. “I suppose the Maria Theresa necklace must have fetched a fortune—even from your fence.”

“I had the necklace broken up and sold the diamonds individually. They did indeed net me a tidy sum, more than enough to meet my needs. You seem a bit upset, my dearest.”

“You must leave at once,” I repeated, “before Clinton returns. If he found you here—”

“He'll be with Burke for at least another hour, I should think, and that gives us ample time to talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about, Hugh.”

My voice was firm, as cool as ice, but I was trembling inside now, and I was desperately afraid I couldn't maintain this control much longer. Looking at that wide, curving pink mouth, those sharp, angular cheekbones, those dark moody eyes, I remembered, and the memories brought no joy, only pain and confusion. Hugh sensed my discomfort. The ghost of a smile played on his lips, and he strolled over to examine a painting hanging on the wall … the landscape Gainsborough had given me on my last birthday, depicting a daisy-strewn field behind a broken stone wall, feathery trees in the distance. I had hung it here in Hanover Square after Clinton and I were married, and a blush tinted my cheeks as I realized that Hugh and I had made love in that very field a year and a half ago.

He recognized it. He remembered, too. He gazed at it for a long time, and then he turned around to look at me. The confident, almost arrogant manner he had had before seemed to have vanished. His expression was strained, serious, his eyes dark with emotion, and he looked strangely vulnerable. He didn't speak, just gazed at me with longing and pain and bitter regret, and I wanted to go over to him and take his hand and tell him it would be all right. I detested myself for feeling anything at all for this man who had hurt me so badly, who would willingly destroy the husband I loved with all my heart, but the feelings were there. I might not welcome them, but I couldn't deny their existence. Compassion, concern, strong sexual attraction don't go away simply because one no longer wants to feel them.

“We had a good thing, Angie,” he said at last.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Hugh tilted his head toward the painting behind him.

“I remember that afternoon—the slant of the sunlight on the field, the smell of the grass, the way the daisies grew in clusters. I remember it all, and those memories sustained me during the months that followed. You remember, too. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I remember, yes.”

“Those days should never have ended.”

“You made your choice, Hugh.”

“It was something I had to do. I explained that. I hoped you would understand.”

“I understood all too well,” I told him. “I—I really don't care to discuss it, Hugh. I just want you to go. You should never have come here in the first place. It was a foolhardy thing to do.”

“You've succeeded beautifully, Angie,” he said.

“Succeeded?” I didn't understand.

“I left you and you were hurt and you wanted to hurt me, too. I can understand that—we're only human, after all. You tried to think of the thing you could do that would hurt me most and so you married Clinton Meredith—to spite me.”

“Is that what you think?” I asked.

“Why else
would
you have married him?”

“I happen to love him, Hugh.”

“I don't believe you,” he said sharply.

“It's true.”

He shook his head, unwilling to believe it, and when he saw the truth in my eyes his cheeks paled. He looked utterly lost, utterly bereft, and for a moment I thought he might actually faint. Never had I seen such naked grief in a man's eyes, and the fact that I was responsible for it made it even more painful to behold. Several long moments passed as he stared at me with that terrible anguish, and then he sought to control himself. It took a tremendous effort, but he finally succeeded. His cheeks were still ashen. His eyes were hard now, more black than brown.

“I love you, Angie,” he said.

“Don't. Just—please, Hugh, just go.”

“I've always loved you. There's been no one else. Ever. It's always been you. You love me, too.”

“I did. Once. I love my husband now.”

“I came here today to ask you to come away with me. Isn't that supremely ironic? I was going to take you away with me and help you arrange to get a divorce. It wouldn't be easy to obtain one, true, but it could be accomplished. You would be free then and we would live happily ever after. That's what I believed. That's what I was fool enough to believe.”

“I'm sorry, Hugh.”

“All my life he's had everything—everything that should rightfully be mine—and now he has you as well.”

“Give it up, Hugh,” I said.

“My position, my title, my estate—and now the woman I love. It's too much—” His voice trembled with passion, and the striking gentleman in velvet and lace became a youth again, the fervent, embittered stableboy with mud on his boots and dark fire in his eyes. “I could kill him! I could kill him with my bare hands. I'm going to win, Angie. I'm going to beat him. I'm going to get back everything that belongs to me—and that includes you.”

“I love my husband, Hugh. I intend to stand by him. I—I suggest you drop this folly before you do even more harm. The ‘proof' you think you have is tenuous at best—the word of a doddering old priest who can hardly remember his own name, the yellowing pages of a daily journal, not a single bit of evidence that could be called substantial. Clinton's legal team will rip you apart in court. Give it up,” I repeated. “Don't—don't cause yourself any more grief.”

He didn't seem to hear me. “He'll be penniless,” he continued, and his voice was full of conviction. “He'll be a pauper. You'll come to me then. We'll be married, and you'll still be Lady Meredith. We'll live in Greystone Hall together. We'll have everything I ever wanted for us.”

He fell silent then, looking at me, waiting for me to answer. I didn't say anything, and my own silence was far more effective than words could have been. Hugh frowned, stubbornly refusing to accept defeat. He drew himself up, passion contained now, emotion held in check. I stepped over to the door and stood beside it, waiting for him to leave. He touched his lace jabot and straightened the lapels of his black velvet frock coat, that confident facade back in place.

“Please leave, Hugh,” I said. “Clinton might return any minute now. I don't want him to find you here.”

“He doesn't know, does he?”

“He has no idea. It—it would distress him terribly if he were to find out.”

“I can understand that,” Hugh said.

“Please leave,” I repeated.

He hesitated a moment, then nodded curtly. He followed me into the foyer, and I was relieved to find that Putnam wasn't on hand. Hugh opened the front door and paused, looking at me with cool black-brown eyes that nevertheless reflected a fierce determination.

“It isn't over between us, Angie,” he told me. “It will never be over between us.”

He left then and a moment later I heard a carriage pulling away. I felt a wave of relief, far more shaken by his visit than I had first realized, but when Clinton returned half an hour later I was beautifully composed, at least on the surface. He was in a very good mood, more confident than ever that we would win the case with ease. We celebrated that evening by going out to the theater and for a late dinner afterward, and by the time we finally got back home I felt much better, convinced that Hugh would make no further attempt to see me. Caught up in the excitement of Megan's wedding, helping her with all the arrangements, I had little time to think of Hugh's visit in the days that followed, but, addressing invitations to the reception from a list Megan had given me, I had good reason to think about someone else.

Oh, God, will my past never stop haunting me, I thought as I saw Jamie's name on the list. Naturally he would be on the list. Megan and Charles had been in a number of his plays, and he and Charles were jolly good friends. I hesitated, feathery quill poised over silver inkwell, the elegant cream envelopes stacked in front of me. He would have to be invited, no question about it, and it could mean a tricky situation indeed. Clinton knew about him, of course—our relationship had scarcely been a secret during those years I had performed at The Lambert—even though neither of us had ever referred to it. Frowning, I dipped the quill into the inkpot and addressed the envelope. All three of us were adults, all three highly civilized, and if Jamie came to the reception all three of us would be terribly polite. Clinton would undoubtedly shake his hand and welcome him warmly, pretending Jamie was merely another guest, and, moody and volatile though he might be, Jamie would never dream of doing or saying anything that might cause me embarrassment. He would be the perfect gentleman.

Slipping the invitation into the envelope, I sealed it and put it on top of the others I had already addressed. They went out early the next morning, each hand-delivered by footman in the Meredith livery. Henri and his helpers arrived from Greystone Hall three days later to take over the kitchen and begin preparations for the variety of dishes to be served at the reception. My husband was wonderfully tolerant of the chaos that seemed to prevail as cases of champagne were delivered, as florists arrived, as Mrs. Rigby bustled about riding herd on a flock of housemaids. I was reminded of the preparations for our ball. At least this time I could be sure our guests would arrive.

Thursday dawned cool and clear, the December sky over London a pale gray-white, winter sunlight sparkling vividly. Charles and Jack Wimbly arrived at Hanover Square at two, having apparently consumed a liquid lunch, I observed. Jack was full of lively good humor, cracking bawdy jokes, and Charles wore an inebriated grin, looking sleepy and lethargic and rather dazed. They were to don their wedding attire here and drive to St. Paul's with Clinton while Dottie and I got Megan ready for her big day. As a footman took my own wedding attire out to the carriage, Clinton suggested to the men that they all have a glass of champagne. Jack greeted this suggestion with enthusiasm. Charles grinned tipsily and sat down heavily.

“Black coffee might be better,” I said dryly. “Charles looks like he's already had quite enough.”

“You go on about your business, luv,” Jack told me. “We'll get him to the church.”

“Sure we will,” Clinton added.

“It might be nice if he were able to stand at the altar.”

“Doomed,” Charles groaned. “Doomed.”

“Cheer up, mate,” Jack said. “More champagne's on the way.”

I arrived at their flat thirty minutes later. There was a new selection of wigs in the windows of Brinkley's and the old green door beside them needed a new coat of paint, but everything else looked the same. I felt another tug of nostalgia as I climbed the dark enclosed stairs, the footman following with my clothes. Dottie opened the door for us, looking thoroughly exasperated. She took the garments from the footman and, when he had gone, informed me that Megan was being absolutely impossible.

“Flatly refuses to come out of her room,” she said.

“Doesn't surprise me at all,” I replied. “It's going to be a very long day.”

I went down the hall and pounded on the bedroom door while Dottie put my clothes in the guest bedroom.

“Megan, dear,” I called. “It's me. If you don't come out of there immediately Dottie and I are both leaving. You have exactly two minutes to get your ass into the living room.”

Dottie and I were having a cup of her perennial raspberry tea when, sulky, resentful, our friend dragged herself into the living room. She was wearing a ruffled white cotton petticoat, and her hair, newly washed, spilled over her shoulders in glistening auburn waves. She smelled of scented soap, and I was relieved to know that at least we wouldn't have to bathe her. Dottie ignored her, taking another sip of tea.

“You both might as
well
leave,” she said. “I'm not getting married today.”

“Oh?” I inquired.

“It's entirely out of the question. Who
needs
to be married? I'm much too young to be tied down. It'll be better for everyone concerned if I just pack my things and sneak out of town. Charles will be a bit disappointed, of course, but it won't take him long to find a replacement.”

“It probably won't,” I agreed.

“That pretty Mrs. Leigh has her eye on him,” Dottie remarked, “has had for a long time. She'll be delighted. I don't believe you've ever met her, Angel. She has silver-blonde hair and huge brown eyes and the kind of figure men go wild over—looked enchanting in that pink velvet gown I made for her to wear in
Calista
. An ingenue, barely eighteen.”

“Eighteen my ass!” Megan protested. “The little slut's a
good
twenty-seven.”

“Anyway, my dear, I'm sure she'll appreciate your giving up Charles this way, leaves the field open for her. When I was fitting her she confided that she'd do anything to get him—those brown eyes of hers were positively gleaming with anticipation.”

Dottie smiled sweetly and took another sip of tea. Megan shot her a murderous look and then emitted a disgusted sigh.