Angel in Scarlet (71 page)

“—not at all worried,” Boswell was saying, “go where I please without a care. People in Seven Dials have a code, just like we do, and as long as you don't break that code, you're safe as houses. Thief in Seven Dials might slit a throat for tuppence, but he'd never squeal on a mate. I get along splendidly with all of 'em—they know I've got a sympathetic ear. Every man loves to gab about himself. Denizens of Seven Dials are no different. I've heard some hair-raising tales, I assure you.”

“We heard quite enough of them last night,” Dottie informed him. “I, for one, would like to finish my breakfast without hearing about body snatchers and murderous fiends. Not
all
of us are fascinated by crime and criminals, my dear sir.”

Boswell gave her an exasperated look. “You women are such squeamish creatures,” he complained, forking another sausage. “Very well, I won't tell you about the severed heads—chap I met had a whole collection of 'em, let me examine the lot—but I must, I simply must tell you about The Grand Cyprus. Without question the most amazing fellow I've ever met. A great artist. I'd even go so far as to employ the word genius.”

Dottie sighed and gave
him
a look. “I'm sure we'll be enthralled,” she said dryly.

“Lives in a hovel in Seven Dials, he does, dark, filthy place reeking with foul odors—both his rooms piled high with old papers and bottles of ink and a variety of exotic tools. He's a forger. Show him a document, he can duplicate it. Tell him what you want, he can run it up—so perfectly executed it'd fool the greatest expert. Wills, birth certificates, bank notes—man's incredible. Has his own press and a secret process for aging paper. You want something two hundred years old, he'll fix it for you, paper'll be yellow and brittle, foxed, you'll swear it's genuine.”

“Fascinating,” Clinton said.

“Utterly,” Dottie added.

“The man's an artist, I tell you. Does a brisk business and you'd be surprised at his customers. Some of the noblest names in the country have visited that filthy hovel, incognito, of course. Johnson lost a very important document a few weeks ago, and it was imperative he have it for his lawyer. He was in an uproar, making everyone miserable. I slipped off to Seven Dials and paid The Grand Cyprus a visit—next night Johnson located the document between the pages of a book. Fake, naturally. He never knew it. Neither did his lawyer. Problem solved simple as that. Really put one over on him. Irony is he found the original a week or so later.”

“And?” Clinton inquired.

“Raised bloody hell with me when I confessed what I'd done, then he roared with laughter. Couple of nights later I took him down to meet the man. Two of them hit it off at once, of course.”

“Kindred souls,” Dottie observed.

“Expedition made a fascinating entry in my journal—The Grand Cyprus like a ragged Buddah, Johnson like a bear, the two of them huddled together over the printing press, gabbing about type and techniques.”

“When are we going to read these incredible journals you're always talking about?” Dottie asked.

“Oh, they'll
never
be published. Much too frank and racy, keep 'em for my own edification. Enumerate all my sins, all the foibles of my friends. Some spicy entries about
you
, Angel. Wrote about the first time I ever saw you sitting on the dais in Gainsborough's studio, looking like a goddess in your scarlet velvet gown. I made a cheeky remark—remember?—and you told me I could go take a—” He deliberately cut himself short, grinning broadly. “Thought my ears would burn. Gainsborough actually blushed.”

“Tell us more,” Clinton pleaded.

“Don't you dare,” I warned.

“You were an adorable minx back then—haven't changed one bit. I have to confess, Lord M., I've always been madly in love with her, tried my best to win her. Wench wouldn't give me a tumble. The minute I saw her I knew she was going to take London by storm—as, indeed, she did.”

“It's just as well those journals of yours are not going to be published,” I remarked.

“It would be disastrous,” he said proudly. “Half my friends would be after me with cleaving knives. The other half would be quietly leaving the country. Inflammatory material! Soon as I finish one, I stash it away in a hiding place—have a secret cache of them in a castle in Scotland. No, the journals of James Boswell will never see the light of day.”

Goldy snored loudly and tilted sideways, almost tumbling out of his chair. Boswell frowned and propped his friend back up and we finished breakfast shortly thereafter. At ten Clinton and I accompanied our literary guests out to the coach Boswell had hired for the trip. That gentleman was still chattering volubly, and Goldy was still nodding on his feet. Boswell shook hands with Clinton and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Goldy grinned and hugged me warmly, looking bemused. Both men thanked us for our hospitality.

“Hope everything goes well with your case,” Boswell told Clinton. “Chap doesn't have a prayer of winning. Harassment, pure and simple. They'll throw it out of Justice High Court in record time—I know something about law, as you know. Shame the papers are making such a big to-do about it.”

“It was inevitable they get hold of it,” Clinton replied. “I threw three chaps from Fleet Street off the property myself two days ago. One of them was actually trying to break into the house. Blacked his eye for him, marched him to the gates. Bradford can court them all he likes, give them interviews every other day, but I prefer to maintain my dignity.”

“Smart decision. Stick to your guns. Case is coming up when—sometime in early March, right? I'll be back in plenty of time to sit in on the proceedings. Can't wait to see those six sober judges in their scarlet robes and long white wigs boot the bastard out of court.”

He bustled Goldy into the coach and clambered in himself, closing the door and leaning out the window for a final good-bye. The coach pulled away a moment later, and Clinton and I waved, standing there on the front steps as slate gray clouds roiled in the darker gray sky. Clinton had enjoyed their brief visit, I knew, but he seemed preoccupied now, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark, the wind ruffling his blond hair. He was thinking about Hugh, thinking about the forthcoming court battle and brooding about the endless stories that had been appearing in the London papers. Involving as it did a Lord of the Realm married to a celebrated actress and a wealthy, mysterious stranger who claimed he was the genuine heir, the Meredith Case contained all the elements Fleet Street thrived on, and it had caused a sensation, driving even the bloodiest murders off the front pages.

Hugh delighted in the attention he was getting and was constantly inviting journalists to the plush, luxurious apartment he had rented and giving them new fuel for their stories. I lived in terror he would reveal his former relationship with the new Lady Meredith. Wouldn't the gents from Fleet love
that
little item. I took Clinton's hand now and held it firmly as we watched the coach disappear around a curve in the drive. Although Clinton ignored the newspaper articles as best he could and tried to go on about his business as though nothing were amiss, I could sense the tension building up in him. An even-tempered man, he was finding it more and more difficult to contain his steadily mounting anger against the man who was trying to destroy him.

“It's chilly out here,” I said. “We'd better go back inside.”

“What's that?”

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.”