Angel in Scarlet (26 page)

“You were jealous?”

“Not in the least,” Megan replied, kneeling down to go through some boxes on the floor. “I just thought Larry had more
taste
. I do hope he's happy. He seemed very pleased with her.”

“Did he see you?”

“I darted behind a tree.
Here
they are, a whole box full. I don't know what's happening to me,” she declared, rising and handing me the box. “Four whole months without a serious romance. Next thing you know I'll be joining a
nun
nery.”

“What about that handsome young actor you've been seeing now and then?”

“You mean Timothy? He's just a good friend, luv. I'd never allow myself to fall in love with an actor. Talk about ego—Lord, they're even worse than journalists!”

“Those who've come into the shop would certainly seem to be, although Mr. Garrick was nice.”

“Always worrying about their looks—worry about bumps, worry about balding, worry about gaining weight. Worry about their voices, too. Most of them have hysterics when it's damp, won't go out unless they've got at least two or three scarves wrapped around their throats. Never,
never
fall in love with an actor.”

“It's not likely I shall.”

“Timothy's sweet, though, like a big brother. He's taking me to Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens on Saturday, luv. I wish you'd come along. You need to get out a bit—it isn't healthy, staying cooped up in the flat every night. Timothy'll get you an escort, he has ever so many chums, and you can wear a
mask
. Lots of ladies do at Ranelagh.”

“We'll see,” I said.

Megan shook her head. “I worry about you, Angela. I really do. A girl as lovely as you should have a dozen beaux, should be going out several times a week. I know you had a very unpleasant experience with that stableboy you told me about—the one who had his way with you and then skipped—and I realize your encounters with that handsome Lord Meredith weren't exactly thrilling, but not
all
men are like that.”

“No?”

“Well—” Megan hesitated. “There are a few good ones out there, I feel
sure
of it.”

I smiled. Megan did, too.

“You just have to keep looking for them,” she said. “And neither of us is getting any
younger
, luv.”

“I'd be content to be six months older.”

Megan started to say something when a loud noise out front startled both of us. Someone had slammed the door so violently that boxes actually tumbled from the shelves. “
Mrs. Gibbons
!” an angry voice roared. Megan and I hurried to the curtain to peek out between the central part. A very tall, very striking man in his mid-thirties was standing in the middle of the shop, waving a fist in the air and looking ready to commit several murders. He had glossy, unruly brown hair and a wide, full mouth and a slightly crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken at least twice. His green-brown eyes seemed to flash with emerald fire. “Mrs. Gibbons!” he roared. “
Dottie
! Get your plump ass out here
at once
!”

“Who's that?” I whispered, peeking through the curtains.

“James Lambert, theatrical manager,” Megan said dryly. “The monster of Covent Garden.”

“Oh, it's you, Lamb,” Dottie said, strolling toward him with her cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit. “I figured it must be. All that racket. I was right over there all the time. You needn't have
thundered
so.”

“I'm going to kill you!” he cried. “I really am. I'm going to strangle you with my bare hands!”

“Tut,” she said, taking a sip of tea.

“I mean it, Dottie! This time you've gone altogether too far!”

Dottie was totally unperturbed. “What have I done?” she inquired.

“What have you done? What have you
done
! You've
ruined
me! My play is opening day after tomorrow, as you bloody well know, every seat sold out, the most ambitious, the most spectacular play I've ever mounted, and today I plan the first dress rehearsal to see how the costumes work and the enchanting Mrs. Tallent—who has a decided
lack
of it but sells tickets nevertheless—takes down her first act costume and has a shrieking fit and vows she won't put one foot on stage in
gray
velvet!”

“Silver-gray,” Dottie corrected him. “You selected the cloth yourself, Lamb.”

The man banged his fist on a worktable. A pair of scissors fell to the floor with a noisy clatter. Megan repressed a giggle. I watched with horrified fascination as he picked up a bolt of velvet and hurled it to the floor. Dottie sipped her tea and nibbled her biscuit, letting him seethe. He wasn't at all handsome, not with that crooked nose, but he was undeniably arresting, crackling with virile presence. He wore black pumps and white silk stockings and knee breeches and frock coat of black broadcloth, his waistcoat rich plum-colored satin. His ruffled white jabot was limp. The garments were superbly cut but looked as though he'd slept in them. He banged his fist on the table again, his eyes still flaming green fire.

“I selected
blue
! Mrs. Tallent has
blue
eyes and wanted a
blue
gown and an aigrette of
blue
ostrich plumes and you do it in
gray
! Now the minx won't budge from her dressing room and vows she'll stay there until she gets a blue gown!”

“You told me she wanted blue, vivid blue, Lamb, I remember it distinctly, and I tactfully suggested that since she is a widow in the first act and supposedly in mourning a pretty gray velvet gown might be more appropriate. You agreed with me. You said you were bloody good and tired of that slut running the show and she'd wear gray and like it or you'd put a boot up her ass. You were quite definite about it,” she added.

“You're lying! I said no such thing!”

“Don't snap those eyes at me, Jamie Lambert. Don't wave your fist in my face, either. I gave you your banana pudding when you hadn't a tooth in your mouth—fed you and your brother, too, I did—and I changed your wet nappies as well. If your father had any sense, I might well have been your mother instead of that poor creature who died giving birth to you.”

“That has nothing to do with it!”

“How does Bobby like America?”

“Robert is doing brilliantly well in America. They love him. They love his company. Philadelphia is mad for him. Boston and New York, too. I well may be sailing for the Colonies my
self
if this mess isn't straightened out at once. What am I going to
do
, Dottie?”

“I suggest you put a boot up her ass, dear,” she told him. “Coral Tallent is an ungifted amateur who hasn't a single thing going for her except a passably pretty face and a pair of remarkable breasts. The former is already beginning to show signs of wear and the latter have begun to sag. I told you when you signed her you'd having nothing but trouble.”

“You
never
like my actresses.”

“You never
hire
actresses. You hire pretty young nobodies you can bully and browbeat and terrify into giving a performance, and when they're successful you feel ever so important because you made them what they are, and when, inevitably, they rebel, you're totally befuddled and haven't an inkling
why
. It's happened time and time again.”

“You make me sound like a monster!”

Dottie took a final sip of tea and set the cup down. “You
are
a monster, dear,” she said fondly, “albeit most endearing. So was your father. I suppose that's why he was the only man I ever really loved. I will not make another gown in blue, Lamb. I couldn't possibly have it ready in time. If Mrs. Tallent persists in her demands seize her by the hair, drag her down the hall and boot her out the stage door.”

Lambert lowered his lids, placed an index finger on his jaw and reflected a moment. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I just might do that. I'd have to break down the dressing room door first, though.”

“The exercise would do you good, dear.”

James Lambert grinned, and at that moment he did indeed look most endearing, like a naughty, overgrown boy. He flung his arms out and grabbed Dottie in an exuberant hug, rocking her plump body and squeezing so tightly she gave a cry of protest. He released her, still grinning.

“You're so rough and rowdy,” she grumbled, frowning quite unconvincingly. “You always were, even as a boy. Don't know your own strength. You almost cracked my ribs, Jamie Lambert!”

He chucked her double chin. “They're well padded, love.”

“Get out of here!” she said crossly.

Lambert gave her another quick hug and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek and started toward the door. “And get those clothes pressed!” Dottie called as he flung open the door, stepped outside and slammed the door shut. Another box tumbled off the shelf. My word, the man's a human tornado, I thought, letting the curtain drop back into place.

“So now you've seen the great James Lambert,” Megan said in a dry voice. “He's been in a couple of times since you started work here, but you were apparently upstairs at the time. Lucky you,” she added.

“You obviously don't care for him.”

“I was a super in one of his productions a few seasons back—that Egyptian drama I told you about. Once was enough, believe me. A girl could get killed working for him.”

“Oh?”

“Once I was a few seconds late making my entrance with the other slaves, my sandal had come loose, and when the act was over he grabbed me by the arms and shook me so savagely I thought my teeth would fall out. I had bruises on my arms for days. He's a terrible bully.
He
calls it being a perfectionist, of course.”

“What kind of plays does he put on?” I inquired.

“His own. He's a playwright, too. Flamboyant melodrama invariably featuring a beautiful woman who claws and climbs her way to the top against some colorful historical background. An occasional risque comedy, though he's not as successful with those. His plays are very popular with the rowdier crowd, they flock to ogle his latest discovery. His latest discoveries rarely last more than a couple of seasons.”

“Dottie seemed quite fond of him.”

“Oh, Lambert has charm,” Megan admitted. “When he chooses to employ it, that is. The women are wild for him, constantly chasing after him, as though he were some magnificent prize. More than one titled lady has lost her heart and her head over him. Treats them like dirt, he does, and they come running back for more.”

“How odd,” I remarked.

“Not really, luv. I loathe the man and will never step foot in his theater again, but I'll be the first to admit he's the most exciting man in Covent Garden. He's brilliant, volatile, mercurial—and rakishly good-looking as well.”

“With that nose?”

“That nose keeps him from being
too
good-looking, makes his face all the more interesting. He's not my cup of tea, far from it, but I can see why women grow weak in the knees when he walks into a room. I've got to go pick up some more black lace, luv.”

“And I've got to start sewing these seed pearls on.”

“Do think about Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens on Saturday, Angela. We'll be leaving in the early afternoon and stay till midnight. You'll love the rotunda and the pavilion, and the gardens by moonlight are gorgeous. Timothy will find you a safe, charming escort and we'll have a marvelous time.”

“Perhaps. I'll let you know.”

The shop seemed unusually quiet after the thundering Mr. Lambert's departure. I picked up the boxes that had tumbled to the floor and put them up on the shelf. Dottie was at her table, carefully cutting a huge swath of gleaming pink and gold brocade. I resumed my work, painstakingly edging the floral patterns with the narrow strands of seed pearls, and I was soon immersed in the job. The rays of sunlight turned dark gold, began to fade, and I was surprised when Dottie tapped me on the shoulder and said it was time to close up. I could hear the other girls chattering as they came down the stairs. I told Dottie I'd like to finish the gown tonight and asked if it would be all right for me to take it home.

“Bless you, dear, it would be an enormous help—I'd like to get started on those fairy costumes tomorrow—but I feel terribly guilty about it. You're always taking work home.”

“I enjoy working, Dottie.”

“I know, Angela, but there's more to life than work. A girl as pretty, as young as you should be having some fun as well. You should be jaunting about town with a good-looking young beau now and then, going out to the theater, going out to dine. I worry about you.”

“You, too,” I said wryly.

“Take the gown home if you wish, dear, but you're having the whole day off Saturday. Is that understood?” Dottie shook her head and stared dreamily into space. “I declare, I've no idea how I ever got along without you,” she said once more.

I did take Saturday off, but I did not go to Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens. Megan was disappointed and looked regretful when she and the amiable Timothy departed around three. We had spent the morning cleaning the flat, had gone out and purchased a rather dilapidated second hand dusty-rose sofa which Timothy and a couple of his friends had hauled up to our large sitting room. I sat on it now, a book in my lap, but I didn't read. The flat seemed unusually still and, yes, lonely without Megan swirling about and making wry, humorous remarks. I almost wished I had gone with them. I
could
have worn a mask like some of the ladies did, and perhaps I would even have enjoyed myself. I needed to have some fun, Dottie and Megan insisted. Perhaps I did. How long had it been since I had really enjoyed myself? Not … not since Hugh Bradford abandoned me. Not since my father died.

I gazed at the patterns of sunlight playing on the uneven hardwood floor, fresh scrubbed but grayish-tan with age. We would have to buy a rug next, as soon as we had a pound or so to spare. I had spotted a dandy one at the used furniture shop, faded blue and pink with green leaves and Chinese chrysanthemums, only two pounds, but the sofa had temporarily depleted our funds. I should have asked the man to hold it for us, I reflected, and then I found myself on the verge of tears, and that disturbed me. I detested people who sat around feeling sorry for themselves. I had been very, very fortunate. I had a wonderful job, a comfortable flat in a charming part of London, new friends as well. Though still nervous about Marie and the possibility of being found and clapped into prison, I was content with my new life.