Angel in Scarlet (35 page)

“It seems James Lambert has finally met his match,” Megan said, sitting on the other end of the sofa and folding her legs under her. “I'd give anything to have seen it.”

“He's dreadful,” I said. “Such a bully!”

“But exciting,” she added. “There's a light in your eyes when you mention his name, luv. You're fascinated. I can tell.”

“He
is
fascinating, I won't deny it, but—I'm not at all interested. I've got far too much good sense.”

“Indeed?”

“A woman would have to be out of her mind to have anything to do with a man like that.”

Megan took a sip of tea, looking at me with those vivid blue eyes that were so wise, so knowing. I felt a bit uncomfortable, as though she had guessed some secret I didn't even know I had. She set down her teacup and burrowed into the softness of the sofa.

“You know my feelings about James Lambert,” she said, “but it's high time
some
one made you forget about the stableboy, luv. I haven't ever seen you look so radiant, so—excited. If Lambert can erase that sad look, that pensive air, I'm delighted. You seem to be able to handle him, and he's obviously interested in you.”

“He's not interested in
me
, he's interested in ‘Angel.' Don't think for a minute I don't know what he's got in mind.”

“What's that?”

“He wants to capitalize on my ‘fame.' He wants to put me on the stage.”

“Timothy said you seemed to be enjoying yourself vastly, tossing roses and blowing kisses. He said your ‘comic turn' was worthy of Peg Woffington, in her prime. He said you took to the stage like a bird takes to air.”

“It
was
rather fun,” I confessed. “I was terrified at first, felt sure I was going to faint, but—they
liked
me, Megan. I could feel it. I felt waves of affection and good humor pouring over the footlights.”

“They loved you,” Megan said. “And why not? You're young and beautiful, you've got charm, spirit, an engaging personality. I think it's terribly exciting, luv! When you become a famous actress you can get parts for
me
!”

Both of us laughed, and then I gazed at the shimmery patterns on the floor and thought about the events of last night. I
had
enjoyed myself, there was no denying it, and yes, I was attracted to James Lambert. He was a rogue, a dreadful bully, a villain, but … he was a terribly exciting man, devilishly good looking and curiously engaging, despite his penchant for melodramatic behavior. Beneath all that bluster was a charming, insecure, immensely gifted man who was bound to have a great many virtues. Dottie adored him, and that was a definite credit in his favor. Of course I could never go on the stage. It was unthinkable. I was much too shy, much too serious, and after what I had done to James Lambert last night he would undoubtedly go out of his way to avoid me. Just as well, I thought. Megan and I exchanged looks as we heard someone coming up the stairs.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

She shook her head. Someone began knocking on the door. I got up to open it, and he smiled a wonderfully engaging smile and handed me a giant bouquet of daffodils and daisies and mauve-blue iris and strolled past me into the room as though he owned it. Megan got up. She didn't seem at all surprised, but I was dumbfounded. Lambert gave her a friendly nod. He was carrying an enormous box of chocolates from the best shop in London.

“Daisies and daffodils in February?” I said.

“Hothouse grown,” he told me. “Got them at the Market across the street. Cost me a fortune. So did these chocolates.”

“How—how did you find out where I live?”

“Dottie. Had to choke the information out of her. Nice flat. What's that horrible smell?”

“Scorched hair and powder,” Megan said. “I'll take the flowers, luv. We must have a vase around here somewhere.”

She took the flowers from me and closed the door and left the room. James Lambert smiled again and handed me the box of chocolates. The box was blue and silver and quite heavy. I set it down on the table in front of the sofa, still dumbfounded. He was wearing a handsome black suit and a waistcoat of green and white striped satin and a white silk neckcloth. He looked dapper and expansive and wonderfully appealing with that rich brown wave tumbling over his brow. My pulses seemed to leap, and I found it difficult to compose myself.

“I can't believe Dottie would give you this address,” I said.

“Did it against her will. I had to squeeze quite hard.”

“I suppose I should thank you for the flowers and the chocolates, although I fear you've wasted your money—and your time. I know why you've come, and I might as well tell you right now that—”

“I came to apologize,” he said glibly. “I'm afraid I was rather rough on you last night. You were rather rough yourself,” he added.

“How—how are you?”

“I'll survive. There's a slight bruise on my jaw, as you'll notice if you look close enough, and I had a—uh—very uncomfortable hour or so, but I suppose I had it coming to me. I get carried away, you see.”

“I've noticed.”

“We made the newspapers,” he told me. “A couple of journalists just happened to be in the audience last night. One of them came backstage afterwards, engaging fellow, full of questions. I told him your comic bit was all planned, said I was writing a play for you, said you were going to become the most exciting, the most glamorous personality on the London stage.”

“How—how dare you!”

“I didn't give him your real name. I didn't know it. Dottie told me this afternoon. She also told me you were a sweet, sensible, levelheaded young woman who would flatly refuse to have anything to do with a scoundrel like me. I told her my intentions were strictly honorable. I don't intend to despoil you. I intend to make you rich and even more famous than you already are.”

“I don't want to be famous!”

“Of course you do. Sit down. Have some chocolates. I
am
writing another play. It'll be the most ambitious, the most spectacular production I have ever mounted. It's set in the fifteenth century and based on the life of Jane Shore, the beautiful young goldsmith's wife who became the mistress of King Edward the Fourth and ruled his brilliant, profligate court with her charm and winsome beauty. It has everything—drama, color, pageantry, love sacred and profane. You are going to be my Jane Shore.”

“I most certainly am not!”

Megan came back into the room and set the vase of flowers on the table beside the box of chocolates, and then she sat down in the cozy chair in front of the window and slung one leg over the arm, fascinated. I could tell she'd been eavesdropping.

“It's a magnificent part,” Lambert continued. “There's not an actress in London who wouldn't kill for it.”

“I'm not an actress!”

“You're going to be. I'm leaving for Tunbridge Wells next week, I've taken rooms there through May. I always go there to work—can't write in London, far too many distractions. You're coming with me. I intend to finish the play and teach you the rudiments of the acting profession. I'm a hard taskmaster, I must warn you, but I'm sure we'll get along swimmingly.”

“You
are
out of your mind!”

Lord, now the sod had
me
using verbal exclamation marks. I tried my best to calm down. It wasn't easy. Megan lounged there in the chair with a knowing smile on her lips. I longed to slap her silly.

“I think you had better leave, Mr. Lambert,” I said.

“You'll love Tunbridge Wells,” he informed me. “It'll be quiet the first few weeks, but when spring comes there'll be a crowd—families, old folks come to take the waters. It's beautiful in springtime, green hills all around, flowers everywhere. We'll go for walks on the Pantiles and sit on the verandah and make a holiday of it.”

“I am
not
going to Tunbridge Wells,” I said.

James Lambert looked at me for a long moment with those magnificent green-brown eyes, and then he smiled.

“We'll see about that,” he told me.

Chapter Twelve

Brilliant rays of early morning sunlight spilled across the verandah and through the open French windows to make radiant splashes on the polished hardwood floor. It was mid-April, and the sky was a pale, pure blue, the air soft and laden with the glorious smells of moist soil and flowers and new green leaves. I stretched and sighed, feeling lethargic this morning, feeling lazy, in no mood to work. I stepped to one of the windows and stood there for a moment, reveling in the sunlight and the air. Across the white banister of the verandah I could see leafy green treetops and the spire of the Church of King Charles the Martyr at the entrance to the Pantiles. People were already out strolling, on their way to take the waters at the spring or browse in the shops. Tunbridge Wells had a leisurely, serene air, everything quiet and calm and unhurried. It was much favored by cultured folk and the elderly and affluent who came to its famous spa. Our fellow lodgers in this elegant, spacious white house included a physician, a countess in her eighties, two wealthy matrons from Bath, a don from Cambridge and Mr. Thomas Sheridan and his daughter Betsy.

The house had been almost empty when we arrived in late February, only the countess and the physician in residence, and we had been given choice rooms. My sitting room and bedroom upstairs were large and airy, both opening onto the verandah, the sitting room done in creams and tan and brown, the bedroom in shades of blue and pale gray and white, with touches of violet. The place had a mellow patina of slightly worn elegance, as did the widow who owned the house and took in lodgers. The house was ultrarespectable and run with calm efficiency by the widow and a fleet of servants. James Lambert's bedroom and “studio” were on the ground floor, overlooking the kitchen gardens, as remote from my suite as possible. He had been coming here for years, and Mrs. Lindsey was quite fond of him, but she was taking no chances. She wasn't thrilled with the idea of my spending so much time in his studio during the day, but Lambert assured her we were working and invited her to pop in and observe any time she liked.

Sighing again, I slipped on my pale gray taffeta with narrow violet stripes and sat down at the dressing table to brush my hair. Dottie had been very sorry to lose me, claimed she had no idea how she would ever get along without me, and then she had informed me that I hadn't a stitch suitable for Tunbridge Wells and insisted we create a complete new wardrobe, to be paid for by Mr. James Lambert. That individual yowled like a wounded buffalo when he received the bills, but he paid them. Though she would miss me, Dottie loved the theater and said she knew I would be a great success. She also informed Lambert that his life wouldn't be worth tuppence if he harmed a hair of my head. No bullying, he promised her, no browbeating. He had an
investment
in me. Lying through his teeth, the sod. He had done nothing but bully and browbeat me ever since we arrived, but he claimed I was making wonderful progress.

Thought acting was simple, I had. Thought you just had to pretend you were someone else. How wrong I was. You had to know how to walk, how to sit, how to stand, how to speak, how to project. Thought I knew how to do those things. He informed me that I walked like a duck, sat like a hen, stood like an ostrich and had a voice that would shatter glass. I told him he could take a flying leap at the moon and said I was leaving for London at once. Lambert said I'd leave over his dead body. I said that might not be a bad idea. We fought quite viciously, and I was certain I had made a wretched mistake, but I finally agreed to let him begin his “training” and I did indeed learn how to walk, how to move gracefully, how to make simple, effective gestures without resembling a windmill. I learned to speak in a rich, melodious voice without sounding affected. That was extremely difficult, we were still working on it. He was determined to rid my voice of all traces of the country accent I hadn't even known I had. I was learning to project my voice without shouting.

Drawing the brush through my hair, I smiled. They had been grueling, those sessions. I had often been frustrated, often been furious, but I had never once been bored. James Lambert
was
a stern taskmaster, impatient, demanding, a terrible bully, but he knew what he was doing and he was a brilliant teacher, however brutal his methods. Being with him was marvelously stimulating, even elating, I admitted. Though he treated me like a recalcitrant, rather dim-witted child when we were working, away from the studio he was gallant, urbane, polite as he could be. Hadn't once tried anything improper. Treated me like a favorite sister, he did. Maybe all those stories I had heard about his romantic exploits were exaggerated, I thought.

And maybe I was more than a little disappointed.

There was a knock on my sitting room door. I set the brush aside and stood up. Gracefully. Not at all like an ostrich. I adjusted the tight elbow length sleeves of my frock. It had a modestly low bodice, a waistband of violet velvet and a full skirt that belled out over the half dozen pearl gray underskirts. He could wait, I thought, smoothing down the bodice. I felt that delicious anticipation I always felt of late, and I savored it as I toyed with my hair and deliberately delayed. There was another knock, louder, a bit impatient. I was on my own in the evenings—Lambert worked on his play then—but he always came up to escort me to breakfast, which we took in the spacious dining room downstairs. I delayed a bit longer, then left the bedroom, crossed the sitting room and opened the door, and, yes, that was definitely elation I felt as I looked at him standing there with a mock scowl on his face.

“Took your bloody time,” he said.

“I wasn't quite ready.”

“Why the fancy dress?”

“It isn't that fancy.”