Angel in Scarlet (36 page)

“Cost me a fortune, I wager. Worth it, though. You look quite enchanting, Miss Howard.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lambert.”

“In a saucy mood this morning, aren't you?”

“Saucy?”

“Perky. Pleased with yourself. Maybe it's the dress. You
do
look radiant this morning, Angel.”

“I wish you wouldn't call me that.”

“It's your new name. Get used to it. Angel Howard, the darling of the London stage.”

I stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind me. Lambert smiled an amiable smile. He looked wonderfully attractive this morning in black breeches and frock coat and a waistcoat of brown and black striped satin, a dark brown neckcloth at his throat. His hair was neatly brushed, still a bit damp from his bath, and he smelled of soap and pine-scented shaving lotion. I had grown to admire that slightly crooked nose, so much more interesting than a boring, regular nose would have been, so much more appealing. In fact, when he wasn't in a temper, when he wasn't indulging in histrionics, James Lambert was the most appealing man I had ever met.

“Shall we go down to breakfast?” he said.

He crooked his arm and I placed my hand in it and we started down the wide, sunny hall toward the staircase. He took long, athletic strides, confident as a lord.

“It
is
going to happen, you know,” he said as we started down the stairs. “You are going to be the darling of the London stage, no question about it. You have been an excellent student, a very hard worker, and you've made quite remarkable strides. I brought a lump of clay to Tunbridge Wells. I'll return to London with an actress.”

“Thanks. Every girl loves being called a lump of clay.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” he assured me.

“That's what worries me,” I said.

Lambert laughed quietly and patted my hand and led me into the dining room. The long mahogany sideboard was laden with silver-covered dishes and places were set at half a dozen small tables. The two matrons from Bath sat at one of them, sniffing with disapproval as we entered. Both ladies were convinced we were having a scandalous affair right under their noses, and Lambert went out of his way to agitate them, engaging them in long conversations, plying them with questions and pouring on the charm, delighted by their frigid responses. He waved to them now and bellowed a cheery good morning. Both ladies looked the other way. Betsy Sheridan sat at another table, busily scribbling one of her interminable letters to her sister Alicia in Dublin. Betsy was a charming, sprightly young woman devoted to fashion, gossip and books. Her father, Thomas, had been a great actor in his day, a rival to Garrick, and her brother Richard was interested in the theater, too, said to be busily penning a comedy that would make him one of England's greatest playwrights.

Lambert handed me a plate, took one himself and began to heap it with bacon and eggs and kippered herring and steamed mushrooms and buttered toast and chutney. I cringed, taking a couple of forkfuls of egg, one thin slice of ham, one sliver of toast. Lambert believed in a hearty breakfast to start the day, while I was content with several cups of coffee. A servant brought a pot to our table and, knowing my penchant, left it after he had filled our cups. I toyed with my food, drank the coffee with relish.

“You should eat more,” Lambert scolded, spearing a piece of herring. “You need fuel to start the body running properly.”

“Hideous thought,” I said. “At least I don't stuff myself with pastry and such, like some I could name.”

“I'd bash your head in if you did. One sow's enough for any man to have to cope with.”

“Poor Mrs. Tallent. What's she doing now that your play has folded?”

“It had a
very
respectable run,” he retorted defensively. “The delectable Mrs. Tallent is, I believe, desperately seeking employment on the stage, without resounding success. At last report she had put on another fifteen pounds.”

“Poor dear. You probably drove her to it.”

“I resent that, Miss Howard. I was the soul of patience with that harridan. Dottie was right. Coral Tallent was a mistake. Every man's entitled to one. I say, is that strawberry preserves in that jar? Be delicious on my toast. Shove it over, will you?”

I pushed the jar of preserves across the table. Lambert spread some on his toast and ate it with relish. I sipped my coffee, longing to ask him more about Coral Tallent. Had they had an affair? I assumed they had. One heard he slept with all his leading ladies, and she was certainly voluptuous. Would he attempt to sleep with me? Would I resist if he did? I drove the thought from my mind, telling myself that ours was strictly a professional relationship. He wanted me to play the lead in his new play and I thought it would be interesting to try my hand at acting and there was nothing between us besides a … a rather refreshing feeling of camaraderie. I finished my coffee and poured another cup, trying to convince myself I was relieved he had made no improper advances.

Young Miss Sheridan finished her letter and went out to post it, pausing at our table to compliment me on my dress. The two matrons left shortly thereafter with noses in the air. Lambert had a second helping of eggs, a piece of sausage and more toast with jam, then declared himself wonderfully replete. He suggested we take a stroll, as it was such a glorious morning, and I agreed, rather puzzled as he was usually eager to get right to work. I placed my napkin beside my plate, and we left the dining room. A few moments later we were standing on the large, shady verandah in front of the house, looking out over the sun-splattered green lawn.

“I love this place,” I said quietly. “It's so peaceful, so serene, like a haven after London.”

“Glad you came?”

“Most of the time.”

“I
have
been hard on you, haven't I?”

“You've been horrible,” I told him.

“And you've learned a great deal,” he said, leading me down the steps. “I am proud of you, Angel. There've been times, true, when I've longed to throttle you, a couple of times when I almost
did
, but as a whole you've been a marvelously satisfying student. Best I ever had.”

“Oh?”

“Don't let it go to your head, wench. You've still got a lot to learn. We have to work on your voice—I still detect a trace of hayseed—and I'm not altogether satisfied with your projection. More exercises in order there. Tomorrow we'll begin work on interpretation of character.”

“I thought you didn't want to begin that until you finished the play?”

“Plan to finish it this afternoon,” he said casually. “Just need to touch up the last scene a bit, tighten the construction, hone the dialogue a bit. Tomorrow we'll read it aloud together and discuss Jane Shore's character—her motivations, her moods. Did you read those books I gave you?”

“All five of them,” I replied. “I feel like I know her already, feel like I understand her.”

“Good girl,” he said, squeezing my arm.

We strolled past the gracious houses with their sunny lawns and vivid flower beds, past the shops and the Church of King Charles the Martyr. Dozens of people were parading slowly along the Pantiles—elderly ladies in pastel gowns and powdered wigs, querulous-looking gentlemen with gout, a scattering of young people here with their relatives. We joined the procession, strolling at a leisurely pace. With the colonnade on one side and a row of limes on the other, the Pantiles was a lovely walk, the surrounding hills spread with hazy purple and mauve shadows. Heads turned, for most of the people here knew that I had posed for
An Angel in Scarlet
. They were curious about me but much too genteel to intrude on my privacy.

“I received a long letter from Mr. Gainsborough in yesterday's post,” I remarked. “The exhibit has finally closed down in order to make room for another. The painting has been sold.”

“Oh? Who bought it?”

“Mr. G. didn't give his name. There was very heavy bidding, it seems. The gentleman who bought it wishes to remain anonymous and used a proxy to bid on it for him. He's a Lord and has a country estate—the painting will hang there in his drawing room. That's all Gainsborough would say. He's been sworn to secrecy. I find it quite odd.”

“The painting is very valuable. The gentleman in question probably doesn't wish to alert potential thieves to his possession of it. I'd steal it myself if I thought I could get away with it.”

“You would?”

“In a minute,” he told me. “Alas, as I'm unable to own the painting, I'll have to make do with the company of the wench who sat for it. Not too difficult a task, I might add.”

“You find my company pleasant?”

“When you're not being stubborn and temperamental,” he said.

“Temperamental? Me?”

“Ah, you have the artistic temperament, wench. No question about it. I've no doubt you'll turn into a monster, just like the rest of them.”

“I could never be a monster.”

“You've all the makings. Impudent, intractable, strong-willed, sassy, frequently foul-mouthed—you'll probably be worse than all the rest of them put together.”

“Only if you drive me to it,” I promised.

James Lambert laughed, and I felt lighthearted, felt joyous, felt much too happy just being with him, my arm in his. I wasn't in love with him. Of course I wasn't. I had far too much sense to allow myself to love a rogue like him. I wasn't in love with him, no, but I was attracted to him, strongly attracted, and I told myself that was only natural. James Lambert was a fascinating man, and I was only human. It had been a long, long time since that night under the stars. Lambert treated me like a sister. It was just as well.

“Want a drink?” he inquired when we reached the spring.

I shook my head and shuddered. Serious-faced grooms plunged tin dippers into an old stone fountain and filled the cups held out by the fashionably dressed crowd. The sulfurous, vile-tasting water was said to have marvelous medicinal powers, but the one time I had tasted it I had almost gagged, which had vastly amused Mr. Lambert. There were several older people in wheeled chairs, several using canes. In addition to the water, there were mud baths and a number of “treatments” available to the ailing and affluent. Betsy Sheridan dutifully carried a cup to her father who sat on a stone bench and looked glum indeed. Bored middle-aged women in modish gowns sipped the water as they strolled and gossiped about the latest scandals. Though sedate and respectable, Tunbridge Wells was a stylish resort for the
beau monde
.

“Get any other letters yesterday?” Lambert asked as we started back.

“Just a note from Megan. Her play is still running and she's still helping Dottie in the afternoons. Timothy has gone on tour with a repertory company and she has a new beau—nothing serious, she assures me.”

“What about you? Do you have a beau?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course'? I should think a beautiful young woman like you would be constantly surrounded by randy bucks.”

“I—I'm not interested in that sort of thing.”

“I find that hard to believe. Hmm, perhaps I've made a mistake. The woman who plays Jane Shore should know something about love, should have a certain experience.”

“I can play the role,” I said dryly.

“So there
is
a man?”

“There was. A long time ago.”

“You still love him?”

“I'm not sure. I—I haven't forgotten him.”

“He hurt you,” Lambert said.

“Badly,” I replied.

He said nothing more, in a thoughtful mood as we returned to the house. We paused for a few moments on the verandah, enjoying the fragrance of flowers, the clean air and cloudless blue sky. He was still thoughtful, his hands thrust into his pockets, a rich brown wave slanting across his brow. His full pink mouth looked taut. I longed to reach up and stroke it. I brushed an imaginary bit of lint from my skirt. I smiled as the physician and the old countess came out onto the verandah. She nodded regally, wearing black silk and a fortune in rubies despite the hour. The physician was quite solicitous, holding her arm firmly as they moved slowly down the steps.

“Congratulations on your play,” I said quietly. “I know you must be terribly pleased to have it so nearly finished.”

“I must get back to work on it immediately. You, wench, shall have the day off. No lessons. No bullying. No shouting matches. You deserve a little free time. What shall you do with yourself?”

“I don't know. Betsy has been asking me to explore the hills with her when I have some time. There's a particularly lovely spot she wants me to see. Perhaps I'll go with her today.”

“See you this evening, then. If I finish the play we might just have a bottle of champagne with our dinner.”

He went inside, and I sat on the verandah for a while, watching the morning sunlight spill over the railing, restless, a prey to conflicting emotions I knew had been gathering momentum ever since we left London. I listened to the pleasant drone of bees in the honeysuckle and tried to banish the emotions, and I was relieved when Betsy returned. The girl was delighted at the prospect of a hike, and after she had settled her father in his room we departed, taking a box lunch Mrs. Lindsey had generously packed for us.

Young Miss Sheridan was a charming companion, full of merry chatter, an intelligent and effervescent girl who was remarkably well read and
au courant
with all the latest news in fashion, society and the arts. We climbed Mount Ephraim, one of the gently sloping hills surrounding the town, and the exercise was invigorating. I felt rather nostalgic, remembering the long walks I had taken when I was Betsy's age. We reached the grove, which was lovely indeed, elms and planes spreading hazy gray-blue shadows over the sunny green grass sprinkled with small pink and mauve wildflowers. Through the trees, far below, we could see the town and the Pantiles and the race course where several riders exercised their horses, all of this looking tiny and toy-like from our vantage point.