Angel in Scarlet (37 page)

We ate our lunch—boiled eggs, sliced tongue on buttered bread, delicious cheese, tiny oatmeal cakes with creamy white frosting—and drank the small jars of milk Mrs. Lindsey had thoughtfully put in. Betsy asked me all about modeling for Gainsborough, whose work she admired, and said she thought it was ever so exciting I was going to become an actress. She adored the theater and her brother did, too. He was going to be
very
famous one day soon, she confided. Betsy obviously worshiped this brother. Though still in his early twenties, he had already penned innumerable pieces for the theater and was working on a play to be called
The Rivals
which she just knew would make him immortal.

“Just think,” she said. “He might write a play for
you
one day, Angel.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, indulging her.

We lolled in the sunshine for a while, Betsy chattering nonstop about various plays she had seen and books she had read, and then she gathered flowers to take back to her father who, she confided, was doing much better and yearned for the stage. When the theater was in your blood you could never shake the longing for greasepaint and footlights. We sauntered down the hill, Betsy carrying her flowers and still chattering. It was after three when we reached the house, and I thanked the girl for a pleasant afternoon. It had indeed been pleasant, and I felt much better as I went upstairs to my rooms. My attraction to James Lambert would be a problem only if I allowed it to be, I decided. I was grown up now, a mature woman, and common sense told me any relationship with him beyond our present working arrangement would be disastrous. I firmly intended to ignore those emotions his mere presence stirred so strongly.

As I moved down the hall I was surprised to see my sitting-room door standing open. I could have sworn I had closed it. Perhaps one of the maids left it open, I thought, stepping inside the room. I saw her sitting there on the cream sofa, a sneer on her lips, a triumphant gleam in her green eyes. I felt the color drain from my cheeks. She stood up.

“Well,” she said, “you seem to be doing quite well for yourself.”

“How—how did you—”

“It has taken me quite a long time to find you, Angela. I hired a man from Bow Street—a rather shady character, quite disreputable, a Runner I believe he called himself—and after several months he finally admitted he couldn't locate you. Charged me a very stiff fee, he did—for nothing. Then, three weeks ago, one of the girls came in with a most interesting print, a reproduction of a portrait done by someone called Gainsborough.”

She smiled a thin smile. Her lips were a bright crimson. Her plump cheeks were coated with powder and rouge, a black satin beauty patch stuck on her right cheekbone. Her eyelids were smeared with purple shadow. She was wearing a purple silk gown, the bodice trimmed in jet beads, a long black feather boa wrapped around her arms. Marie had never looked so coarse, so vicious. I told myself I had nothing to fear from her, but my heart was palpitating nevertheless. I felt cold all over.

“Betty happened to remember seeing something in one of the papers about the girl in the painting appearing in a play by Mr. James Lambert. I didn't rely on anyone from Bow Street this time. I went to the theater myself and spoke to the doorman—slipped him five pounds. He told me you had indeed been on the stage several weeks ago. He said Lambert was writing a play for you and had taken you to Tunbridge Wells with him. As I said earlier, you seem to be doing quite well for yourself.”

The thin smile spread. Her eyes were glittering as of old. She glanced at the elegantly furnished room as though in confirmation, then adjusted the feathery black loops about her arms.

“What do you want, Marie?” My voice was surprisingly level.

“I lost a great deal of money because of you,” she continued, ignoring my question. “Clinton Meredith was quite understanding. He didn't demand a return of the sum he had already advanced me—very reasonable of him under the circumstances—but of course any future profits were out of the question. You almost killed him, by the way.”

“I wish I had.”

“He was in very bad shape when Blake found him. We summoned a physician at once. He said he had no intention of filing assault charges against you—again he was very reasonable—but I just might file them myself. I'm aware you're no longer my legal ward now that you're twenty-one, so I can't clap you into prison as an incorrigible minor, but you were working at my establishment when that unfortunate incident took place. You maliciously assaulted a customer. I'm quite certain any magistrate would find that a grave offense indeed.”

I said nothing. My heart was no longer palpitating, but I felt as though I were encased in ice. Marie reached up to touch a bright henna curl, black feathers fluttering. Her glittery green eyes held mine, full of triumph. She had me exactly where she wanted me, she believed. She expected me to cringe, to cower. I gazed at her coldly, showing not the least fear, but I began to tremble inside and knew I couldn't maintain this calm demeanor much longer.

“The charge would never hold up,” I said.

“You don't know the magistrates, my dear. They're almost as corrupt as the criminals they sentence. For a fee, they can be persuaded to be very accommodating. There's also the matter of my diamond earrings. They're missing. They've been missing ever since the night you ran away. I can only assume you took them from my room. Theft is a hanging offense,” she added.

“If it's money you're after, Marie, I have none.”

“You have something far more valuable,” she told me. “I'm not an unreasonable woman, my dear. I just want my beloved stepdaughter to come back where she belongs. Clinton Meredith is out of the picture now, alas. He was in love with you, Angela—genuinely in love with you, strange as that might seem. He blamed himself for what happened. He left London some time ago, but—there are a number of gentlemen far wealthier, far more important who would pay a king's ransom to possess the celebrated Angel in Scarlet.”

I stared at her—the coarse, jowly, painted face, the outrageous red hair, the gaudy, vulgar clothes—and I found it hard to believe such evil could exist. She had always been this way, I realized, but her worst traits had remained dormant when she was living with my father. Coming to London and getting her hands on large sums of money had turned her into some kind of monster, for monster she was, as foul as the foulest bawd in St. Giles. She had sold her own daughters, and now she thought she was going to sell me.

“I'm not going to whore for you, Marie.”

“Such an unpleasant word, my dear.”

“Never,” I said.

“Things haven't been going well of late,” she continued. “We've had a number of losses at Marie's Place and, frankly, the novelty has worn off, and we're not getting the business we were. I'm losing money every night, and, I'm sad to say, my arrangement with Mr. Gresham has gone amiss. It seems he came back unexpectedly from a business trip and found Janine in bed with a soldier she had met the
one
time she decided to take a walk in the park. Gresham threw her out. He also demanded immediate payment of all the money he says he
loaned
me so I could open Marie's Place—he claims he'll have me in debtor's prison if the money isn't forthcoming.”

“That's too bad,” I said.

Marie patted her hair again and smiled another tight smile.

“He hasn't a prayer of getting it, of course. We signed papers, and I feel sure they'd hold up in court, but I
do
find myself in an awkward financial position. You can understand why I was so delighted to locate you at last, my dear. With your new and quite unexpected fame I should be able to make a fortune—for both of us, my dear. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we snared a member of the Royal Family—they say the Duke of Cumberland is always scouting for new amusement.”

“I think you'd better leave,” I told her.

“I suggest you start packing. I believe there's a coach leaving for London at six. I'd like for us to be on it.”

“Get out, Marie. I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“I think you'd better reconsider, my dear. If I leave without you, I fully intend to go straight to Bow Street and press charges. You stole my diamond earrings, pet. You'll hang for it.”

“I think not,” James Lambert said.

The door had been standing open all this time, and he marched into the room with a murderous expression on his face. His mouth was tight. His eyes flashed dangerously. There were two bright spots of pink on his cheekbones, the rest of his face chalk white. Marie stumbled back, startled out of her wits. He glared at her, and for a moment I thought he was actually going to murder her right before my eyes. He restrained himself. It took a great deal of effort. I could tell that. Nostrils flaring, fists clenched, he held back and gained control of himself and that hot rage slowly cooled into an icy anger that was even more intimidating.

“The lady asked you to leave,” he said, and his voice was like steel. “I suggest you leave quickly, before I do something I wouldn't regret at all.”

Still shaken, Marie managed to draw herself up with nervous hauteur. “Who the hell are
you
?” she demanded.

“I'm the man who happens to be a close personal friend of Mr. John Fielding who happens to be Chief Magistrate at Bow Street, in charge of
all
criminal prosecutions on the street. I'm the man who's going to call on my mate Fielding and file charges against you for blackmail, extortion, procuring and—oh yes, theft as well. Seems my gold watch fob is missing. I can and will provide four straw men who will testify they saw you lift it from my pocket. Theft is a
hang
ing offense, I believe, and I for one will cheer when I watch you swinging from Tyburn Tree.”

These words were delivered in a cold, lethal voice, and Marie grew pale beneath the heavy layers of makeup. Lambert moved slowly toward her, pacing like a panther, and Marie stepped back, hitting the backs of her legs against the sofa and almost falling. She regained her balance and valiantly tried to regain some vestige of composure, but she was shaken to the core, the hideous makeup standing out in garish relief against her pallor. She fidgeted with the black feather boa and brushed at her purple skirt, the corners of her mouth quivering.

“You can't threaten me,” she said.

“No?” he inquired.

“I know my rights. This—my stepdaughter caused me to lose a huge amount of money, and—and I intend to—”

He smiled. It was an absolutely chilling smile. Marie cut herself short. He was standing not two feet away from her, looming over her, smiling that chilling smile, his green-brown eyes gleaming with deadly purpose. Marie swallowed and leaned back, plopping down on the sofa. Lambert seized her arm roughly and jerked her to her feet.

“I meant every word I said,” he informed her, and his voice was soft now, almost tender. “I'm a very powerful man, Mrs. Howard, and I have very powerful friends, and I'll destroy you quite cheerfully if you so much as breathe a word of accusation against this young woman. She's under
my
protection now, and believe me, madame, you don't want to have me for an enemy. Do you hear me? Answer me!”

The last two words lashed the air like a whip cracking. Marie was shaking now, her double chins bobbing. James Lambert tightened his grip on her arm and leaned down until his face was inches from her own.

“I told you to answer me,” he said.

“I—I hear you,” she stammered.

“I ought to go to Fielding anyway, just to make sure you don't cause trouble. He's a very moral man, very upright. Has an aversion to procuring. When he learns you've been running a brothel, when he learns you set your own daughters up with wealthy old men, he'll not be lenient.”

“I—”

“When he learns you stole my gold watch fob, he's bound to sentence you to hang. Perhaps you and I both will take the six o'clock coach for London. Perhaps I should take you to London myself, take you directly to Fielding's office and press charges. That way I won't have to worry about you.”

“I—I won't—I didn't mean—”

“Come along!” he said sharply.

James Lambert strode purposefully toward the door, dragging her along with him. Marie tottered, stumbling. He jerked her into the hall and dragged her toward the staircase. I stepped to the door, watching, and I seemed to be in the middle of an ugly dream. He let go of her wrist and said something to her, and Marie seemed to be pleading. I couldn't hear her words. After a moment he nodded curtly, seized her shoulders, whirled her around and gave her a brutal push toward the stairs. She lurched forward and grabbed hold of the banister, and I turned and moved to the center of the room and stopped and closed my eyes, trying to shut the ugliness out of my mind.

“It's all right,” he said.

He came into the room and moved behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders, gently massaging my flesh, and then he turned me around and pulled me into his arms and held me loosely, stroking the back of my head. I longed to let him console me, longed to melt against him and cling to his strength, but I was afraid of my own weakness. I pulled away.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“You look pale. You were trembling.”

“How—how much did you hear?”

“Enough. Dottie told me the whole story some time ago. I wanted to check a passage in one of those books I gave you. I came up to fetch it, and I heard her threaten you. I wanted to kill her.”

“I—for a moment I thought you actually would.”

“She's shaking like jelly,” he told me, “convinced she's in danger of imminent arrest. Like most bullies, she's a sniveling coward when faced with superior strength. Put the fear of God in her, I did. Scared her good and proper. She won't bother you again, I promise.”