Angel in Scarlet (42 page)

“I dare not visit too often. Mrs. G. keeps feeding me all those teas, and I have a figure to think of. Where is she, by the way?”

“Off to Bath for a short visit. She's sending you a package. Vanilla and chocolate truffles, I believe, filled with creamy nougat and bits of chocolate. Her latest enthusiasm.”

“I'll be strong,” I promised.

“The play was delightful, Angel. You were the very soul of Nell Gwynn. I loved the bit with the spaniels—haven't laughed so hard in ages. Very clever of Lambert to liven it up that way. Tell me—how ever did they train that mutt to piss on cue?”

“It was
not
in the script,” I informed him, “and if I hear one more word about those bloody spaniels I'm going to scream. I told Jamie they were a mistake, but—I'm getting angry all over again. Let's have a bite to eat, Mr. G. You can tell me all about Sir Joshua Reynolds' latest masterpiece.”

Mr. G. groaned at the mention of his archrival's name and followed me over to the tables. There were oysters on the half shell, smoked oysters, fried oysters, oysters baked in a variety of sauces, also sliced lamb, roast beef, baked chicken, ham, with all the trimmings. The journalists had already made quite a dent, I observed, and the liquor supply had already been replenished. The party was costing us a tidy sum, but cast and crew had earned it after long months of work, and the gents from Fleet Street would undoubtedly make the ticket-buying public well aware of
My Charming Nellie
. Mr. G. and I took our plates over to a corner table and he told me about his feud with the Royal Academy while we ate. They weren't hanging his paintings prominently enough and he was thinking about resigning. Who needed the R. A. anyway?

Dottie left early, around one, accompanied by David Garrick, who would see her home. Mr. G. left shortly thereafter, complaining that he was far too aged for these noisy, all-night theatrical parties and making me promise to come see him soon. Several of the journalists made friends with the super girls—there was a bevy of them in this particular production—and happily departed with an attractive new companion for the rest of the night. Boswell couldn't keep his hands off the young blonde in pink who, fortunately, was more than receptive to his hearty vulgarity and left with him at three, both of them pleasantly tipsy. I smiled when I saw Megan finally condescend to talk with the patient, lethargic Hart, who plainly intended to have her.

Jamie was moving around the room, attentive to all the women, slapping men on the back, radiating vitality and magnetism. Wavy brown hair tousled, green-brown eyes full of good humor, he grinned at an actor's wry remark and gave him a poke on the arm, then moved on to compliment Betsy on her gown. He was a magnificent host. He was a magnificent man, devastatingly appealing in his black and white attire. Catching my eye, he smiled that engaging smile and waved. I nodded coolly. I wasn't really angry with him, not any longer. It was impossible to stay angry with him. He was a rogue, bossy and overbearing, but I could easily hold my own, and if he had bullied me, he had also nurtured me and devoted all his energies to making me the success I had become. Beneath that rowdy facade, beneath all the bravado and emotional pyrotechnics was a thoughtful, utterly endearing man, and I considered myself the luckiest woman in London. Not that I'd ever let
him
suspect it.

I circulated, chatting with our guests, exhausted to the bone but charming nevertheless. Young Richard Sheridan had had far too much to drink and was vociferously declaring himself the greatest English playwright since Shakespeare, vowing he'd crack the skull of anyone who didn't agree. His sister managed to get some coffee into him and get him out of the place before fisticuffs occurred. I was drinking coffee myself when Megan came over, pouting prettily and pretending an outrage she was far from feeling.

“I can't get
rid
of him,” she complained.

“Who?” I inquired.

“Charles Hart! He wants to take me home. I told him it was a very short walk, just across the piazza to Henrietta Street, but he insists. He claims it isn't safe with Lord Blackie on the prowl. I told him I'd take my chances with Lord Blackie, but the lout won't take no for an answer. What am I going to
do
, Angel?”

“Let him walk you home.”

“He'll want to come up,” she protested.

“I imagine he will.”

“The place is a mess. He'll probably try to take
lib
erties.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“A hell of a lot of help
you
are. Very well, I'll let him escort me home, but if he thinks
I
'm going to flutter over him like those silly supers he's due a big surprise. He tries anything funny with me and he'll find himself nursing a black eye. Good night, luv. See you at the theater tomorrow evening.”

“Have a nice time,” I said sweetly.

It was almost four-thirty when the last guest finally staggered out, and I sighed with relief as Lambert gave a sheaf of bills to the weary proprietor and told him to pass them around among the help. He brought my long crimson velvet cloak and helped me into it, then draped a black cape around his shoulders with a dramatic flourish, white silk lining flashing. I was silent as he led me out into the night. The carriage was still waiting.

“It's a lovely night,” he said. “Want to walk?”

“I suppose.”

Lambert dismissed the carriage and took hold of my elbow and led me across the piazza. Moonlight brushed the stones with pale silver, and St. Paul's was a dim gray mass shrouded with velvety black shadows. Our footsteps rang on the stones, echoing in the stillness. The sky was a misty gray lightly tinted with violet and sprinkled with dimming stars. It would soon be dawn and The Market would be bustling as produce men set up their stalls and prepared for the day's business. Glancing up, I saw that a light was burning in the flat above Brinkley's Wig Shop, and I smiled to myself, suspecting that Megan had met her match at last.

“Very successful party,” Jamie said as we started down Bedford Street.

“Very,” I agreed. “I'm glad it's over. I plan to sleep forever.”

“Saw you talking with Sheridan,” he remarked. “I suppose he was trying to lure you away from me again?”

“You suppose right.”

“Impudent rapscallion! Twenty-six years old and two phenomenally successful plays. Thinks he hung the moon.”

“So do most of the critics,” I taunted.

“You
could
play the lead in his next play, of course. We don't have a contract. You could become the critics' darling. You have the talent. You don't have to settle for mere popular success.”

“I know.”

“Of course, I'd kick you from here to Coventry if you even considered such a step.”

“You might try,” I said.

We turned on Chandos Street, heading for St. Martin's Lane where the house we had taken three years ago was located. The September night was pleasant and cool without being chilly. The air was filled with all those familiar smells I had come to love: mellow old stone, lichen, ivy, crushed flower petals. Covent Garden had its own atmosphere, its own aura, even at this hour. Jamie slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him, matching his stride to mine. I reveled in his nearness, his strength, his warmth. I had been alone for such a long time, and now I belonged, to this enchanting district, to this fascinating and infuriating man who had changed my life.

“Still mad at me?” he asked.

“A little.”

“You're an unreasonable wench.”

“Sometimes,” I admitted.

“Artistic temperament. You've more than your share. I suppose
I
may not be the easiest person to get along with myself.”

“You have your moments,” I told him.

“Oh?”

“Now and then,” I said.

He chuckled and squeezed my waist. He was clearly eager to kiss and make up. I thought that was a lovely idea.

Chapter Fourteen

Rain pattered softly, softly, and I sighed in my sleep and turned and was aware of the emptiness there and opened my eyes. The sheets smelled of his body, the pillow was dented, but he was gone, and that was bewildering. I always woke up first and he was always there, sprawled out, tangled in the bedclothes, breathing deeply, and I always smiled and stroked his bare chest and he always grunted and curled his lips and I teased him until he woke up and he was always surly and groggy and usually he rolled over on me and I struggled and we made love before getting up, a divine way to begin the day. That emptiness beside me was disorienting now. I sat up, blinking, and I saw the dim gray light in the room and the rain slipping and sliding down the windowpanes in silver-gray patterns and saw the clock and saw that it was well after one in the afternoon. He had been undressing me as dawn broke. My crimson brocade gown was draped carelessly over a chair, the crimson tulle petticoat spreading on the floor like gigantic petals, his black frock coat hanging limply on the arm of another chair. I stretched and smiled, feeling the pleasant soreness in my limbs, remembering.

Jamie Lambert might have his faults, might be mercurial and temperamental, volatile and often overbearing, but in the bedroom he was superlative, the most satisfying lover a woman could hope to have. He was rough and playful, greedy and gentle, teasing and tender, demanding and dominating and, always, as intent on my pleasure as he was on his own. Afterwards, he invariably curled arms and legs around me and slept soundly, making me his cushion, and that heaviness and warmth gave me a delicious sense of security. Yes, he was a superb lover, inventive and inciting, and I had no complaints on that score. I stretched again and listened to the rain pattering on the roof, wondering where he could be. I missed that nude, slumbering body, missed that warm skin, those unruly locks of dark brown hair moist with perspiration, those lips half-parted in sleep, ready to be kissed. Habit was deeply ingrained, and I didn't like waking up alone in bed. Those weeks he spent alone in Tunbridge Wells, working on his plays, were always hellish for me, always sorely dreaded.

Getting out of bed, I looked at the untidy litter in the bedroom and shook my head. Moving into the adjoining dressing room, I performed my ablutions and brushed my hair, then dressed, putting on a cream linen frock with narrow brown and gold stripes. Back in the bedroom, I hung up our clothing, put shoes away, straightened the piles of books, manuscripts and journals that covered the long table. Even-in the dim gray light the room was snug and charming with its pale ivory walls, low-beamed ceiling and polished hardwood floor scattered with worn oriental rugs in soft hues. I made up the bed, smoothing down the heavy yellow-gold brocade counterpane. Curtains of the same brocade hung at the row of windows overlooking the walled herb garden in back of the house.

Yes, Angel of Covent Garden did all her own housework, but I didn't mind at all. The house on St. Martin's Lane was small, bedroom, dressing room and landing on this floor, drawing room, study and kitchen below, with staircase and foyer. It was very old, suffused with character, and legend had it that it had belonged to Aphra Behn over a hundred years ago. I liked to believe that that colorful and determined lady had penned some of her boisterous and scandalous plays within these walls, that she herself had laid out the herb garden with its intricate patterns.

Leaving the bedroom, I crossed the landing and moved down the narrow staircase with its polished golden oak railing and worn golden-brown runner. Posters of all six plays I had done hung along the wall of the stairwell. The foyer below was lined with golden oak bookcases, each crammed to overflowing. Jamie was as avid a reader as I and haunted Miller's on Fleet, invariably returning with a plethora of dusty tomes. A lamp was burning in the foyer. Raindrops dripped on the fan-shaped panes above the large white door which, I noticed, was not locked. He had obviously gone out, not bothering to lock the door behind him. I frowned as I paused in the foyer, and my frown deepened when I smelled the odor drifting strongly from the kitchen. Something had been burning. What? Bacon? The odor was overwhelming, and I rushed through the study and into the kitchen in back of the house. The mess I encountered there made my blood turn cold.

Charred toast littered the old oak drainboard, along with egg shells and a rasher of bacon. A skillet on the large black stove contained a disgusting mess that might possibly have been a madman's idea of an omelete. A bellyful of red-orange coals still glowed in the stove, and the mess in the skillet was turning even browner. I seized a pad and removed it from the stove, then rushed to open a window, rain or no rain. Pots, pans, dishes, jars of preserves covered every surface. A canister of flour had been overturned, spilling all over the counter and onto the floor. I was going to murder him. Any woman who had ever tried to keep a kitchen would deem it justifiable homicide, and I would be very persuasive when I stood before the magistrate.

Fuming, I cleaned, cursing him every minute, and half an hour later I viewed my accomplishment with something less than bliss. The drainboard was clean and polished, the old oak gleaming, and the glazed brick floor gleamed too, dark red-brown. Copper utensils hung on the yellow-white walls as did strings of red pepper and mauve-white onions. A wicker basket of dried herbs hung from the low beamed ceiling. Most of the odor was gone now, and the window was shut. A pot of coffee perked merrily on the stove. Rain pattered. I wondered how I should do it. Poison? A knife between the ribs? A sharp blow on the head with a heavy object? Fetching a dark blue cup from one of the oak cabinets, I poured coffee and sipped it gratefully, and then I heard stamping on the porch.

I set down the cup and marched through the study and on into the foyer. He was just opening the door, wearing a long black cloak that was soaking wet. His hair was wet, too, plastered to his skull in sleek brown locks, and rain dripped down his face. His arms were laden with an immense pile of newspapers and several metal containers which he had attempted to keep dry under the heavy folds of his cloak. I glared at him. He gave me a sheepish look, kicking the door shut. A huge puddle of water was forming at his feet.