Angel in Scarlet (67 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

It's going to be all right, I told myself as I straightened the lapels of his dark gray frock coat. Everything is going to be all right. This will pass. Hugh will lose. He's bound to lose. Burke says his proof is tenuous at best, and there's no reason why Clinton should ever find out about Hugh and me. He sighed now as I fussed with his deep blue silk neckcloth and reminded me that the carriage was waiting, that he was due at Burke's office at ten and it was nine forty-five now. We were in the foyer of the house on Hanover Square. I gave the neckcloth a final pat and moved back. Seeing the worried look in my eyes, Clinton reached for my hand and gave it a tight squeeze.

“There's no reason for you to be so worried, my darling. We're going to win—it's a foregone conclusion. Burke just wants to go over some matters with me today. The case won't come to court for at least three months.”

“I know, but—”

“I'll be gone most of the day, won't be back until four at the earliest, and then, I promise, we'll concentrate on enjoying ourselves. No more legal conferences until after the holidays.”

“We've been here for three days already, and you've spent every day with Burke. I—I can't help but worry.”

“Today will be the last day,” he told me. “I don't like this any more than you do, darling, but it's necessary.”

“I suppose it is,” I said, resigned.

He squeezed my hand again. “And what are you going to do all day while I'm going over tedious legal details with Burke? Something exciting?”

“I'm lunching with Megan,” I replied, “and then we're going to Dottie's for the final fitting of her wedding gown. The wedding's next week, you know, and—”

“I know, darling. I must rush now, really.”

He pulled me to him, kissed me thoroughly and then released me, reaching for the heavy gray cloak he had draped over a chair earlier. Swirling it in the air, he draped it around his shoulders and adjusted the long folds. Putnam, who had accompanied us to London along with Mrs: Rigby, opened the front door for him, and, giving me a reassuring smile, Clinton strolled outside and to the waiting carriage. I stood there in the foyer for a few moments, deeply perturbed, and Putnam asked me if there was anything I required. I shook my head and went back upstairs to get dressed for Megan, who would be here at eleven.

I washed thoroughly and made up my face, using a faint blush on my pale, drawn-looking cheekbones, applying a deeper pink to my lips. My eyes were a worried violet-gray as I rubbed a suggestion of mauve shadow onto my lids. I
must
try to put it out of my mind. Clinton had complete confidence in Burke, was certain we would win, and, as he had pointed out, the case wouldn't go to court until sometime in February. As I arranged my hair, I finally admitted to myself that it wasn't the court case that worried me so much. It was the fact that Hugh Bradford was here in the city at this very moment, that he undoubtedly knew I had married his archrival and become Lady Meredith, that he might decide to do something impulsive and Clinton would discover we had been lovers.

Megan arrived at eleven fifteen, radiant, vivacious, stunning in a topaz silk frock. Her merry chatter was irresistible, and my spirits lifted considerably. We had a delightful lunch at Button's, various theatrical folk stopping by our table to congratulate Megan and tell me how much they'd missed me the past few months, how lovely I was looking. It was glorious to be back in Covent Garden again, in my own milieu. No, I reminded myself, not my milieu any longer. Jack Wimbly gave me an exuberant hug and told me about the marvelous new role he would soon be rehearsing.

“Play a lovable scamp, I do,” he informed me. “Actually get the girl at the end of the show. The lead! Can you believe it? No more supporting parts for our boy Jack.”

“I'm thrilled for you, Jack. I know you'll be wonderful.”

“Always am, luv. Always am. Marriage agrees with you, Milady. You've never looked more delectable.”

“What about
me
?” Megan inquired.

“With that turned up nose? Can't imagine what Charles wants with a drab like you, luv. Must be out of his blinkin' mind.”

Jack grinned a wide, enchanting grin, tugged her hair playfully and then moved jauntily away to join his friends. Megan stuck her tongue out at him. They adored each other, of course, and Jack was going to be Charles' best man next week. There was no camaraderie like that among theater people, I reflected, eating Button's delicious steak and kidney pie. How I loved the jovial give and take, the generosity of spirit, the breezy, carefree attitude hiding a fervent dedication to their craft. Megan continued to talk excitedly about the forthcoming wedding and the reception Clinton and I were giving afterward at Hanover Square.

“Charles is growing more and more nervous,” she confided, signaling a waiter. “His face grows paler by the day, and he looks frightened of his own shadow. Yesterday, as a lark, I sneaked up behind him and yelled ‘Boo!' and he almost jumped out of his skin.”

“Poor Charles.”

“He's afraid
I
'll back out of it—can you imagine that? I told him I'd be at the church even if they had to carry me on a pallet. He's such a darling, really. We're going to give up the flat over Brinkley's after all this time and buy a
house
. And he wants me to go on acting, too. We'll do plays together, he says. How did I
get
so lucky, luv?”

“Clean living, I suppose.”

The waiter came over to our table. “Dessert, luv? No? You're sure? I guess I won't have any either. We're not due at Dottie's for another half an hour, we've time for coffee. Two coffees, George, and, oh hell, bring me one of those divine raspberry cream tarts. I've been eating everything in sight, luv,” she confided as the waiter left. “Nerves. Dottie will
scream
if I've put on any weight. Promise me you'll have half the tart.”

The air was crisp and cool and invigorating as we left Button's and, moving across the piazza, passed St. Paul's, where the wedding would take place. Even in winter Covent Garden had its rakish, colorful atmosphere, vendors selling hot roasted chestnuts and gingerbread men, pretty young ingenues walking with their beaux, The Market as busy as ever with fruit, vegetables and lovely hothouse flowers. “Angel's back!” a man yelled, seeing me on the street. I smiled and waved, loving the recognition. I hadn't realized quite how much I missed all this, though of course I was wonderfully happy with my new life. Being Lady Angela might not be as much fun as being Angel Howard, but my husband's love for me was more than compensation.

“I'm wonderfully blessed,” I mused aloud.

“What's that, luv?”

“To have Clinton,” I said.

“Of course you are. We've both been blessed. Maybe it
is
clean living, luv. Can't think of any other reason why we've been so fortunate.”

Dottie was brisk and businesslike when we got to the shop, taking us into the fitting room, making Megan strip to her chemise and slip into the billowy pale peach gauze petticoat she would wear beneath her wedding gown. Megan took a deep breath, trying to disguise the fact that the waist was a mite too snug, but Dottie's shrewd eyes missed nothing.

“You've gained at
least
three pounds!” she accused.

“Couldn't help it, Dottie. I've been so nervous.”

“I'll have to let the waists out!”

“No you won't. I won't eat a bite until the wedding, I promise. Not a single bacon roll with mustard, not a single slice of chocolate cake.”

“Let's try on the gown. I just don't understand it, Megan. Here I work my fingers to the
bone
getting all these things ready for you, seven complete new outfits,
plus
your wedding gown, and you stuff yourself like a pig. It's bloody inconsiderate.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic, Dottie,” I told her. “You're not onstage now.”

“I must say
you
're looking splendid, Milady. Slim as ever. You're going to be needing some new things, too, I daresay, and now that you're a member of the aristocracy I intend to charge the sky. No more courtesy rates to the profession, I can assure you. I have a living to make.”

She took a sip of raspberry tea and reached for a chocolate biscuit, her eyes narrowing critically as Megan slipped on the sumptuous wedding gown over the petticoat. They had decided against white, too conventional and not terribly appropriate as Megan was far from virginal. The gown they had finally agreed upon was pale peach-colored velvet, the skirt and large off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves overlaid with pale, transparent peach gauze appliqued with white velvet lilies outlined in white seed pearls. The wedding veil would be of matching peach gauze.

“I can hardly breathe,” Megan protested as Dottie hooked the gown up in back.

“It's your own fault, you little slut. I don't suppose it's
too
tight, and you've just eaten lunch, of course. At any rate, there's no time to let everything out.”

“It's gorgeous, Dottie,” Megan said, looking into the full-length mirror. “You've surpassed yourself. Oh God, I think I'm going to cry.”

“Don't you dare. You've tried my patience quite enough for one day. We need to work on that hem a bit—here, let me put a few more pins in. Do be still! The yellow silk you're wearing to the reception is already finished, stayed up till three in the morning last night, doing all the work myself. I don't know why I bother,” she complained. “No one appreciates it.”

“Listen to her,” Megan told me. “One season on the boards and she's a prima donna—everything's a drama.”

“Hands off my box of biscuits!” Dottie thundered. “Davy Garrick is going to revive
The Country Wife
next spring. He wants me to play Lady Fidget. It's a marvelous part.”

“Perfect for you,” I agreed.

“I may do it, though I haven't decided for sure yet. Davy claims he'll completely redecorate the largest dressing room for me and provide all of the amenities. I've always longed to play the Drury Lane. Never made it when I was younger. Davy wasn't around then.”

“Davy hadn't even been
born
then,” Megan said dryly.

Dottie gave her a murderous look and, taking my arm, led me out front to have a cup of tea while Megan changed back into her topaz silk frock. I felt a nostalgic tug as I looked at the shelves of ribbons and laces, the bolts of cloth draped over the tables, the cozy litter I remembered so well. I could hear Dottie's girls working upstairs, their chatter a muted background. How I had loved working here, sewing on costumes, meeting the colorful, fascinating people who came into the shop. How young I had been then.

“Here's your tea, my dear,” Dottie said, handing me a cup. “I put some honey in it. Something's worrying you,” she added.

“What—what makes you think that?”

“You're a gifted actress, dear, but I can always tell when you're giving a performance. You've something on your mind—it was bothering you all the time we were carrying on back there.”

I took a sip of tea, still standing. Dottie swept a length of turquoise brocade off a table and began to fold it up. I hadn't told either Dottie or Megan about Hugh's return or the pending court case. I didn't want to spoil Megan's high spirits with the bad news, and there hadn't been time to discuss it with Dottie. She laid the turquoise brocade aside and spread a length of ivory velvet in its place.

“Something's come up,” I told her. “There's no time to discuss it now, and I don't want to dampen Megan's effervescent mood. After the wedding I'll tell you all about it.”

“Is everything all right between you and Clinton?”

I nodded. “Clinton and I are very much in love and getting along beautifully. This is—something else. I just hope Fleet Street doesn't get wind of it. They will eventually, I suppose. It's inevitable.”

Dottie didn't press. “Well, dear, you know I'm always here and you know that if there's anything I can do you've only to ask. Ah, here's Megan—and with my box of chocolate biscuits! I
knew
I shouldn't have left them in the room with her.”

It was almost three when I returned to Hanover Square. Putnam met me at the door, took my cloak and solemnly informed me that a gentleman was waiting to see me in the drawing room. A gentleman? I was puzzled. A Mr. Black, he said regally. I frowned. Mr. Black? I didn't know a Mr. Black, at least I didn't think so. I thanked Putnam, dismissed him and then moved over to the mirror to tidy my hair. I was wearing a dark blue silk gown, the full skirt draped back over an underskirt of light blue and cream striped silk. Whoever Mr. Black was, I wished I had had a bit more notice. Giving my hair a final pat, I moved down the foyer and stepped into the drawing room.

He was standing before the fireplace, his back to me. He turned around. I stopped, the words of polite greeting freezing in my throat. He looked at me, perfectly composed, the moody brown eyes taking in every detail of my appearance. He was superbly dressed in glossy black pumps with silver buckles, fine white silk stockings, black velvet knee breeches. His black velvet coat was exquisitely tailored, and his waistcoat was of shiny white satin embroidered with silver and black silk patterns. Lovely white lace spilled over his wrists and fell in a frothy cascade from his throat. His deep raven hair was pulled back sleekly and fastened with a ribbon at the nape of his neck. His lean, foxlike face was deeply tanned, and he had that sleek, polished patina of great affluence and social ease, every inch the gentleman.

“Hello, Angie,” he said, “or should I say Lady Angela now?”

I didn't answer him. I couldn't. For a moment I was totally incapable of speech, my throat tight, my body numb. I stared at him, so sleek, so confident, so devilishly attractive in his elegant clothes, and I remembered the last time I had seen him and those weeks we had spent together in the country and the anguish I had suffered when he drove away. I tried to hate him now, but I couldn't. The old feeling was still there—God help me, it was still there, deep inside me, stirring to life again at the sight of him—and I was shaken to the core. I took a deep breath, willing the emotions away, gazing at him with a cool composure I was far from feeling.