Angel in Scarlet (70 page)

“Splendid fellow, your husband,” Boswell said, coming over to me in the dining room. “Had a most interesting talk with him. I happened to mention I was going back to Scotland in mid-January, and he invited me to stop by Greystone Hall on the way, spend the night.”

“You must, Boswell,” I told him. “We have very few guests. It will be a treat for both of us.”

“Just might do it. I'll tell you all about my visits to Seven Dials and the fascinating underworld figures I've met there. Thieves, assassins, forgers—the place is a hotbed of vice and corruption, wonderful material for a student of human nature.”

“Like you,” I said.

“Like me. I say, who's that stunning brunette in pink?”

“I believe she belongs to Jack Wimbly.”

Boswell grinned. “Not for long. What a derriere! Wonderful party, Angel. See you later.”

The audacious red-haired Scot bustled off to charm Wimbly's ingenue, and I moved on out into the foyer where guests stood talking in bright groups under the radiant chandelier. Others sat on the steps with plates of food, the convivial informality of Covent Garden spilling over to Hanover Square. Dottie waved and continued her chat with Richard Sheridan. I went into the drawing room and paused to have a glass of champagne with David Garrick who saw a copy of one of Miranda James's novels on the bookshelf and talked wistfully of the days when he had known her.

Another hour passed. I saw Clinton across the way, charming a character actress, saw Charles grinning tipsily and stumbling as Jack pounded his back, saw Megan fluttering amidst the crowd like a splendid butterfly in her yellow and gold gown. I chatted with Mrs. G. I laughed with a group of rowdy young actors from the Haymarket. I listened to Betsy's witty account of her visit with the Burneys and smiled at Gainsborough who, surrounded by a bevy of pretty actresses, looked like a beaming, bewigged pasha, relishing the adulation. Merry babble filled the air. Noisy laughter rang out. The buffet table was decimated, footmen bringing more smoked salmon, more caviar, more sliced ham. Champagne was downed with abandon, trays emptying almost as fast as they were filled. The reception was a tremendous success, the radiant look in Megan's eyes making it all worthwhile.

Smiling, nodding, I moved down the foyer and stepped into the small sitting room, relieved to see that it was empty, hoping for a moment to catch my breath. I sighed, passing a hand across my brow, and then I noticed the pair of legs stretched out in front of the blue wing-backed chair. Scuffed black pumps, white silk stockings encasing well-turned calves, black knee breeches. The legs moved. The man stood up. The noise of the party seemed to recede, became a mere background to the pounding of my heart. He looked at me. His green-brown eyes were full of yesterdays. He nodded. Why was my heart pounding like this? Why did I feel this wild elation, this awful dread? Why did I want to cry, want to shout with joy? Why, suddenly, did I feel gloriously, vibrantly alive?

“Hello, Angel,” he said.

“Jamie,” I said. “I didn't know you were here.”

Was that my voice? Could that regal, polite, perfectly controlled voice possibly be mine? It sounded alien to my ear, so different from the voice inside that cried out at the sight of him looking so drawn, looking so sad, his handsome face so very grave. He was too thin. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and the slight twist to his nose looked more pronounced, looked endearing. I recognized the frock coat. It was a bit the worse for wear. I recognized the green neckcloth, too. It was slightly rumpled. Poor darling. He needed someone to take care of him.

“I arrived late,” he told me. “I was working, you see, lost track of time. You know how it is when I'm involved with a new play.”

I nodded, smiling, remembering. Jamie smiled too, a hesitant, tentative smile, as though he weren't sure if we were enemies or friends. I moved over to him and took both his hands in mine and squeezed them.

“It's good to see you, Jamie. I'm so glad you came. Have you seen Megan and Charles?”

“I spoke to them when I arrived. I also spoke with your husband. Seems like a fine fellow, Angel.”

“He is,” I said.

“He's a very fortunate man.”

His voice was low, that unique, exciting voice I remembered so well, and those green eyes flecked with brown held mine, still full of yesterdays, conveying far more than words. I was still holding his hands. I let go of them and stepped back, feeling awkward and embarrassed, covering it with a polite, artificial smile that didn't deceive him at all.

“What—what are you doing back here by yourself?” I asked. “Have you eaten? Would you like a glass of champagne?”

“I was back here by myself because I wanted to be alone for a while, because I saw you across the room and felt a terrible loss and didn't feel like speaking to anyone. I'm not hungry, and no, I wouldn't like a glass of champagne.”

“I see.”

“I shouldn't have said that, Angel. I didn't mean to. I intended to be proud and arrogant and indifferent, to show you I didn't give a damn you were married, that you didn't mean a bloody thing to me, but I—I'm not that good an actor.”

“Jamie—”

“I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I went for five years without ever telling you what you meant to me, without telling you you were the world to me, and it's hardly fitting for me to tell you now. I lost you. Because of my goddamned pride and artistic temperament I let you get away, and that was the greatest mistake of my life.”

“You—”

“I love you, Angel. I always did. Fool that I am, I never told you. I took you for granted. I was jealous of your success, had the crazy notion it threatened me, threatened our relationship. I—I was desperately afraid you would leave me, and you did. I drove you away. I was the world's greatest fool. I suppose I deserved to lose you.”

“I—I'm sorry, Jamie.”

“It was my own bloody fault.”

I was deeply moved, and I was frightened, too, frightened by what I felt and what I saw in his eyes. There was a loud burst of laughter in the doorway as a group of jolly young actors and their girlfriends came spilling into the room, all of them a bit the worse for champagne. Jamie scowled, and I smiled graciously at the intruders and asked if they were having a good time. The boys grinned. The girls giggled. A husky young lad with merry blue eyes said it was the best party ever, best champagne, too, and I really
was
an angel for having them. I smiled again and took Jamie's hand and led him out of the room.

“You may not want any,” I said, “but I could definitely
use
some champagne.”

We moved down the foyer, through the colorful, noisy crowd. I let go of his hand. He was still scowling, already regretting his lapse, no doubt, and wishing he had never spoken. Dottie saw us together and arched a brow. Jamie gave her a curt nod, the temperamental playwright beholden to no one, that damnable pride of his securely in place again. We went into the dining room and I fetched a glass of champagne and sipped it as we stood near the buffet, the party swirling around us.

“I'm sorry about
Amelia Mine
, Jamie,” I said. “It was a glorious play. Dottie sent me a copy. It—it should have been a huge success.”

“It would have been if the woman I wrote it for had done the lead. That was my fault, too. That afternoon at Button's—” He paused, the scowl deepening. “I had to show you I didn't need you.”

“I know,” I said.

“Shakespeare said it all. ‘What fools these mortals be.' We pay dearly for it. I think I
will
have a glass of that champagne.”

He went to fetch one, pausing to speak with Jack Wimbly who came over to greet him. They chatted for a few moments and then Jack stumbled away, looking for the stunning brunette who had mysteriously vanished. As had Boswell. Before he could get back to me with his champagne, Jamie was stopped by several other people. He had become something of a recluse in recent months, and all his friends were delighted to see him again. The scowl had vanished when he returned. He gave me a rueful smile.

“Sorry I took so long,” he said.

I smiled. Both of us were relaxed now.

“Poor Jack,” I said. “I fear James Boswell has made off with his girlfriend.”

“Striking brunette in pink? I saw them slipping out together as I came in. Don't know what the bloke has, but the ladies dote on it.”

“You mentioned a new play, Jamie. Is it coming along well?”

He nodded. “It's writing itself, it seems. Full of drama, full of comedy, very little melodrama and lots of human interest. It's going to be the most—”

“—spectacular, most ambitious play you've ever mounted,” I said. “Is it another historical drama?”

“In a way. I'm writing the Aphra Behn play, Angel.”

The play I had begged him to write for me, the role I had wanted so badly to play. The son of a bitch! It was
my
play. It had been my idea in the first place. I remembered the lively discussions we had had about it, my enthusiasm and encouragement, my disappointment when he decided to do the awful Mary, Queen of Scots play instead. I felt a sharp pang now. Bitterness? Resentment? Regret? A combination of all three, with a healthy dose of anger as well. I longed to stomp on his foot and throw my champagne into his face. I smiled instead. It was a very tight smile.

“I'm sure it will be marvelous,” I said.

“You always wanted me to do this play.”

“I know.”

“It's going to be my best, Angel. I—I'm having a few financial difficulties at the moment, but I'm sure I can get it mounted. It's going to put me back on top again.”

His voice was determined, full of conviction. He had no idea I was angry and was so bloody dense and insensitive it would never even dawn on him that I might be. He hadn't changed one bloody bit. I seethed silently, and then I realized how silly I was being. Poor Jamie. He would always have the power to rile me and set the sparks flying. My anger vanished, and I felt ashamed of myself for being so petty. I wished him well. I really did. I hoped the play would be an enormous success for him.

I smiled again, warmly this time. Jamie smiled back.

“You've done very well for yourself, Angel,” he said.

“I—I suppose I have.”

“A title, wealth, a place in the country, a mansion on Hanover Square—” He shook his head. “It's a far cry from the house on St. Martin's Lane.”

“It is indeed.”

“Do you love him?” he asked.

I nodded. “He—he's a wonderful man. He's been very good to me. I'm very, very happy.”

“I'm glad,” he said. His voice was quiet now, and the sadness was back in his eyes. “I love you, Angel. I suppose I always will, but I let you get away and—I'm glad you're happy,” he continued. “I'm glad you have all the things I could never give you.”

I'm not going to cry, I told myself. I'm not. I won't.

“Thank you, Jamie,” I said.

“Guess I'd better leave now. Have to get back to that third act. Wish me luck.”

“I—I wish you all the best,” I whispered.

He smiled a brave, heartbreaking smile and looked into my eyes, and then he nodded and set down his champagne glass and left. I stood there, watching him move through the crowd, leave the room, and the party continued to swirl, bright and festive, colors blurring, everything misty, and I have no idea how many minutes may have passed before Megan came up to me and took my hand, her eyes full of concern.

“Are you all right, luv?” she asked nervously.

“I—why, yes. I'm fine.”

“I saw you talking with him. I should never have placed his name on the list. I should have known seeing him would upset you. Here, take this handkerchief. Wipe your eyes. I don't think anyone else noticed. They're all too tipsy.”

I took the handkerchief and dabbed at my eyes. Megan frowned.

“Was he awful to you?” she asked.

“Not at all. He—he was—Oh, Jesus.”

“Let's go upstairs, luv. You need—”

“No,” I said. I gave the handkerchief back to her. “I'm fine now. It just—I'm all right now.”

“You're sure?”

I nodded. I squeezed her hand. Then I went to find my husband.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The January sky was gray and dreary and frost was gathering on the windowpanes, but in the breakfast room at Greystone Hall everything was bright and cheerful. In Boswell Clinton had a table companion who could match him dish for dish, and they had already devoured a mound of eggs, a plate of sausages, half a ham, innumerable hot rolls with butter and preserves. Dottie contented herself with a kippered herring and a piece of toast, and Goldsmith nodded at the table like a sleepy owl, occasionally blinking at his plate of food and taking a bite. With coffee cup in hand and a silver pot nearby, I marveled at Boswell's heartiness, Clinton's enthusiasm. We had all stayed up very, very late last night talking, and I for one would have been content to sleep later, but Boswell and Goldsmith were leaving at ten this morning and good manners demanded I see them off.

“Have some more bacon, Goldy,” I said. “You've hardly eaten anything at all.”

Goldy blinked, yawned, smiled, nodded off again. Wearing the familiar old brown coat that was deplorably rumpled and much too large, a shabby mustard-colored neckcloth at his throat, he looked like a lovable, befuddled derelict, as indeed he had been of late. After the largess of the Haymarket revival slipped through his incompetent fingers, he had disappeared into another of those dusty rooms to scratch away at his articles, forgetting to attend Megan's wedding and failing to tell any of his friends where he was staying. They eventually discovered his whereabouts and rescued him, and now Boswell was taking him to Scotland for a few weeks in hopes the trip would clear out the cobwebs. Poor Goldy seemed to have little say in the matter, amiably shambling along in the wake of the dynamic Scot.