Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  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 gatheri
ng 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.

  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 als
o 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.