Angel in Scarlet (58 page)

“I say, Tabby,” I heard Gainsborough remark in the hall, “my man Jenkins has been asking about you.”

“'Im!” Tabby snapped. “It'll be a cold day in 'ell before I spend my afternoon off in
'is
company, I can tell you for certain.”

“I told him to go around to the kitchen. I figured you might give him a cup of tea when you aren't too busy with your duties.”

“That's all I'm givin' 'im, I promise you.”

Gainsborough chuckled as she led them into the drawing room, the artist in a slightly rumpled white satin suit, his wig askew, his wife in a very becoming sky-blue taffeta gown with white lace fichu. She was carrying a large tray.

“I brought some small iced cakes, two dozen in fact,” Mrs. Gainsborough announced, “and some sliced tongue, too. I'll just set this tray on the table. I had hoped to bring a ham glazed with sweet mustard, but, alas, I didn't have time to bake it.”

“And
I
brought your birthday present,” her husband informed me, holding up a brightly wrapped package. “Sorry we couldn't come to the party last night, but Mrs. G. is
much
too old to keep such hours.”

“Speak for yourself, Thomas. I can stay up as late as anyone, Angel, but he starts to nod off as soon as the sun goes down. No fun at all these days. It's frightfully dreary being married to such a man.”

“Open your present, Angel,” Gainsborough said grumpily.

He handed it to me, and I removed the bright paper to discover a small drawing in ink and pastels depicting a rustic landscape I recognized immediately from my summer in the country: a daisy-strewn field behind a broken stone wall, a line of feathery trees in the background. It was beautifully framed in dark, polished wood. Gainsborough beamed when he saw my delight.

“I—I walked over that field several times,” I said. “It's magnificent, Thomas. I'll treasure it always.”

“I did it year before last when we were at the cottage. I thought you might like it.”

I gave him a hug and, with Tabby's help, promptly hung the landscape up over a side table between two windows with long tan silk curtains. As I did so, Gainsborough stared out a window at Sir Joshua Reynolds' house across the square, hoping to catch him in some mischief, perhaps. Mr. G. wasn't at all pleased that I lived so near his archrival and feared that I might sit for him. Sir Joshua had, indeed, asked to paint me, but I had told him that I was far too busy to have another portrait done just now.

Megan and Charles arrived a few minutes later, Megan fetching in a new frock of beige and brown striped silk, Charles looking unusually handsome in brown velvet breeches and frock coat, eyelids drooping lethargically over his sleepy eyes, his dark blond hair charmingly tousled. When, several weeks after the fiasco of
Mary, My Queen
, Charles had replaced an ailing Dick Philips in
The Henchman
, that rather lackluster production had turned into a great success. With his striking good looks and potent sexual magnetism, Charles was perfect as the amoral, womanizing rogue and had become the idol of the ladies. They were constantly writing passionate letters to him, hiding themselves in his dressing room, throwing themselves at him. While Charles took it all with easygoing good humor, Megan found it considerably less amusing. It wasn't
easy
living with a man every other woman in London longed to sleep with, she informed me.

She took me aside, blue eyes full of excitement. “Is he
com
ing?” she asked me.

“He said he would. It's early yet.”

“I don't mind telling you, luv, if I didn't have Charles on tap I'd give you some
strong
competition for Lord Clinton Meredith. I can hardly wait to see him again. Grab him, luv. Men like that are few and far between, and they're
never
rich to boot.”

I smiled and told her I had no intentions of becoming romantically involved. Megan gave me an exasperated look and then went over to ask Mr. G. when he was going to break down and paint a portrait of
her
. Boswell arrived, as boisterous as ever and full of bawdy anecdotes about his doings in the city, and Goldsmith came in shortly thereafter, looking uncharacteristically affluent in a new brown frock coat and a rather startling tan vest with bold orange stripes. Sir Joshua walked over, which put Thomas into a snit, and Betsy Sheridan came at two-thirty, sporting a feathered pink bonnet and without her brother who, she explained, was spending the day with Perdita Robinson, the clever and ambitious actress who had been monopolizing his time of late. Betsy rushed over to Charles Hart, gazing up at him with rapt adoration.

By three-thirty things had become lively indeed. Thomas and Sir Joshua were having a heated discussion about the merits of their respective techniques, while Boswell was scandalizing Mrs. G. with a vivid account of a hanging he had recently witnessed at Tyburn. Dottie was sipping tea and talking with Jack Wimbly, the actor who played Tony Lumpkin, and Megan was charming a couple of journalists and keeping an eye on Charles who was dazzling Betsy and the pretty young actress who had come with Jack. Tabby scurried about refilling glasses and teacups and passing out snacks. Goldy was snoozing quite contentedly in a large tan chair, unable to keep his eyes open after two glasses of wine.

Gazing out the window, I saw an elegant coach pull up in front of the house, and I motioned to Tabby. Putting down a tray, deftly avoiding Boswell's straying hand, she went into the foyer and, a few moments later, returned with Lord Clinton Meredith in tow. He was wearing light gray velvet breeches and frock coat and a white silk vest with narrow indigo stripes, a sky blue neckcloth at his throat. His pale blond hair was pulled back and tied at the nape with a light gray velvet ribbon. A shy smile played on his beautifully shaped pink lips as I hurried over to greet him. Could this quiet, almost retiring man really be the arrogant buck I had known in years past? Could a man really change all that much? Lord Clinton Meredith was the living proof of it.

“I'm so glad you could come,” I said, taking his hand.

“I'm glad to be here. You have a charming house.”

“Come, I'll get you a glass of wine and introduce you to my friends.”

Clinton smiled, a bit ill at ease, but he soon relaxed. Dottie took him under her wing, all friendly warmth, and Mrs. Gainsborough insisted he have some of the sliced tongue she had brought. Impressed by his title, Boswell was most engaging and chatted about shooting in the country and various London clubs. Clinton seemed to enjoy himself, but I noticed a certain reserve in his manner. Though there was nothing snobbish or haughty in his manner, I suspected he found us all rather too exuberant and outgoing.

“He's charming,” Megan told me a while later after talking with him. “Terribly polite and well bred. I can hardly believe he used to be the randy hellion you described.”

I gazed at Lord Meredith, engaged in conversation with Betsy Sheridan across the room. “People change,” I said. “People grow up. It's been five and a half years since—since I cracked him over the head with a champagne bottle and left him on the floor at Marie's Place. After that he returned to Greystone Hall and settled down, married, took an interest in the estate, and then he lost his wife. He's a different man.”

“Some men sow their wild oats early, get it out of their system. I guess he falls into that category, although I must say, luv, there's still a lot of randiness remaining. That voice, those heavy eyelids drooping over those smoky eyes—he's wonderfully virile, despite that polite reserve.”

“You noticed,” I said.

“So did you, luv.”

“I'm human, Megan. I noticed.”

“And?”

“And, as I said earlier, I have no intention of becoming involved with him. He's an aristocrat. I'm an actress, quite beyond the pale. I won't refuse his friendship, but anything else is out of the question.”

“We'll see,” she said.

People began to depart around four-thirty, and by five everyone had gone except Megan and Charles and Clinton. Charles said he was still a mite hungry and suggested we finish the food. Megan gave him a stern look and informed him they had plenty to eat at home, then shoved him toward the door. She told Clinton how very pleased she was to have met him, gave me a hug and left with Charles in tow. Tabby had tactfully disappeared. Clinton smiled.

“I like your friends,” he said.

“I've been very blessed when it comes to friends,” I replied. “They've all been wonderful to me.”

“You've made quite a life for yourself,” he told me. The smile lingered on his lips. “The schoolmaster's daughter from a small village in Kent has come a long way.”

“I've worked very hard.”

“I admire that,” he said quietly.

“Are—are you going to be in London long?” I inquired.

“I've opened the house on Hanover Square. I don't know how long I'll stay. That—depends on a number of things.”

There was a moment of silence. Both of us were rather ill at ease now, the implication of his last words all too clear. I smoothed a lock of hair away from my temple and asked if he would like another glass of wine, and Clinton shook his head.

“I must be going myself. I—uh—I was wondering if you might like to come riding with me tomorrow. I ride in the park every morning at eleven, then have a light lunch back at the house.”

“You ride in this weather?” I was surprised.

“It's very invigorating. One dresses warmly. Will you come, Angela?”

“I—I'm afraid I don't ride,” I confessed. “In fact, I've never even
been
on a horse.”

He smiled again, amused by my tone of voice. “Then I will have the pleasure of teaching you,” he replied. “I have a beautiful little mare in my stable, extremely gentle. You'll love her. I also have a ladies' riding saddle. Let me give you your first lesson tomorrow.”

“I—I don't know.”

“Come, Angela,” he said teasingly. “Be adventuresome. You might be a little sore from the experience, but I can assure you you'll enjoy yourself.”

“Well—”

“My carriage will pick you up at ten-thirty. All right?”

“I'll be ready,” I said.

He was right. I did enjoy myself, and I was indeed sore after the first lesson. Very. It was a lovely day, crisp and cold, but the sun was shining brightly. I wore a long sleeved blue velvet gown, black kid gloves, black boots and a heavy black velvet cloak with violet silk lining, the hood pulled up over my head. Clinton looked handsome in his black riding habit and white silk stock. The mare he had selected for me was a gentle chestnut named Cynara, and I did love her, at once. Nevertheless, I was a bit nervous as Clinton helped me up into the saddle. He was wonderfully patient, giving me careful instructions and correcting me when I made an error. There were few people in the park that chilly day, and we were soon moving under the ice-encrusted tree limbs at a leisurely trot, Clinton firmly restraining his powerful gray stallion who longed to gallop. It was frightening at first—I was certain I would fall off—but after a time I managed to relax and enjoy myself thoroughly.

Returning to Hanover Square, we had a light, lovely lunch in the dining room of the small, beautifully appointed town house. Soup was followed by fillets offish cooked in wine sauce and served with asparagus, with cheese and fruit afterward. The food was excellently cooked by his chef, flawlessly served by a footman in livery. We had coffee in the small drawing room, in front of a crackling fire, both of us relaxed and feeling quite exhilarated after the exercise. Clinton said I had the makings of a fine horsewoman and said we must definitely continue the lessons.

“Tomorrow,” he added.

“Isn't—isn't that a bit soon?”

“You have to keep right at it. And, as I've been so exemplary an instructor, I think I should have a reward.”

“Oh?”

“I think you should let me take you out to dinner tonight after the play.”

“I can scarcely refuse,” I told him.

And so I learned to ride. Dottie made me a beautiful riding habit of garnet velvet with a wide-brimmed garnet velvet hat to match, black plumes sweeping down over one side of the brim. I wore it with my black kid gloves and boots, feeling quite elegant, cutting a dashing figure, I felt. Clinton was quite pleased with my rapid progress, said I was a natural horsewoman, said I had a perfect seat. I told him I'd never had any complaints. He grinned at that. March was mild, pure blue skies soaring overhead, brilliant sunlight spilling over the pathways in the park, and in April, as the trees began to green, as the first daffodils opened up delicate yellow faces to the sun, Cynara and I were racing right alongside Clinton and his stallion, aptly named Hercules. We rode almost every day, and it was wonderfully invigorating.

We lunched together at Hanover Square, having long, leisurely, relaxed talks afterward, and he took me out after the theater four or five nights a week. How lovely it was to have so polite, attentive and considerate a companion. That he was wealthy and as handsome as a young god made it all the more enchanting. Although he made no secret of his feelings toward me, Clinton was completely proper and treated me with the utmost respect. He was content, it seemed, merely to be in my company. At first I was pleased that he made no advances, that he left me at the door with a squeeze of the hand and a fond good night, but after a while I began to wonder if I wasn't just a little disappointed. I was not at all immune to his dazzling good looks and the potent sensuality held in tight control behind that careful reserve. Although I certainly didn't love him, I couldn't deny the strong physical attraction I felt, and although I truly had no intention of becoming romantically involved, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before he took me into his arms and kissed me. His restraint was much more titillating than any overt move could have been.