The Wanton Angel (26 page)

‘What?’

‘Ask Edmund to put him in a play, to bring the whole city’s ridicule upon his head. If it is done cunningly enough, he will not sue for libel. Yes,’ he said warming to the notion. ‘That is a role I long to play. Lawrence Firethorn in the guise of Viscount Havelock.’

Nicholas suppressed the urge to burst into laughter.

Persistent rain turned the streets of London into a sea of mud but Viscount Havelock was not deterred by inclement weather. The invitation had been so enticing that he would have kept the assignation if the city had been swept by a blizzard. His carriage squelched its way along a wide thoroughfare before turning into a street. The rain drummed ceaselessly above his head. When they reached the designated house, the Viscount took out the letter once more, inhaled its fragrance and read its honeyed words by the light of the lantern.

It had been delivered to him by Lucius Kindell who was patently ignorant of the identity of the sender. The lady’s anonymity lent a piquance to the whole evening. Viscount Havelock could not wait to meet her and to solve a mystery which so intrigued him. Alighting from the coach, he picked his way through the mud and went in through the already open door of a large house. The maid who admitted him curtseyed but was too shy to raise her eyes to him. She conducted him upstairs and into an antechamber. The Viscount was left alone in a pleasant room with branched candelabra throwing a shadowy light. When he saw the wine in readiness on the table, he rubbed his hands in delight.

Noises from the adjoining bedchamber told him that she was there and he tried to construct her appearance in his mind. He was still adding the finishing touches to his portrait when he heard the door open. Keeping his back to it, he waited until she had time to enter the room then turned to survey his latest conquest. Her beauty was
striking, her attire wondrous and her perfume alluring but Viscount Havelock was proof against all of her attractions.

‘Cordelia!’ he exclaimed.

‘Charles!’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You invited me.’

‘I did no such thing, sir,’ she said, having expected Lawrence Firethorn instead. ‘You are the last person in London I would wish to see. I would sooner seek the company of the meanest beggar than lower myself to your level.’

‘You insult me, Cordelia.’

‘Not as much as you once insulted me.’

‘Still harping on that, are you?’

‘Get out, sir! Get out of the house!’

The wrangling continued apace for a full hour.

Heavy during the day, the rain became torrential at night, working in league with a fierce wind to wash London like a tidal wave. Bankside bore the brunt of the downpour. Water streamed off thatched roofs and swelled the rivulets that ran through every street. Swollen and angry, the Thames itself started to test the strength and height of its banks. The site of The Angel theatre was especially vulnerable. Ground which was already sodden after a week of rain now became completely waterlogged. As the foundations were weakened, brick walls and wooden posts began to sway slightly in the howling wind.

But the real enemy were the huge timbers themselves. Delivered by barge, they had been dragged by rope up the
incline and a deep trench had been gouged out of the mud. It was now a gushing waterfall, pouring into a river that was already lapping dangerously at the remains of the derelict wharf. Wind, rain and river had no respect for angels. As the night wore on, the wind reached gale force, the rain became a deluge and the River Thames, dark and unruly, burst its bank and sent its overflow surging up the trench to meet the waterfall. The whole site was soon flooded.

Timbers which lay in readiness were picked up and borne away, walls which had seemed solid were knocked over as if by a giant hand, and wooden posts were uprooted and tossed onto the flood. As more water poured irresistibly into the site, and as the wind reached a new pitch of hysteria, The Angel theatre was swept away in its entirety and the dreams of Westfield’s Men went sailing away for ever downstream.

A week wrought substantial changes in the company’s position. They lost their benefactor, abandoned the notion of building a playhouse, paid compensation to Thomas Bradd, allowed Lucius Kindell back into their ranks and elected to remain at the Queen’s Head. Though forced upon them, it was a universally popular decision. The Angel theatre had fired their imaginations at first but Owen Elias was not the only one to see its inherent drawbacks. They were happy to be safely back in their own home.

Nicholas Bracewell looked around the taproom at the grinning faces with a mixture of relief and satisfaction. His deft stage management had rescued them from the threat of the Countess of Dartford and The Angel theatre had been
destroyed by force of nature rather than by the depredations of any rival. He was content, especially as none of his fellows would ever know how close they came to being taken over by a new and dangerous patron. When Lawrence Firethorn had talked about portraying Viscount Havelock on stage, he had no idea that his book holder had arranged for the Viscount to take on the part of the actor for an evening.

Lucius Kindell came over to sit beside Nicholas.

‘A thousand thanks,’ he said. ‘I never hoped that I would be invited back to Westfield’s Men.’

‘On sufferance,’ warned Nicholas.

‘I know it well.’

‘Work with Edmund and make amends for what happened.’

‘He tells me that it was your doing,’ said the other. ‘You persuaded them to have me back. The offer could not have been more timely. I was thrown out of Havelock’s Men by their patron himself. The letter which I gave him seemed to delight him at first but he hurled it at me when we next met.’

‘You were a good messenger, Lucius.’

‘Viscount Havelock did not think so. Who wrote it?’

‘I told you. A beautiful lady.’

‘But what was her name?’

‘That would betray a confidence,’ said Nicholas, recalling how Anne Hendrik had penned the missive at his dictation, her elegant feminine hand ensnaring a viscount. ‘A gentleman must always protect a lady’s reputation, Lucius. And this one prefers to remain unknown.’

Kindell thanked him again and went to rejoin Hoode
over a drink. The two of them were soon deep in discussion over their next collaboration. Nicholas watched with pleasure then caught a glimpse of Rose Marwood as she tripped across the taproom, now recovered and regaining something of her bloom. Leonard, too, was there, thrilled that his friends would be staying at the inn after all. Lawrence Firethorn was engaged in a heated argument with Alexander Marwood, the one yelling and the other gesticulating wildly. When the landlord stumped angrily out, Firethorn came across to Nicholas with a huge grin.

‘That is what I would have missed, Nick.’

‘What is that?’

‘My battles with that mangy cur of a landlord. I thrive on them. With all its virtues, a new playhouse could never compare with the Queen’s Head. We have lost our guardian angel but we have also lost the huge debt which the loan incurred. No,’ he said with philosophical calm, ‘we are fortunate men.’

‘We are!’ said Nicholas with feeling.

‘Alexander Marwood is a menace but remember this, Nick. Better the devil we know than The Angel we do not!’

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E
DWARD
M
ARSTON
was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over forty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and the theatre and is a former chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Prolific and highly successful, he is equally at home writing children’s books or literary criticism, plays or biographies.

www.edwardmarston.com

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The Wanton Angel
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