Angel in Scarlet (41 page)

“Mad at me?” he inquired.

“I don't wish to speak to you just now, James.”

“You
are
angry. I can tell. You never call me ‘James' unless you're upset about something.”

I started toward the wings. He trotted along beside me. I pretended to ignore him.

“I was wrong about the spaniels,” he said chattily.

I didn't reply. I thrust the bouquet of roses into the arms of a startled stagehand. Several people were waiting in the wings to congratulate me. Seeing my expression, they decided to a man that it might be wise to wait until later. I swept past them with my chin held high, my silver skirt swaying, and Mr. James Lambert was foolish enough to persist, infuriatingly affable, trying his best to humor me.

“They
did
add an authentic touch,” he said.

I said nothing. I moved around the fake columns. He followed me, courting disaster. Now that the play was over, lamps had been lighted backstage, and the area looked even more shabby and disreputable. He caught up with me and took my arm, forcing me to stop. I turned and gave him another dangerous look. He wasn't at all intimidated. His green-brown eyes full of masculine appreciation, he treated me to one of those seductive smiles that had made many a woman grow weak in the knees and had, on occasion, had a similar effect on me. Not tonight however. Tonight I was completely immune to his potent male allure and rakish good looks.

“I'm sorry, love,” he crooned. “I should have listened to you. I usually do—you have to admit that. We have a perfect partnership. I meant every word I said out there. My modest little drama would be an abject failure had you not brought it so brilliantly to life.”

“Please let go of my arm, Mr. Lambert.”

“You handled yourself magnificently, love. Professional all the way. I've always said that, while you might not be the
best
actress I've ever worked with, you're hands down the most professional, a terrific little trouper through thick and thin. You really proved your mettle tonight, didn't let it throw you at all, stayed right in character the whole time. I was in back, watching, I was
proud
of you, Angel.”

Not the best? I was absolutely livid now.

“It won't happen again,” he assured me. “The spaniels are out as of right now.”

“Not the best?” I said in a lethal voice.

“Uh—” He realized his mistake and was momentarily at a loss. “That was a slip, love, an unfortunate choice of words. I didn't—uh—I didn't mean it to sound the way it must have sounded. You're upset. You're always this way after an opening. Go change and we'll join our friends at Bedford's and you'll unwind and feel much better.”

He actually patted my arm. I casually lifted my skirts and kicked his shin as hard as I could. He let out a yelp and staggered back, hobbling. I moved on to my dressing room, feeling better already. I had learned quite early that the only way to deal with his bullying and bossiness was to fight back, and I fought back with a vengeance. We had had any number of rousing fights during these past three years. The fights were undeniably stimulating. The making up afterwards was invariably divine.

Dottie helped me out of the silver and violet gown and carefully hung it up as I slipped into a silk wrapper and removed my stage makeup. I washed my face and dried it and applied a touch of mauve shadow to my lids, a bit of pink rouge to my lips. I could feel the tension evaporating, anger disappearing, yet when Mr. Lambert opened the door and stuck his head in to ask if I was ready I hurled a pot of face cream at him. It smashed noisily against the wall, barely missing his skull, and he made a hasty retreat. Dottie shook her head. She considered both of us spoiled, unprincipled children and found our fights shockingly unprofessional. She scolded me roundly as she helped me into my crimson tulle petticoat with its multiple layers of skirt floating like soft red petals.

“You could have
killed
him if you'd hit him with that pot.”

“I have perfect aim,” I informed her. “I wasn't
trying
to hit him.”

“A perfectly good pot of face cream—ruined. And someone is going to have to clean up that mess. Not me, I can assure you. Really, my dear, I've come to expect such shenanigans from Lamb but I should think you'd have a bit more dignity and self-control.”

“Dignity and self-control don't work with your friend Lambert. If I didn't hold my own he'd trample me under his feet. He knows just how far he can go and daren't go any further. I have to keep him in line.”

“There are gentler means,” she pointed out.

“Not with Jamie. Besides, both of us enjoy a good scrap. It relieves tension, and God knows there's enough of that in this crazy profession. Sometimes I wish I'd never taken it up.”

“You love it,” she retorted. “You were born for the stage. It's made you a very famous woman—a wealthy one as well.”

“I never wanted to be famous, and as for wealth—most of my profits go into the next production.
My
money is backing this play, as well as his. I own a huge chunk of it.”

“Oh?”

“He conned me into it. He invariably does. If this play failed both of us would be in dire straits. Help me with the gown, Dottie. Everyone will be waiting for us at Bedford's.”

The gown was a gorgeous crimson brocade with large puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, a low-cut bodice, tight waist and very full skirt that spread over the underskirts in gleaming folds. The sumptuous cloth was embroidered all over with delicate flowers of a deeper crimson silk. Dottie had created the gown for me. In addition to costumes, she did a complete wardrobe for me each season for which I happily paid a small fortune. Angel of Covent Garden must have a bold, dramatic wardrobe, and who better than Dottie to create it for me? I fluffed up the sleeves and adjusted the heart-shaped neckline as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“How do I look?” I inquired.

“Stunning,” she admitted. “Not too many women could carry off a gown that bold. You do it with great flair.” She sighed and shook her head again. “What became of that sweet, demure young woman who used to work for me?”

“She grew up,” I said. “Jamie claims he's created a monster.
Have
I become a monster, Dottie?”

“I don't think I'd better answer that, dear.”

Bedford Coffee House on King Street, just across from The Market, was celebrated for its oysters and vastly popular with theatrical folk. Jamie had taken it over for the evening for a private party for cast, crew, friends and journalists, the latter never averse to a free meal and a plentiful supply of drink and frequently influenced by same. Although it was only a short walk from the theater, my usually thrifty partner had hired a carriage so that we could arrive in style. He and Dottie chatted pleasantly during the ride, and he gave my hand a squeeze as he helped me out of the carriage.

“You look smashing, love,” he told me.

“Thank you,” I said coolly.

“Wish we didn't have to attend this bloody party,” he added. “I'd rather go home and fight some more.”

“Oh?”

“Then we could make up,” he murmured.

“They're waiting for us, Jamie.”

There was a rousing burst of applause as we entered the coffeehouse. We were immediately surrounded and separated, and I found myself being ever so vivacious and charming to a pack of gents from Fleet Street who bombarded me with questions and-compliments. Yes, I had been petrified when the pup pissed. No, it had not been planned to liven up the act, the act was lively enough, and the play was Lambert's best, didn't they agree? Yes, it was a delight to play Nell Gwynn, I found her utterly enchanting, and didn't Charles Hart make a wonderful Charles II? He was a dream to work with and was going to be tremendously successful. No, I was not going to go over to Drury Lane. I admired Mr. Garrick tremendously, but I was devoted to Mr. Lambert. Yes, Mr. Gainsborough was here tonight, but only as a friend. He always attended my opening nights. I had no plans to sit for him again any time soon.
An Angel in Scarlet
? It was privately owned, I understood, and I had no idea where it was currently hanging.

James Boswell rescued me, pulling me away from the journalists and handing me a glass of much-needed champagne. Brick red hair neatly brushed, brown eyes full of mischief, he glowed with robust health and exuded hearty charm, looking particularly spruce in a brown velvet frock coat and mustard silk neckcloth. I did a double step as his hand reached for my bottom.

“You haven't changed one bit,” I said wryly. “That overactive libido of yours is going to get you into big trouble one of these days.”

“Can't resist a well-shaped derriere,” he confessed, “and yours, my dear Angel, is the shapeliest in London.”

“Thank you for the flowers you sent. They're lovely. Thanks for rescuing me from Fleet Street, too.”

“They adore you, those chaps. Always writing articles about Angel of Covent Garden, the most beloved actress in London, simple, unaffected, still does her own shopping at The Market and refuses to give herself airs. The only other person who gets as much coverage is Lord Blackie himself. You're the idols of London—the gentleman housebreaker who wears only black and the actress who is still one of the people.”

“I'm not sure I care to be classed with a notorious criminal.”

“Oh, Blackie's a hero. Robs only the aristocrats. Never commits violence and speaks in a soft, cultured voice behind that black hood he wears. Invariably gallant to the ladies whose jewels he lifts. Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, swears he actually kissed her hand before climbing out the window. Very romantic figure, Lord Blackie. Half the grandes dames in London secretly cherish the hope he'll steal into their bedchambers some lonely night.”

I sipped my champagne, glancing around the crowded room, not at all interested in the habits of the much-written-about thief whose nocturnal jaunts were so avidly followed by the public. Boswell lifted a glass of port from the tray of a passing waiter and studied my decolletage with an appreciative eye.

“You, my dear,
have
changed,” he informed me. “The beautiful, rather pensive girl I first met at Gainsborough's studio has turned into an incredibly alluring woman.”

“Indeed?”

“Why don't you ditch that devilishly handsome rogue you're living with and run off with me?”

“Don't tempt me,” I said.

Boswell grinned. “Fighting again? One hears of your frequent scraps, but you're still together, I see. Never known James Lambert to be faithful to one woman for so long.”

“He wouldn't dare look at another woman,” I said. “He values his health too much.”

The Scot chuckled and, catching sight of a particularly buxom young blonde super in a low-cut pink gown, gave me an affectionate hug and headed in her direction. I finished my champagne. Dottie was chatting with David Garrick. Jamie was charming the gents from Fleet Street, plying them with goose-liver pate and oysters baked in wine sauce and regaling them with humorous backstage anecdotes. The large room with its low-beamed ceiling, vast brick fireplace and whitewashed walls hung with copper pans was filled to capacity, a festive air prevailing. Megan, exquisite in a yellow silk gown, was flirting amiably with a trio of actors and studiously ignoring Charles Hart, who stood by with lazy grace and observed her antics with wry amusement. A charming young girl in deep blue taffeta waved at me and came over, pulling along a stocky, ruggedly handsome young man in dapper brown suit and a rather startling pink silk waistcoat embroidered with orange and gold flowers.

“You were marvelous,” the girl exclaimed. “I loved what you did with the spaniels.”

“Thank you, Betsy.”

“You've met my brother, of course?”

“Of course. How are you, Mr. Sheridan?”

“Disgruntled,” the young playwright said. “I hate to see an actress with your talent wasted in a clunker like the one I just witnessed. You're far too gifted to be with Lambert. I'm still bitter about not getting you for
A School For Scandal.
”

“It was a glorious play.”

“Would have been better had you been in it.”

“Richard's always been blunt,” Betsy told me, giving her brother a disapproving look, “and he's much worse since his success. I
told
you he was going to be successful, remember?”

“I remember it well,” I replied. “I'm sorry you disliked the play, Richard. I'm sure I could arrange to have your money refunded.”

“The play was Lambert's usual melodramatic claptrap, but you were enchanting, as always, even if you were upstaged by a pack of spaniels. I'm writing a new play, Mrs. Howard, and I intend for you to play the lead, even if I have to challenge Lambert to a duel.”

“I'm flattered, Sir. Where on earth did you get that waistcoat?”

“Like it?” he inquired. He grinned, the somber, arrogant playwright giving way to the brash youth of twenty-six. “Betsy says it's much too fussy, but I think it's elegant.”

“You have distinctive taste,” I said.

Young Mr. Sheridan blinked, not sure whether or not that was a compliment, and his sister smiled and led him over to the buffet tables laden with a tempting array of edibles. Gainsborough, in powdered wig and a sky blue frock coat, managed to extricate himself from the journalist pumping him with questions and came over to greet me. The wig, of course, was slightly askew, and the lace at his throat and wrists looked a little limp. He hugged me and rested his cheek against mine for a moment, and then he held me at arm's length in order to examine me more closely.

“Not the girl I painted,” he observed. “Older and wiser—but even more beautiful. Maturity becomes you. When are you coming to visit us again? It's been months since you've been to the studio.”