Angel in Scarlet (49 page)

He was leaning against the wall beside the fireplace. He was dressed all in black—black boots, black breeches, black frock coat—and where his face should have been there was black, too, shiny blackness, a black silk hood covering his head. His arms were folded across his chest. He unfolded them and stood up straight and stepped into the moonlight and stood there staring at me through the eyeholes in the hood. I was paralyzed, frozen with horror, looking at him as he stood there, staring, staring. My throat was tight. I couldn't possibly scream. He took another step toward me and paused and tilted his head to one side.

“Hello, Angel,” he murmured.

Chapter Sixteen

I stared at him, still paralyzed, unable to speak, but the terror I had felt a moment before vanished completely. The unseen, the unknown, the imagined had chilled my blood and caused that stark terror, but the reality didn't frighten me at all. I was shaken, yes, alarmed, too, and I was mad as hell, but I wasn't at all frightened as I stood there by the window and stared at Lord Blackie. My heart stopped palpitating. I took a deep breath and tried to control the anger that steadily mounted. How dare he break into my house! How dare he give me such a fright! I glared at him, and I had the curious feeling that he was smiling beneath that black silk hood, amused by my obvious fury.

“If you've come for jewelry, you've come to the wrong house!” I snapped. “The only jewelry I own is paste, and it's at the theater. There isn't a single valuable object in the place—no gold, no silver, no plate and no money, either, besides a small amount I keep on hand for household expenses. I'll be happy to give
that
to you!”

He didn't speak, merely stared at me, and that ired me all the more. He was extremely tall, with a lean, muscular build, and he stood with arms folded across his chest, utterly relaxed, in a kind of lazy slouch. Silver moonlight gilded the high black leather boots and gave the heavy black silk hood a shimmery sheen. There was nothing at all menacing about this man, no sinister vibrations. I felt somehow that he was indeed a gentleman, and I was certain he meant me no harm. Remembering all the stories about his gallantry to the ladies, I couldn't help but be intrigued.

“You scared the bloody hell out of me!” I said irritably.

“I'm sorry about that,” he crooned.

“I'm afraid you've wasted your time. I suggest you leave right now—and close the bloody window behind you!”

“You're as spirited as ever, I see.”

“I'm not afraid of you, if that's what you mean! Petty thieves who break into—into respectable people's houses hold no terror for me. Take my household money if you like and—and get the hell out of my house or I—I'll yell like a banshee!”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” he murmured.

His voice was low, melodious, a soft caress, and I had the feeling he was deliberately disguising it. In complete control of myself now, I took another deep breath and tossed my head, shaking a long wave from my cheek. Lord Blackie continued to gaze at me, feasting his eyes. He seemed to be savoring each and every feature. If the bloody sod was so fascinated by me he could bloody well buy a ticket and come to the theater. I told him so. He chuckled softly to himself.

“I've seen you perform several times,” he said.

“Oh? I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You're quite good on stage—magnificent presence—even if the material you chose to do leaves much to be desired.”

“Jesus,” I said, exasperated. “
Every
one's a critic.”

“I've been tempted to come backstage and see you any number of times, but I could never bring myself to do so.”

“Good thing you didn't. I'd have turned you over to Bow Street in a minute.”

“You wouldn't have known I was Lord Blackie. I never wear these garments except when I'm on a job.”

“Smart man,” I retorted. “Look, it's late, I'm exhausted and although I find this conversation utterly fascinating I'm really in no mood to chat. I'm going to light this candle and then I'm going to make myself a pot of tea, and if you're not gone by the time I'm finished I fully intend to go to the window and yell my head off.”

“Oh?”

“There's lots of constables around, Runners, too. You'll find yourself spending the night in the nearest roundhouse.”

“Feisty, unafraid—utterly gorgeous. The painting by Gainsborough doesn't do you justice. I own a reproduction. Not a day passes that I don't look at it and—remember.”

“That's lovely, Sir, and I'm thrilled beyond words that you're such an admirer, but, like I said, it's quite late and I'm not in a sociable mood. Get your ass
out
and I'll forget this ever happened.”

I moved toward the mantel to fetch the matches. He caught hold of my arm to restrain me and, instinctively, without thinking, without consciously planning to do so, I swung the heavy pewter candlestick and slammed it against the side of his head. He gave a startled cry then, slowly, still holding onto my arm, began to crumple, his knees giving way, his tall body swaying to and fro. I pulled my arm free just before he toppled, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. He was very still, stretched out there in the moonlight like a gigantic crumpled doll. My God, I thought, I've killed him! I stumbled into the shadows and fumbled nervously for the box of matches on top of the mantel, and it seemed to take me forever to find them.

Somehow, hands shaking, I managed to light the candle, and then I lighted several more and set the candlestick down and stood there looking at the still form sprawled out on the study floor. Lord, I
had
killed him. He wasn't even breathing. Was he? Was his chest rising and falling ever so slightly? Gnawing my lower lip, I stepped closer and, summoning all my courage, kneeled down and took his right wrist between thumb and forefinger. Yes, thank God, there was a pulse, a slight one, and he
was
breathing, through his mouth apparently. The black silk covering his face rippled faintly at the level of his lips. I could see two closed lids through the circular eyeholes. I dropped his wrist and stood up, moving back.

I hope he isn't
hurt
, I thought. Lord! Angel of Covent Garden captures Lord Blackie. What a news story
that
would be, and what a boon to the box office. With all the new spring productions opening,
My Charming Nellie
was beginning to suffer, and we hadn't played to a full house for several weeks. We wouldn't be able to
print
enough tickets now. What did I do now? Rush out into the night and try to find a constable? He might wake up and get away while I was gone. Find some cord or scarves or something and tie him up? I had no idea how you went about tying someone up and, besides, the idea was repugnant to me. So what are you going to do? I asked myself. Just stand here and wait for him to come to and then request him to come along peacefully to the roundhouse? Some heroine you are. He gave a faint moan, twitched. I jumped. You have him, love. What are you going to do with him?

I didn't really
want
to turn him in. Somehow it didn't seem quite fair. He hadn't really
hurt
anything, and he'd been … well, rather polite to me, soft spoken, gallant. Said I was utterly gorgeous, he had. Came to the theater several times. If I turned him in they were bound to hang him and I would feel terrible about it. You're one tough lady, love. Hard as nails. The man is a seasoned criminal, broke into your house, scared the wits out of you, and you want to pat him on the back and thank him for calling. He looks so uncomfortable there on the floor. He's probably in pain. He moaned again, and so, of course, I fetched a cushion and kneeled down and carefully lifted his head, placing the cushion under it, and then I went to get Jamie's brandy. He would need some when he came to. Putting the decanter of brandy and a glass down on the table in front of the sofa, I moved over to one of the wing chairs and sat down, patiently watching my guest.

He didn't move. A good fifteen minutes passed, the clock over the mantel ticking loudly in the quiet house. He was so still, hadn't moaned again, hadn't even twitched. I began to worry. Maybe … maybe he
had
died. Maybe he wouldn't ever come to. I got up and went over to him and checked and, yes, he was still breathing, but his pulse didn't seem any stronger than it was before. I had slammed the candlestick against his head with considerable force. His injury might be … might be serious indeed. He might be bleeding under that hood. I would have to remove it. There was no way around it. Of course my curiosity about what he looked like had nothing whatsoever to do with my decision to remove the hood. Carefully, I lifted his head. He moaned again and mumbled something incoherent as I took hold of the top of the hood and pulled. Shiny black silk slipped away, revealing his features.

I didn't gasp. I didn't faint. My heart didn't leap. Calmly, I stared, and I seemed to have no feeling whatsoever. I saw the lean, foxlike face and noted that it was a bit fuller than before, not quite so sharp and thin. His mouth was wide and full, the lower lip with that cruel curve I remembered, and the sleek black eyebrows slanted up from the bridge of his nose to a high arch and then swept back down. Though still dark, his skin wasn't as deep a tan as it had been, but his hair was as thick, as black, the rich blue-black of a raven's wing. There was an ugly mauve bruise above his temple darkening to purple-blue. I must tend to that, I thought, ever so calm, completely objective. I had seen his face so often in my dreams that seeing it now, even after all this time, had no effect whatsoever on me.

Or so I believed.

I went upstairs and found a clean cloth and the bottle of rubbing alcohol we kept in a cabinet in the dressing room. I returned to the study and bathed the bruise. The skin wasn't broken, and there was only a slight swelling. He wasn't seriously hurt, although he was going to feel wretched when he came to. He moaned. His eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes and they were so deep a brown they seemed almost black, confused now as they gazed up at me. “Angie,” he moaned, a low, aching moan that seemed to hurt his throat, and then he shut his eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness. I finished bathing his temple and eased his head back down onto the cushion and spread a cloak over him, and I poured myself a glass of brandy and sat back down in the wing chair and wondered how I could possibly be so very calm and objective, feeling nothing whatsoever.

I sipped the brandy. An hour passed, two, and the memories came and with them the emotions I hadn't felt earlier and I wanted another brandy, needed it badly, but I didn't have one. I went into the kitchen and made tea and another hour passed and the feelings I wanted so desperately to deny swept over me, and I knew that love was not dead, was still very much alive inside me. I was sad, so sad, remembering that sensitive girl, that moody youth, knowing it was too late for both of us, for both of us had changed, though the love was still alive. Dawn came and he awoke and I helped him onto the sofa and told him not to talk and made another pot of tea and made him drink it, and I was composed, cool, in complete control of the emotions raging inside. He finished his second cup of tea and set the cup aside and rubbed the side of his head and grimaced.

“How do you feel?” I asked. My voice was crisp.

“I suppose I'll live. I've had worse bumps. I had to come, Angie. For weeks I've been trying to build up enough courage. They claim Lord Blackie is brave and dauntless, the boldest man in London, but I suffered agonies while I waited for you to come home last night.”

“Indeed?”

“I was afraid—afraid to see you. I had stayed away for so long a time, but I couldn't stay away any longer. What I said about that portrait is true, Angie. Every day I look at the reproduction and I remember and—”

“It's too late, Hugh.”

“You remember, too,” he told me.

“Yes, I remember.”

Pink-orange light streamed into the room, growing brighter by the moment. I got up and put out the candles and opened all the curtains. Hugh watched me with brown-black eyes full of unspoken emotion.

“You must leave,” I said.

“Not yet. We have to talk.”

“There's nothing to talk about, Hugh.”

“I love you. I've never loved anyone else. When I escaped I longed to come to you, to see you just one more time before—” He paused, a deep frown creasing his brow. “It wasn't possible. I had to get away. I went to sea. I intended to make enough money to get to Italy and gather the proof I needed to establish my legitimacy and bring my case to court, but there is very little money to be made when you're a lowly sailor. I found that out early on, but I dared not come back to England. Eventually, when I felt it was safe, I returned. I discovered that Clinton was married and living at Greystone Hall—in my house, with my title—and I discovered that you had become the celebrated Angel Howard. I was penniless. I knew I couldn't approach you until I—until I had a future to offer you.”

“So you became Lord Blackie,” I said. “You became a thief.”

“Out of necessity, Angie. I had to have a great deal of money in order to accomplish my goal, and there was no way I could earn it honestly. I became a thief, yes, but I only robbed the rich, the gentry, lifting bright baubles from empty-headed women who wouldn't suffer from the loss. I never committed an act of violence, never hurt anyone. I feel no remorse.”

“I don't imagine you do,” I said.

He didn't like my tone of voice. He frowned again, looking then remarkably like the sullen youth I had known. I sat down wearily in the wing chair and caught sight of myself in the mirror across the room. My face was drawn, faint shadows under my eyes, and my hair looked limp, all atumble. It didn't matter. I was utterly weary. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to forget, and I knew I never could.