Angel in Scarlet (65 page)

“Congratulations,” I said.

Megan set the brandy down and gave an exasperated sigh and stepped over to the fireplace, the gold and pearl hair piece gleaming against her auburn locks, her blue eyes thoughtful as she gazed up at the painting of the girl in scarlet velvet. The colors glowed richly in the candlelight, the dark gold frame softly burnished. Megan gazed at it for several moments, and then she sighed again and turned to me.

“It all began that day Gainsborough spotted you on the street,” she said. “If he hadn't painted this portrait, if you hadn't become a successful actress, I wouldn't have gotten good parts, wouldn't have met Charles. Thomas Gainsborough has a hell of a lot to answer for.”

“He does indeed.”

“He still won't paint me, incidentally. Says I'm too piquant, not ethereal enough. I'm deeply wounded.”

“You've a right to be.”

“It's this damned pert nose. The bane of my existence.”

“Charles likes it,” I pointed out.

“There's that,” she agreed. “What am I going to
do
, luv?”

“Marry him, of course.”

“I suppose I'll have to,” she said wearily. “He'll pester me to death if I don't.”

We heard the men coming down the hall, their footsteps heavy, their voices hearty as they discussed stocks and barrels and range and such. Megan made a face and brushed her bronze velvet skirt. I smiled and, moving over to her, gave her a hug. She sighed once more and assumed that wry, sophisticated expression I knew so well.

“The son of a bitch is
in
for it now, luv,” she told me. “He opened his mouth and asked the question and if he thinks he can back out of it now, he has a huge surprise in store. I might as
well
marry him. Someone has to protect him from all those adoring women who're always hurling themselves at his feet. Someone has to pick up after him and see that he eats the proper meals and remind him it's time to go to the theater. It might as well be me.”

“Might as well,” I agreed.

“I love him, Angel.”

“I know you do, darling.”

“I never thought it would happen,” she said. “A girl like me—turning respectable. Next thing you know I'll be baking cookies.”

“I rather doubt that.”

Megan stepped away from me and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, it's about
time
you got back to us,” she scolded as the men walked into the room. “Leaving us alone all this time while you were looking at a lot of guns! How rude and thoughtless can you get? We've been frightfully lonely, pining away the whole time.”

“I'll bet,” Charles said.

“No lip from you, Charles Hart. I've had just about enough of your sauce for one day. Shall we play some whist? Angel and I will take on the two of you, and tonight we're playing for high stakes and real money. There's a hat I fancy in London and it costs a bloomin' fortune. I'm going to win enough tonight to buy it—a new pair of shoes as well.”

“Oh?” Clinton inquired.

“Just you watch, sweetheart.”

It snowed that night, and fluffy white flakes were slowly swirling in the air as I dressed the next morning. Everything outside was blanketed in a pure glistening white, the gardens transformed into a spectacular wonderland. Sitting at the dressing table, I brushed my hair, feeling happy and replete after a marvelous night with Clinton. Megan and I
had
won at whist and she had been saucy and triumphant and Charles had accused her of cheating and accused me of being a cardsharp and there had been a wonderfully stimulating scrap, Charles threatening to haul us both off to Bow Street, Clinton grinning, vastly amused by our shenanigans. Later, in the privacy of our bedroom, he had taken me into his arms and kissed me for a very long time, a tantalizing prelude to pleasures that would soon follow.

Setting the hairbrush aside, I pushed gleaming chestnut brown waves away from my face and stood up, my silk petticoats rustling. I was wearing a dusty rose frock of fine linen with a low, square-cut neckline and a full, spreading skirt. Stepping over to a window, I gazed out at the wonderland of new snow. Sunlight reflected on the glistening white, creating lovely silver-violet sunbursts. Clinton sauntered into the room, tucking the tail of his loose white silk shirt into the waistband of his snug gray trousers. His pale blond hair was tousled, his eyes still sleepy. I smiled. He grinned at me and finished tucking his shirt in.

“Up early, aren't you?” he said.

“It's almost nine.”

“I slept that late?”

“You had a very active night,” I told him.

“Seems like I remember that.”

“And you owe me twenty-four pounds.”

“Charles was right about you,” he grumbled. “You
are
a cardsharp, and you taught Megan everything you know.”

“I hate a sore loser,” I replied. “I intend to collect from Charles too before they leave this afternoon.”

He joined me at the window and, moving behind me, slipped his arms around my waist. I leaned my head back against his shoulder, and we watched the snow swirl slowly in the air.

“You've really enjoyed their visit, haven't you?” he asked.

“Tremendously.”

“I've enjoyed it, too. Seeing you with them, so bright and vivacious, so full of fun, makes me realize just how dreary these past months must have been for you.”

“I haven't complained.”

“Indeed you haven't, but it's hardly been a picnic for you with me so involved with the estate and gone so much of the time and you with nothing to do for hours on end.”

“I take rides. I read. I—”

“It's been dreary for you, darling, don't try to say it hasn't. It's going to be better, I promise. We'll leave for London the first of December and stay through the holidays. You'll be able to see all your friends, go to the theater, give parties at Hanover Square. We'll have a grand time.”

“I'm having a grand time right now,” I told him. “Just being with you is enough to keep me quite content. I don't need anything else.”

“A little outside stimulation wouldn't hurt, though. Besides, you probably need some new clothes.”

“I have all the clothes I need.”

“What? You expect me to believe that? A woman never has enough clothes, at least that's what I've been led to believe. Everything will soon be caught up here. We'll leave for London in a couple of weeks.”

“If you insist.”

“What time did you say it was?”

“A little after nine now. Breakfast at nine-thirty.”

“Damn,” he said. “Logistics are against it.”

“Against what?”

He pulled me closer. “Guess.”

“Too bad,” I said. “Megan and Charles will be expecting us. It took me a good twenty minutes to dress, and—”

“That's what I mean,” he complained. “Not enough time.”

“It'll keep, darling.”

“What time are they leaving?”

“Around two, I believe.”

“We've got an appointment at two-thirty. Same time. Same place. We'll stand here in front of the window and. I'll hold you like this and you'll turn around and give me one of those looks and I'll smile and we'll adjourn to the bedroom.”

“At two-thirty in the afternoon? The servants will be horrified.”

“To hell with the servants,” he said.

“I think you'd better go wash your face with cold water, darling, then I suggest you brush your hair and think of something terribly mundane and unexciting for a few minutes. Those breeches are very snug.”

Clinton glanced down, saw the bulge, grinned and gave me a quick, affectionate kiss and then sauntered off to his own dressing room. Twenty minutes later, as we entered the breakfast room, he wore a neat gray frock coat matching his breeches, a handsome dark blue vest stitched with black fleurs de lis and a dashing light gray silk neckcloth, very much the country gentleman with no telling bulge to mar the fit of those snug breeches. Our houseguests had already come down, Charles heaping his plate with sausage and eggs and slices of ham, Megan seated, buttering one of Henri's flaky croissants.

Charles made his official announcement as we were having coffee. I wasn't at all surprised, of course, although I pretended to be. Clinton was delighted and said we must have champagne. At this hour? I inquired. At this hour, he insisted. Robert fetched a bottle from the wine cellar. It was deliciously cool. Clinton poured the bubbly wine and toasted our guests.

“It's about time,” I told Charles.

“Don't know what came over me,” he confessed. “It must be something in the air down here. I didn't
intend
to propose, the words just came out. I'm having second thoughts already.”

“Too bloody bad,” Megan said.

“And when is the happy event to occur?” Clinton asked.

“I had in mind sometime next spring—April, May, somewhere around then, but Miss Sloan informed me that if we're going to do it, we're going to do it promptly, so we've decided to do it next month, before the holidays. She isn't giving me a chance to back out.”

“Bloody right I'm not.”

“That leaves precious little time to plan a trousseau,” I said. “Dottie will have a fit.”

“She'll manage,” Megan replied.

“What about the wedding gown?”

“Something simple. White, naturally. Dottie will know exactly what to run up. An antique lace veil perhaps, and orange blossoms from The Market of course.”

“Listen to them,” Charles told Clinton. “They've already forgotten the groom.”

“We're coming up to town on the first,” I said. “I'll be able to help you with all the arrangements. What fun, Megan! Do you remember that wedding gown Dottie made for
The Inconstant Wife
a few years ago? Creamy white satin, I believe, overlaid with fragile lace, with tiny white satin rosebuds stitched onto the veil.”

“I don't want anything quite that fancy. She might modify the design a bit. I
did
love the veil.”

“More eggs?” Clinton asked.

“Might as well,” Charles said. “They'll go nicely with this champagne. Might have a bit more of that sausage, too.”

“And I'd like some more buttered wheat toast. I like a hearty breakfast to start the day.”

“Me, too.”

“Maybe pale mica sequins on the veil instead of rosebuds,” I suggested. “Remember that veil Titania wore in
Midsummer
? Of course it was yellow, with gold sequins, but you could get the same effect with mica on white. It would be stunning with your auburn hair.”

“I have a feeling this is going to cost me a fortune,” Charles said.

“I have a feeling you're right,” Clinton replied.

Megan and I were both rather tearful as the four of us stood outside under the front portico, waiting as the footmen strapped bags on top of the carriage. It had stopped snowing, but the snow covering the ground was dazzling white with a soft blue tinge, the sky a cloudy gray-white. Megan was wearing a dark golden velvet gown with matching golden velvet cloak trimmed in golden brown fur, the hood pulled up over her head. She took my hand and gave it a tight squeeze. Charles and Clinton were chatting idly about their afternoon of shooting. The footmen secured the last bag and scrambled down. The driver climbed up onto his perch and took up the reins, and the four strong grays stamped impatiently, eager to be off. The men shook hands. Megan and I exchanged hugs, and then Charles gave me a brotherly kiss.

“I like your husband, love. Be good to him.”

“I intend to be.”

They climbed into the carriage. Clinton slipped his arm around my waist and we stood on the steps, waving as the carriage pulled around the drive and drove through the graystone portals, and then we went upstairs to keep our appointment. It was lovely and leisurely, the bedroom windows frosted from the snow, a fire crackling quietly in the fireplace. A delicious languor possessed us both afterwards, and we dined late on chilled lobster soup and wonderful goose-liver pate and retired quite early for another appointment.

The snow lasted a week and was replaced by rain that seemed to fall constantly from a bleak, dark gray sky. As we would soon be leaving for London, Clinton found it necessary to spend a great deal of time in his office, going over the accounts. The Meredith holdings were extensive, I learned, with tin mines in Cornwall, a textile mill in Leeds and a pottery factory outside Coventry, these efficiently managed by trusted employees and requiring very little personal attention from Clinton, whose main interest was the tenant farms. Although he rarely inspected these other holdings in person, he received regular reports on all transactions and kept an eye on everything, which meant a huge amount of paperwork to catch up with before we left for the holidays.

I was in the library late one afternoon, leafing through a volume of sixteenth-century prints and listening to the rain splattering against the leaded windowpanes. Although the Merediths had never been big readers, the towering floor to ceiling shelves were crammed with thousands of volumes. Adam had stained the shelves a rich golden brown and installed an elegant gold and brown marble fireplace, and I had decided to keep the comfortable leather sofa and chairs, scattering Oriental carpets patterned in gold, brown and green on the dark oak floors. Despite its size, the library was still quite cozy, with that musty, dusty smell of old books I found so pleasant. A fire crackled in the fireplace. I turned a page of the heavy leather-bound volume and then, sighing, closed it and watched the rain making slippery patterns on the windowpanes. The day had seemed interminable, and it would be at least two hours before dinner. I missed my morning rides. Would the rain never end?

“Been missing me?” Clinton inquired.

I looked up, startled, for I hadn't heard him enter the room. His white lawn shirt was open at the throat, the full sleeves rolled up over his forearms. His pale blond hair was mussed, and there were faint shadows under his eyes. He looked weary, I thought, which wasn't at all surprising, for he had been working in his office most of the day. Many of the landed gentry might live idle, pampered lives in luxurious surroundings, but I didn't know anyone who worked harder than my husband.