Angel in Scarlet (74 page)

“I want to talk to you,” he said at last.

His voice was calm, much too calm, carefully modulated, and that frightened me. I looked at the sheet of paper in his hand, and I knew. It had happened at last. I felt a weak, tremulous feeling inside, and I knew I couldn't give in to it. I was afraid my knees were going to give way. They didn't. I took a deep breath, and when I spoke my voice was as calm as his own had been.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

It was a foolish question. I knew. I knew. I wanted to burst into tears. I wanted to turn and flee up the stairs. I stood facing my husband with perfect composure. A heavy blond wave had fallen across his brow. He shoved it back. The tail of his white lawn shirt was tucked carelessly into the waistband of his snug gray trousers.

“I received a letter,” he said.

“Oh?”

“From him.”

“Him?”

“From Hugh Bradford, Angela.”

It was what I had feared, what I had been dreading all these weeks, and now that it had actually happened I felt, perversely, something very like relief. I was almost glad it was out in the open, for nothing could be much worse than the constant dread I had been living with since Hugh Bradford's return.

“I see,” I said.

“Do you?”

“I think so. He—he told you about our—He told you that we had been together.”

“He said that you had been lovers, that you are still in love with him. He said that the only reason you married me was to get back at him for leaving you. He said you had merely used me to hurt him.”

“That isn't true, Clinton.”

“No?”

“You know it isn't true.”

He didn't reply at once. He continued to look at me. His cheeks were no longer ashen. His face was hard, the muscles tight, and his gray eyes were hard too. The hurt, troubled man who had come into the foyer was now stiff, unyielding, a Clinton I didn't know. That alarmed me. The tremulous feeling returned, worse than before. The fear returned as well.

“Clinton—”

“Then the letter is a lie,” he said.

“Not—not all of it,” I said, and for all my skill as an actress I couldn't keep the tremor out of my voice. “I—I did love him. When I was seventeen I—we slept together, and I thought he was the world. When Lord Meredith died and Hugh vanished I—I thought I would never get over my grief.”

Another clap of thunder shook the earth. The whole house seemed to tremble as though besieged by a battering ram. There was a moment of silence and then a shrieking, splitting explosion of noise in back. Lightning must have struck one of the small trees, I reflected, but it was an idle thought. My whole being was concentrated on my husband, on convincing him of my love.

“I—I went to London,” I continued. “I began a whole new life. You know about that. You know about Jamie. I never tried to hide our relationship. We had a falling out and I left him and—and Hugh came back into my life. I took a cottage in the country and Hugh came to stay with me and we resumed our affair and I thought—”

I hesitated, trying to find the proper words. He continued to stare at me with those hard eyes, the eyes of an enemy, and my heart seemed to stop beating. I couldn't lose him. I couldn't. I loved him with all my heart and soul, and I must convince him of that. The thunder ceased. There was an eerie silence outside, as though the earth were holding its breath, all sound, all motion ceased. It was the calm before the storm.

“He planned to go to Italy. He wanted to gather evidence to—to prove he was the rightful heir. I tried to dissuade him. I told him it was folly, but he wouldn't listen, he was obsessed. I told him that if he left it would all be over between us, but that—that didn't matter to him. He left and it
was
over, Clinton.”

“And then you met me again,” he said.

“I know what you're thinking, but it isn't true. It isn't. I fell in love with you, Clinton. I thought you were the gentlest, the kindest, the most compassionate man I had ever met—I couldn't help falling in love with you. I never told you about Hugh because—because there seemed to be no reason for me to tell you.”

Clinton crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it into the corner. He looked away from me, staring at a point in space. The silence outside seemed far more ominous than the thunder had been.

“You can't believe what he wrote,” I said, and my voice trembled. “I married you because I loved you. It had nothing to do with Hugh. You must believe me. He—he just wanted to hurt you.”

Clinton looked at me again. His eyes were expressionless.

“No,” he said, “he wanted me to call off Burke and give up the fight. He informed me that if I didn't he would tell Fleet Street all about his passionate affair with the new Lady Meredith.”

He looked at me for a long moment and then turned around and started toward the back of the house. My heart was breaking. I couldn't let him go, not like this, not with him thinking … Hesitating just a second to catch my breath, I hurried after him.

“Clinton—”

“Leave me alone, Angela. I need to think.”

He tossed these words over his shoulder without losing stride. I caught up with him and took hold of his arm and he stopped and looked down at me with eyes that were still flat and expressionless.

“Clinton, we—we can't leave it like this. Please,” I pleaded. “We must talk. You must let me explain—”

“We'll talk later,” he said curtly.

He pulled his arm free and strode away and I leaned against the wall, tears spilling down my cheeks. Everything grew blurry, and I seemed to be watching my whole world crumbling to pieces. In the distance I heard a loud retort, and it was a moment before I realized it was the sound of a door slamming shut. He had gone outside. In this weather. He had gone outside, and that could only mean he intended to ride Hercules. He always went riding when something was bothering him. He rode with reckless abandon over the fields and … I had to stop him! It was going to storm! Filled with a new panic now, I rushed on down the foyer and through an archway and into the back hall. I heard footsteps clattering behind me. Someone was calling my name. I hurried on, stumbling on a rug, almost falling. Reaching the back door, I hurled it open and cried out sharply as I saw him tearing across the cobbled yard on Hercules. Ian came rushing out of the stables, looking distraught, shouting words that were torn asunder by the wind that rose suddenly, sweeping across the yard with a fierce roar.

“Clinton!” I called.

I started to rush outside. Hands caught me, held me, pulled me back, and I whirled to find Dottie. She was shaking her head, speaking words I couldn't hear for the pounding of my heart. The wind roared and there was another deafening clap of thunder like a fusillade of cannons and lightning split the purple-gray sky. I tried to pull free. Dottie held me firmly, telling me to be calm, be still, it would be all right, and then I was babbling and trying to explain. I had to go after him! I had to stop him! It was going to storm! Dottie crooned more soothing words I didn't hear and gently, firmly led me into the nearby back sitting room. She eased me into a chair and poured a glass of brandy and stood over me, forcing me to drink.

The brandy seemed to set my insides afire and gradually the fire turned into a pleasant warmth and with the warmth hysteria abated and then some semblance of calm returned. I handed Dottie the half-emptied glass and shook my head, indicating I could drink no more, and she set the glass down and looked at me with deeply concerned eyes, her brow creased, and I told her I was all right now. My voice seemed to belong to someone else, a flat, hollow, defeated voice that came from a great distance. My body seemed to belong to someone else, too, numb now, all energy, all life force seeped away. The windows rattled violently and lightning flashed repeatedly as though some maniacal god flicked blinding silver-blue light on and off, on and off, accompanied by rumbling crashes of thunder. Dottie picked up the glass and drank the rest of the brandy herself.

“I've lost him, Dottie,” I said.

“Nonsense, dear.”

“Hugh sent him a letter. Clinton believes—”

“No, dear. Don't worry yourself about it. It will all work out.”

“You don't understand. He—”

“I heard, Angel. I couldn't rest with all that bloody thunder. I started downstairs and heard your voices and didn't want to interrupt. I wasn't actually eavesdropping, I just couldn't help hearing—”

“I've lost him,” I repeated.

“He loves you. He knows that you love him. He's upset, but he'll get over it. Don't fret, my dear.”

Several long minutes passed as claps of deafening thunder boomed and lightning flashed and, somewhere in the distance, there was a shattering explosion as lightning struck a tree. Clinton was out there, on Hercules, charging over the roads and fields. I gripped the arms of the chair, starting as another explosion sounded nearby. Dottie was wringing her hands, worried sick herself, moving about the room restlessly, pausing now and then to stare out the window with apprehensive eyes. Clinton had been gone perhaps ten minutes when we heard shouting outside, in the stableyard. The back door flew open. Loud footsteps pounded in the hall. There were loud, excited voices yelling words we couldn't quite make out and then there was a moment of silence and the voices were lowered. I was already on my feet, my face white. Dottie gripped my hand, the color draining from her own cheeks. Both of us seemed paralyzed. Putnam stepped into the sitting room, clearly shaken but somehow maintaining his regal composure.

“Milady,” he said. “I fear there's been an accident.”

“What is it? What's happened?” My voice was a hoarse whisper.

“No one is quite certain, Milady. His Lordship's horse has returned to the stables, dragging the reins, the saddle empty. It—it seems Lord Meredith has had a mishap. I sent four of the men out to search for him—” Even as he spoke we heard the sound of horse hooves pounding on the cobbles. “I also instructed one of the footmen to ride to the village and fetch the doctor in—in the event Lord Meredith has sustained some kind of injury.”

I stared at him, unable to speak, and after a moment Putnam nodded and left the room. Dottie squeezed my hand tightly. Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed with dazzling brilliance and then there was a pause, several moments of silence, and the rain began to fall. It fell strongly, steadily, without any particular violence, splattering noisily on the ground. I pulled my hand loose. I headed blindly for the door. Dottie rushed after me, caught hold of my arm.

“I must go to him,” I told her, and it was someone else speaking, someone I could barely hear. “I must find him. He's out there. Clinton is out there. I must mount Cynara and go find him.”

“No, dear, no. The men will find him. You mustn't go out in this. Clinton wouldn't want you to. He—he's had a fall, that's all. He'll probably come hobbling back on his own two feet any minute now.”

“Dottie—”

“I'm not going to let you go out there, Angel.”

Her voice was firm. I looked at her. She folded me to her and held me for a long time, held me tightly, and then she led me back over to the chair and set me down and sat on the arm of the chair and held her arm around my shoulders and I saw the worry in her eyes and the tears spilling over her lashes. Rain splattered and the fire crackled pleasantly and time passed, each moment agony, and I prayed silently and calm came and with it strength and when I heard the men come in I stood up, composed now, ready to face whatever might be. They brought him into the room, bundled up in a blanket, his pale blond hair plastered wetly over his brow, and I told them to put him on the sofa.

“We found him on the side of the road, Milady,” Ian said gravely. “A 'uge oak was blockin' the road, the trunk still smoking. Apparently lightning struck the tree and the tree fell and startled the 'orse and it reared up and threw 'im off. 'E—'e's been moanin', but 'e 'asn't regained consciousness.”

“Thank you, Ian,” I said. “Please tell Putnam to bring the doctor here as soon as he arrives.”

Ian nodded and the men left and I was on my knees beside the sofa, smoothing the damp locks from his brow. He moaned and his body twitched and I knew he was in terrible pain. There was no blood, no bruises. The injuries were internal. I reached for his hand, took it, held it tightly, and he moaned again, his eyelids fluttering. His lips parted. His cheeks were flushed. His lashes were all wet and stuck together in short spikes. Dottie handed me a cloth. I wiped his face gently. He opened his eyes. I smiled a tender smile and touched his cheek.

“An—Angela—” he stammered.

“I'm here, darling. You—you've had a little accident. The doctor will be here in a few minutes. Don't—don't try to talk, my darling. Just try to relax.”

“My—my back—can't feel—”

“Hush, my darling. Hush.”

“Don't—don't leave me. Please—don't—”

“I'm here. I'll always be here. I love you, Clinton.”

“Cold. Can't—can't feel anything. H-hold me, Angela.”

He struggled into a sitting position and I sat down on the sofa and wrapped my arms around him and eased him back, his head resting against my shoulder. He looked up into my eyes and I smiled again and felt him relax, saw him wince. He closed his eyes for a moment and the color fled from his cheeks and he trembled. I held him close and he seemed to sleep and then his eyes flew open and he gazed at me as though through a fog, peering intently, squinting, and then he found me and his lips curved into a weak smile and I held him closer.

“Love—love you,” he murmured. “My fault—shouldn't have doubted—forgi-forgive me—”

“My darling, my darling, it's all right. The doctor will be here. You'll be—you'll be fine.”