Angel in Scarlet (76 page)

“Would you describe for the court the circumstances under which they first came to your attention?”

You don't want me to do that, dear counselor. No indeed. Megan and Charles had been absolutely horrified at my proposal and Charles had flatly refused to have anything to do with it. They had both railed at me, told me I was out of my mind, refused to listen when I tried to explain my reasons for wanting it done. Finally, when I threatened to go to Seven Dials alone and unaccompanied, Charles had reluctantly agreed to accept the commission. He took two stalwart ex-guardsmen with him, and he wore shabby old clothes and a gray wig, his handsome face heavily disguised with greasepaint. The Grand Cyprus hadn't been at all interested in his identity, only in his gold, and for an exorbitant fee had agreed to forge the papers Charles requested. Charles returned for them a week later, and they were perfect. The Grand Cyprus was indeed a genius, every bit as clever as Boswell had claimed that morning at the breakfast table. I looked at the papers now, aware that the counselor was growing impatient.

“Milady?” he said.

“I was cleaning out my husband's desk in his office at Greystone Hall,” I said, “and I noticed one of the drawers seemed to be stuck. It wouldn't open all the way. I tugged and strained and finally I employed a nail file and gave it a jerk. There was a tiny cache in back, obviously a secret compartment, and the papers were there, rolled up and tied with a rotten brown ribbon, completely covered with dust. I took them out and examined them, and when I discovered what they were I turned them over to my advocate, Mr. Burke.”

The counselor nodded decisively and looked at the judges, as though to determine that they had heard properly, and then he turned to me again. “I see,” he said, “and do you think your late husband was aware of their existence?”

“I'm certain he wasn't,” I replied, and my voice was full of conviction. “As I said, they were completely covered with dust and clearly hadn't been disturbed for a great many years.”

“Tell me, Lady Meredith—” He hesitated a moment. “Do you have any idea how the papers might have come to be in this compartment you describe?”

“I feel sure that Lord Meredith, my husband's uncle, placed them there for reasons of his own.”

“And what might those reasons have been?”

It was an impertinent question. Both of us were aware of that. I gazed at him with cool eyes.

“I don't feel I'm qualified to answer that question,” I said crisply. “I would imagine you and the rest of Mr. Bradford's counselors have a theory which you will establish in due course.”

“Ah hummm … yes, well, uh, would you describe the papers to us for the benefit of the court.”

“One appears to be a certificate verifying the legal marriage of Lord Meredith and one Teresa Guiccoli. The other would seem to be a certificate registering the birth of their legitimate son, the date entered approximately seventeen months after that on the first certificate.”

The counselor was quite pleased with my statement. He brushed one of the long, billowing sleeves of his robe and looked at the judges again, beaming. I was acutely aware of Hugh's eyes staring at me but I refused to look at him. I was growing restive and prayed that it would soon be over. The counselor gave me his attention, and when he spoke his cracked, raspy voice was portentous and full of drama.

“Lady Meredith, you discovered these papers yourself. Have you any doubts about their authenticity?”

“None whatsoever,” I lied.

“You turned them over to your legal counselor, fully aware of their import. Would you tell the court what you believe they signify?”

“I believe they signify that the man known as Hugh Bradford is unquestionably the legitimate son of my late husband's uncle and his Italian wife and, as such, the rightful heir to all his father's estate.”

“To which you have no legal claim!” he cried triumphantly.

“A fact I have no intention of contesting,” I said.

“Thank you, Lady Meredith. I am sure the court appreciates your integrity and your honesty in these matters. That will be all.”

There were excited murmurs in the room as I opened the railing and stepped down. Hugh had leaped to his feet, his expression exultant. He called my name as I moved past. I paid him no mind. My part of the proceedings was over, and I did not intend to stay for the rest. Burke took my arm and led me out of the room and down the corridor and past the anteroom and down yet another corridor to the front of the building. The carriage I had hired was waiting for me, and so were the gentlemen from Fleet. A furor broke out when I appeared.

“Lady Meredith! Angel! What happened? Tell us! Give us the story! Do you keep the estate? Does Bradford get it? Come on, Angel! You've always cooperated before!”

I smiled politely and maintained a discreet silence as they swarmed around me. Burke fended them off as best he could and led me over to the waiting carriage. The journalists shouted and waved and leaped about trying to get my attention. Burke opened the door for me and brutally shoved aside a husky fellow who tried to leap inside. I climbed in and Burke closed the door firmly, looking at me through the window. I reached out and took his hand and squeezed it, thanking him silently amidst the uproar. He nodded and I released his hand and he stepped back. The carriage pulled away, surrounded by journalists who hotly pursued it for several minutes.

I was tense. The streets were terribly congested. It seemed to take forever to get out of the city, and it was only when the countryside began to clip past the windows that I finally relaxed. I sat back against the cushions, gazing out at the trees, the fields, the gentle hills already a hazy green against the vivid blue sky. Now that it was over, I had no regrets whatsoever. I had done what I felt I must do, and now … now I could get on with my life. We passed through a small village with thatched cottages and an ancient brownstone church with tarnished copper steeple. A little girl with flaxen hair was leading a flock of geese across the green. The carriage moved on, wheels rumbling, horse hooves clopping heavily on the road. There were more trees, more fields, several more villages. The journey seemed interminable. It was midafternoon when the carriage turned into the drive of Greystone Hall.

Putnam himself came out to open the carriage door for me. Although he was as stately and reserved as ever, there was a new kindness in his eyes, and as he helped me out of the carriage he did so with concern, as though I were fragile. I smiled at him, thanking him with my eyes, and Putnam nodded and gave the driver instructions to go around to the stableyard. Mrs. Rigby was in the front hall, waiting for me. She made a deep curtsy, looking as though she might begin to cry at any moment.

“I've packed all the clothes you left, Milady,” she said. “The bags are in the back hall. One of the footmen will carry them out to the carriage. The boxes of books you packed before you left are ready, too. I—I wasn't sure if you would want tea or not, but I've prepared it anyway.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rigby. I'll take it in the back sitting room.”

“Will you be staying long, Milady?”

“Not long,” I replied. “An hour or two at most. I—I would like you to thank all the staff for me, Mrs. Rigby. You all have been wonderful to me from the first, and it has meant a great deal. I'll miss you all.”

The housekeeper took out a handkerchief and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “Then—then—this means you won't be coming back?”

The servants, of course, were fully aware that I was to go to court today, and they were all most eager to know the outcome. I handled it as tactfully as I could, knowing Mrs. Rigby would spread the news promptly.

“There is a new Lord Meredith, Mrs. Rigby. I would imagine he will be arriving in a day or so to look at the property, and he will undoubtedly want you all to stay on. He will be depending on you, and I hope you will give him all the help and consideration due him.”

“Of—of course, Milady,” she said hesitantly.

I thanked her again and went back to the sitting room. Robert brought the tea trolley in a few minutes later. He was wearing his best livery, and he had clearly already heard the news. He poured for me himself and, before leaving, told me that it had been a pleasure serving me. Henri had prepared all of the things I liked, but I ate very little, sitting there near the fire and drinking my tea, trying not to look at the sofa where Clinton had drawn his last breath. After a while I went over and picked up one of the soft cushions and held it to my bosom, staring out the windows for a long time, and then I tenderly replaced the cushion and left the room.

There was very little for me to pack, a few wedding gifts, a few of my personal possessions. Most of my things had already been sent on to Maiden Lane, where Megan was storing them for me. The jewels Clinton had given me were in a safe at Dottie's. I had leased space in a stable near the park in London, and Cynara was already there. I couldn't leave her behind. Ian had gone to London with her, hiring on at the stable and assuring me she would receive the best of care. I packed the few things remaining. Robert took the bag to the back hall and it would soon be strapped atop the carriage along with the others.

The sunlight was beginning to fade, long shadows spreading on the lawn. I went into Clinton's dressing room and opened the wardrobe and took out his favorite navy blue satin dressing robe, holding it to me, resting my cheek against the smooth, cool cloth, and then I put it back and went into our bedroom, resting my hand on the curve of one of the bedposts, remembering, storing away memories that would remain forever. I had loved him with a gentle love that would always have a place in my heart, and my grief would always be there too, locked deep inside me. I went downstairs and wandered through the rooms so beautifully renovated by Adam, silently saying my good-byes. I stepped into the elegant empty ballroom where we had danced all alone the night of the ball, remembering that night, his wonderful composure, the love that had glowed in his eyes as we glided around that polished golden-brown floor to the lilting strains of music. The tears came at last, and I let them fall for several minutes.

Putnam met me in the foyer twenty minutes later. I had dried my eyes, and I was completely composed. He informed me that the bags had all been strapped on top of the carriage, and I asked him to have it brought around. I went into the drawing room, so tastefully done in shades of white, pale gray and sky blue, rich sapphire blue velvet covering the graceful Chippendale furniture. Fading rays of sunlight slanted through the windows, hazily illuminating the beautiful Adam fireplace and the painting above it.
An Angel in Scarlet
glowed with rich color, vibrant and alive, and I gazed for a final time at that pensive girl who was no more. I was vaguely aware of the sound of wheels and horse hooves and I heard footsteps entering the foyer, but, lost in reverie, I paid no mind. Someone came into the room. Gazing at the portrait, I didn't turn around.

“It
is
beautiful,” he said. “After all these years of looking at reproductions, I can hardly believe I now own the original.”

Somehow I was not surprised. I turned slowly, and Hugh smiled at me, his dark eyes filled with triumph … and love. He loved me. He genuinely loved me, with every fiber of his being, and now that his dark obsession had ended in victory that love was ready to blossom and grow and supplant everything else in importance. I saw that, and I was sorry. He was wearing the elegant attire he had worn in court, both of us in black, his relieved by exquisite white lace at throat and wrists.

“I would have arrived sooner, Angie, but those chaps from Fleet waylaid me as I was leaving. I took them all to a coffee house nearby and bought a round of drinks, answered all their questions. One of them called me ‘Lord Meredith' for the first time. I can't tell you how that made me feel.”

He looked younger. He looked exultant. The sullen, brooding Hugh I had known had been transformed by his triumph, and now there was something youthful and buoyant about him. He was like a little boy who has been given a room full of brightly wrapped presents and can hardly contain his joy. The foxlike features were not nearly so sharp. He had put on some weight and it was quite becoming to him. The lean, surly buccaneer look was gone, and, always striking, he could now almost be called handsome. The smile played lightly on those wide pink lips—he had smiled so rarely in the past—and the brown-black eyes were glowing. I noted all this coolly, objectively, without emotion.

“We've won, Angie!” he exclaimed.

“You've won,” I corrected him.

“Everything I always wanted, everything I always dreamed of having—it's mine now. And all because of you. If you hadn't found those documents, if you hadn't turned them over to Burke, I would never have won. I admit that freely now. My own advocates had given up. I had no real proof, they claimed. They wanted me to drop my suit, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. I had to prove who I was.”

“I know,” I said.

“I owe it all to you, Angie.”

“I did what I had to do,” I told him.

Hugh came over to examine the portrait more closely—yes, there was buoyancy in his stride as well, it was almost jaunty—and he clasped his hands behind his back, standing there in front of the fireplace and gazing up at Gainsborough's masterpiece which now belonged to him. After a few moments he turned to look at me, and the joy, the love in his eyes was painful to behold. I felt no reflection of those emotions stirring within me. I felt nothing at all for this man, neither love nor hate. My feelings for him had once been the most important thing in my life, but they were gone, nothing whatsoever remaining now. The last feeble spark had died away the day my husband received that fatal letter.

“Gainsborough captured you to the life,” he said. “So young, so beautiful, so wistful. You look so pensive in the portrait. What were you thinking of when he was painting you?”