The Wanton Angel Read online

  ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘Hazard a guess,’ she encouraged. ‘You have been here long enough to make observations and to pass a judgement What have you decided?’ She smiled at his obvious reluctance. ‘Do not be afraid to speak your mind. I will not be offended.’

  ‘Very well, my lady,’ he said, plunging in. ‘I believe that Sylvester secured that loan from a member of his family. We have long felt that he came of aristocratic stock and noted a prosperity about him which could not be bought with his share of our takings. In short, I think that the money for our playhouse came from someone in this room.’ He turned to indicate the largest portrait. ‘From his father.’

  The Countess of Dartford fought hard to contain her mirth. She rose from her seat and walked away from him so that he could not see the smile on her face. When she recovered her poise, she came back to rest a hand on the back of her chair.

  ‘That is not his father, Nicholas, I do assure you.’

  ‘Then I am mistaken.’

  ‘Gravely,’ she said, turning to the portrait. ‘That gentleman has no children nor is he likely to produce any. He is well over sixty years of age and in extremely poor health. You are looking at Charles Bartram, Earl of Dartford,’ she said levelly. ‘He is my husband.’

  ‘I do apologise, my lady.’

  ‘Charles would be flattered by the compliment.’

  ‘I spoke in ignorance.’

  ‘Only because I urged you on, Nicholas. Let it pass.’ She resumed her seat and became earnest. ‘I will tell you about Sylvester Pryde,’ she volunteered, ‘but I must first extract a promise from you. Whatever I tell you must remain a secret between us. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘I will have to trust to your discretion.’

  ‘You will not find it wanting,’ he asseverated.

  ‘I know.’ She collected her thoughts before continuing. ‘Sylvester hailed from Lincolnshire. His father, Sir Reginald Pryde, had his estate there and hoped that his only son would take it over after him. It was not to be. Sylvester was too free a spirit to spend the rest of his life in Lincolnshire. He and his father fell out. Sir Reginald settled a sum of money on him but left the estate itself to a nephew.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘You can imagine what Sylvester did with his inheritance.’

  ‘He enjoyed spending it, my lady.’

  ‘On others as much as on himself,’ she stressed. ‘He was the most generous person I have ever met and not only with money. Sylvester was a beautiful man. It was a joy to know him. As to what he did before he joined your company, I am not entirely certain myself. He dallied with the law. He even toyed with the notion of becoming a Member of Parliament. And there were doubtless other professions that held his attention for a short time. Only the theatre satisfied him,’ she said. ‘He found his true home with Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘We felt that, my lady.’

  ‘Though he was never destined for real glory there.’

  ‘He was a competent actor,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘Short of the genius which makes a Lawrence Firethorn but an asset to any company. He worked at his trade.’

  ‘That was a revelation to him,’ she said. ‘It was the only thing he ever dedicated himself to and it gave him rewards of the heart he had never imagined. That was why he was so eager to transact a loan for Westfield’s Men. It was partly a repayment for all the pleasure and excitement you gave him.’

  ‘He gave us pleasure and excitement in return.’

  ‘Then you will not forget him?’

  ‘Never!’ vowed Nicholas.

  She was content. She rose from her chair in a manner which indicated that the interview was over. Nicholas stood up and moved towards the door with her. In close proximity, he found her perfume even more alluring. She paused at the door.

  ‘The loan will be paid.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  ‘Tell Master Firethorn that The Angel can be built.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘But that is all you tell him, Nicholas. There is no need for anyone else but you to know that I provided that money. I have many reasons for maintaining my secrecy.’

  ‘They are no business of ours, my lady,’ he said, glad that their benefactor had finally been identified. ‘Your kindness is appreciated and your wishes will be respected. But there is one thing I would like to ask before I leave.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘How did you know that Sylvester had been killed?’

  ‘One of my servants made enquiries of the coroner.’

  ‘But what made you send him to the coroner?’

  The Countess of Dartford looked him full in the face.

  ‘Instinct,’ she said simply. ‘Sylvester did not come back here last night. Only death could have kept him away.’

  This time she could not hold back the tears.

  Rose Marwood’s fever broke in the night. A combination of the doctor’s potion, her mother’s nursing and the anguished prayers of her father eventually worked. Sybil sat beside the bed all night to tend her, trying desperately to atone for the pain and disease she believed she had inflicted on Rose by taking her to Clerkenwell. The doctor’s reproaches had shattered her faith in Mary Hogg and she berated herself for her folly in trusting such a dangerous woman. Alexander Marwood had been given the task of destroying the Roman Catholic Prayer Book and he burnt it on the fire, wishing, as he stared into the yellow flames, that he could consign his daughter’s lover to the same fate.

  When Rose awoke next morning, she had visibly improved.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ asked Sybil solicitously.

  ‘The pain has gone, mother.’

  ‘Thank heaven!’

  ‘I feel hungry.’

  ‘That is a good sign.’

  ‘I have been dreaming of food.’

  ‘You shall have whatever you want.’

  Rose felt a cool breeze stroking her cheek. ‘The window is open,’ she said in surprise. ‘I thought you had it bolted.’

  ‘It will stay open now to let in fresh air.’

  ‘Thank you, mother.’

  Sybil felt her daughter’s brow then took both of her hands between her own. Apology never came easily to her and it cost her a tremendous effort of will.

  ‘We were unkind to you, Rose,’ she admitted.

  ‘You frightened me.’

  ‘Only because we were frightened ourselves. But I was wrong to take you to Clerkenwell. That was sinful. I see that now. I cannot find it in my heart to welcome this child but I should not have tried to get rid of it in that cruel way.’

  ‘It is his, mother,’ murmured the girl.

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘His.’

  Sybil pulled herself back from further questioning. During her long hours of recrimination, she had come to see that she could never bludgeon the name out of her daughter. Only by winning back the girl’s love and confidence would she have any hope of being told who the child’s father was. Nursing Rose through her illness had been an important first step but there were several others to take.

  ‘What food will I fetch you?’ she offered.

  ‘Anything,’ said Rose. ‘I am so famished.’

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘Thank you, mother.’

  ‘What else will I bring?’

  ‘Something to drink, please. And mother?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you open the window a little wider?’ said Rose softly. ‘The sun will shine onto the bed.’

  Sybil was only too happy to oblige, opening the window as wide as she could then going back to the bed to place on kiss on Rose’s forehead. When she went out, she left the door slightly ajar to signal that the prison regime was at an end. Rose struggled to sit up and look around her bedchamber. She was still weak but the fever and the continual ache had faded away. For the first time since she had taken to her bed, she felt a degree of hope. That was a medicine in itself.

  A scraping noise took
her eyes to the window. Expecting to find a bird perched there, she was astonished to see something quite different. Lying just inside the window, as if placed there from outside, was a tiny red flower. Rose was overjoyed. Struggling to get out of bed, she supported herself with a hand on the wall as she made her way to the window to collect the flower. It was more eloquent than any message and she was certain that it came from him. He knew. He wanted to help. He was offering his love and support.

  There was nobody outside the window but her disappointment was allayed by the flower. She inhaled its fragrance before making her way back to the bed, clambering into it with relief and holding the flower against her cheek. It was only when she heard her mother returning that she put the red rose hastily under the pillow. Sybil entered with a tray of food.

  ‘You look so much better, Rose,’ she said with a sigh of gratitude. ‘You’ve got some colour back in your cheeks.’

  The second performance of The Insatiate Duke had nothing like the success of the first. The acting was good, the effects startling and the stage management as smooth as ever but a key element was missing. Edmund Hoode no longer believed in the piece. Where he had been a moving Cardinal Boccherini on the first outing, he was now a rather sinister figure and it upset the whole balance of the drama. The audience was very appreciative but Westfield’s Men knew that they were being given short measure at the Queen’s Head that afternoon.

  Nobody was more disappointed than Lucius Kindell, the estranged co-author of the tragedy. Too embarrassed to make himself known to the company, he sneaked into the yard and found a seat in the upper gallery. Given his involvement with a rival company, he had anticipated that his play would be dropped by way of retaliation but Westfield’s Men were honouring their pledge to stage it again and that served to deepen his guilt. They were showing much more faith in his work than he had in theirs. The performance made him squirm in his seat, partly because it lacked any genuine passion and suffering, but chiefly because he could see what an ordeal it was for Hoode. A play on which the two of them had worked so hard for so long had turned sour for his co-author.

  Lawrence Firethorn left the stage in a mild fury.

  ‘We were abysmal, sirs!’ he roared.

  ‘Speak for yourself, Lawrence,’ said Barnaby Gill. ‘I will not hear a word against my performance. You saw those laughing faces. You heard that applause.’

  ‘The Insatiate Duke was a shadow of itself.’

  ‘Blame that on the insatiate duke.’

  ‘We are all to blame,’ insisted Firethorn.

  ‘It is true,’ agreed Hoode. ‘This play is not for us. Give it to Nicholas to lock away in his box. It may stay there in perpetuity for all that I am concerned.’

  They understood his rancour. Since his partnership with Lucius Kindell had been ruptured, he had become disenchanted with both the plays they had written together. Owen Elias sought to extract a jest from the situation.

  ‘You are a changed man, Edmund,’ he teased. ‘We are used to seeing you moping over a woman who will not requite your love. Now you are weeping over the loss of a young boy. Take care you do not turn into a second Barnaby.’

  ‘I resent that,’ said Gill over the laughter.

  ‘Why?’ mocked Elias. ‘Did Lucius reject you as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, joining in the fun at Gill’s expense, ‘he sold his buttocks to Rupert Kitely instead. Barnaby will have to run off to Havelock’s Men if he wishes have an assignation with our deserter.’

  Gill fell silent and looked away guiltily. Firethorn and Elias continued to bait him but for once he did not rise to the taunts. Nicholas Bracewell noted his lack of response and was concerned. It accorded with Gill’s reaction to the news that the loan to Westfield’s Men would be paid in spite of the death of their intermediary. While the rest of the company had been thrilled by the reassurance which Nicholas was able to give them, Gill had sulked in a corner. It was almost as if he did not want Westfield’s Men to have their own playhouse.

  The company broke up to go their separate ways. A fresh detachment of volunteers went off to work at the site of The Angel for a few hours, relieving those who had laboured there to good effect on the previous day. When his chores were complete, Nicholas had intended to join the work party himself but Firethorn summoned him to a meeting with their patron.

  They found Lord Westfield in his accustomed room, sipping a glass of wine and talking with some of his entourage. He dismissed the others so that he could be alone with the two newcomers. Anxiety flooded his face.

  ‘What is this I hear about a murder in our ranks?’

  ‘All too true, my lord,’ said Firethorn sadly. ‘Sylvester Pryde was crushed to death beneath some timbers on the site of our new playhouse.’

  ‘Poor soul!’

  ‘Nicholas was there when they found the body.’

  Picking up his cue, Nicholas gave a concise account of what had happened. Their patron was deeply sympathetic. He needed no evidence to name the culprit.

  ‘One of Banbury’s Men,’ he decided.

  ‘We do not know that,’ cautioned Nicholas.

  ‘We know they envy us and we know that they will stop at nothing to disable us. Especially now that the Master of the Revels has spoken.’

  ‘Has he?’ said Firethorn with interest.

  ‘Yes, Lawrence. That is what I came to tell you. I was at Court this morning when Sir Edmund Tilney confided in me the latest decision. It seems a just way to proceed.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The Privy Council have postponed their verdict,’ said Lord Westfield fussily. ‘They are masters of postponement because they can never make up their minds. Tilney feels that they need some help to come to judgement.’

  ‘What does he recommend?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘That the three major theatre companies be viewed alongside each other. This is his plan. Westfield’s Men, Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men play at Court in turn. Other companies are not even in the reckoning.’

  ‘I like this news,’ said Firethorn.

  Nicholas sounded a warning note. ‘It may not favour us,’ he said. ‘If everything is to be decided on one performance, the slightest error might tell against us.’

  ‘There will be no errors, Nick!’

  ‘That is easier to say than to enforce. The importance of the occasion will make the company nervous and that is when unfortunate mistakes creep in.’

  ‘It is so with the other companies,’ said Firethorn. ‘I have no fears. We will always outshine Havelock’s Men.’

  ‘And Banbury’s Men,’ added Lord Westfield truculently. ‘They are nothing but a pack of murderers.’

  Nicholas let the two of them enthuse about the plan. He kept his reservations to himself. Though delighted that they would have the honour of another performance at Court, he was deeply worried that the Privy Council’s decision would take no account of their sustained excellence. Judged on their whole season, Westfield’s Men could rightly claim supremacy over their rivals. When they were given only one chance to impress, they entered the realms of doubt.

  There was another problem. Westfield’s Men were a diminished force. When The Insatiate Duke was first staged, it was the headiest triumph they had enjoyed for a long time. Since then one of its co-authors had left, the other was profoundly depressed as a result, a sharer had been brutally killed and the company’s resident clown was restless. He wondered how many more depletions there would be before the stipulated appearance at Court.

  Firethorn’s optimism knew no bounds. Striking a pose, he began to pluck plays out of the repertoire, nominating those in which he took the leading part and ignoring the contribution that others might make.

  ‘Hector of Troy,’ he concluded. ‘That is our choice.’

  ‘We should discuss this at greater length,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘The other sharers will want their say.’

  ‘They will follow my lead, Nick.’

  The book holder stifl
ed his reply. He knew how outraged Barnaby Gill would be at the choice of Hector of Troy. Not only did it allow Firethorn to dominate the stage for the whole five acts, it confined Gill to two short scenes and one dance. The surest way to drive their clown out of Westfield’s Men was to select a play which blunted his rich talents.

  ‘What of this new playhouse?’ asked Lord Westfield.

  ‘It grows by the hour, my lord,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘Our fellows are taking it in turns to put their strong arms at the disposal of the builder. The Angel theatre will soon be a towering landmark on the riverbank.’

  ‘And the loan?’ said their patron.

  ‘It is safe.’

  ‘But was not Sylvester Pryde your intermediary?’

  ‘That office has been taken over by Nick here.’

  ‘You know who our mysterious benefactor is?’ said Lord Westfield excitedly. ‘Do tell us, Nicholas.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to do so, my lord.’

  ‘You may trust me. I am as close as the grave.’

  ‘I have sworn an oath, my lord, and may not break it.’

  ‘There’s an end to it,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick would not even confide in me. He is too honourable. What does it matter where the money comes from as long as we have it? This loan breathes new life back into Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Yes,’ said their patron wearily, ‘but it is not only the company which is in need of a loan. Is our benefactor so wealthy that he can loan six hundred pounds to us at such a favourable rate of interest? Such a man is to be wooed, Nicholas. Cultivate him. Ask him if he would consider making a personal loan to a very dear friend of yours.’

  ‘I think it unlikely, my lord,’ said Nicholas. ‘But for Sylvester Pryde, we would not have secured this loan. He was the pathway to our benefactor and Sylvester is dead.’

  ‘Try, Nicholas. Even a small amount would be acceptable.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Meanwhile, I will continue to work away on your behalf at Court. The factions are already forming. Viscount Havelock has the largest but the Earl of Banbury is busy gathering his forces.’ He gave a grin of self-congratulation. ‘I, too, have assembled friends around me. Sir Patrick Skelton has been won over to our side and several others besides.’