When You're Desired (15 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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“Indeed, my lord! And what is that?”
“Marry her, of course,” Simon said curtly.
Sir Lucas recoiled in disgust. “Marry her! Don't be ridiculous! I? Marry an actress? What would Lucasta say if I presented her with such a woman as a replacement for her sainted mother?”
“I really don't know, Sir Lucas,” Simon said impatiently.
“Marry St. Lys! I am not such a fool as that, I assure you.”
“It was not a serious suggestion, Sir Lucas,” Simon said thinly. “I was merely pointing out that you cannot force a woman to do anything unless she is your wife. Miss St. Lys has changed her mind. That is her right. I cannot assist you any further.”
“This is your fault,” Sir Lucas declared. “If you had brought her to me directly as you promised, she would have had no opportunity to change her mind. Instead, I have sat in this room all night like a bloody fool! Needless to say, I shall not be canceling your royal master's annuity, after all. You did not keep your end of the bargain.”
“The lady is unwilling, Sir Lucas. There is nothing more to be done.”
“I have her letter,” said Sir Lucas. “If she does not keep her word to me, I shall publish it. I shall drag her name through the mud.”
Simon frowned. “And your own, Sir Lucas.”
“Oh, I shall keep
my
name out of it, of course.”
“Give me more time,” Simon said, after a pause. “I may be able to persuade her to give up the necklace. I'll buy it back from her, if I must.”
“What do I care about the necklace?” said Sir Lucas. “I don't want it back; I never did. It is the
principle
of the matter, Lord Simon. She made me a promise, and now she must keep it. I demand that she keep her promise. If she refuses, I shall ruin her. You may tell her that!”
Simon bowed. “I will leave you to your reflections, Sir Lucas.”
Walking quickly, he made his way back to the stairs. To his surprise, Monsieur Grillon was waiting for him on the landing. “Yes?” he said impatiently.
The Frenchman bowed politely. “The lady will see you now,” he said, gesturing. “This way, if you please, my lord.”
Simon stared at him. “Lady? What lady?”
“Mademoiselle St. Lys,” replied M. Grillon, smiling calmly. “She wishes to see you now. Please to come this way.”
“She is here? St. Lys is here?” Simon said in disbelief.
“
Mais oui, monsieur
. She has been waiting for you for quite some time.”
Bemused, Simon followed him.
Celia had taken the suite identical to Sir Lucas's on the opposite side of the hotel. She did not answer the door right away. When she did, it was evident that she had been roused from a deep slumber. “You're very late, my lord,” she complained, pulling her dressing gown tight around her shoulders and yawning.
“I wonder why,” he said tightly.
She stood aside to let him in. “Would you like a drink? There's some very good cognac here.”
“No,” he snapped. “I would not like a drink, madam. I would like an explanation.”
“Oh dear!” she murmured, closing the door. “You don't look at all pleased to see me. Rough night?”
Simon strode into the room, taking it in at a glance. As in Sir Lucas's suite, the door to the bedroom was closed. She spoke briefly in French to the hotelier, then closed the outer door. They were alone. Celia sat down in one of the chairs beside the fire.
Simon took a position at the mantelpiece. “I have been looking for you all night, madam. I trust you have been amused.”
“Were you looking for me, my lord? What for?” she asked innocently.
“You know damn well what for,” he snarled. “You had an appointment, madam, with Sir Lucas Tinsley!”
Her eyes widened. “What? Good heavens! Was that tonight?”
“You know damn well it was tonight,” he said, glaring at her.
She groaned. “Lord, I'm such a half-wit! I'd forget my own head if it weren't attached to my body. Really, I've the most dreadful memory.”
“That must make it difficult to learn your lines, Miss St. Lys,” he observed.
“Lines?” She laughed, throwing back her head. “I don't have to learn lines, Lord Simon. I have golden hair and perfect breasts. Or hadn't you noticed.”
Simon swore under his breath.
“You little devil!” he said. “You knew this was the last place I would ever think to look! I almost feel sorry for Sir Lucas! The damn fool has been eating his heart out all night, and you were here the whole time, laughing at him, no doubt.”
“Actually, I haven't given him a single thought.”
Simon shook his head. “I shall never understand you! Why let him think he could have you when he could not? That was cruel, Celia, even for you. And why let me think—” He broke off and raked his fingers through his hair. “You never had any intention of meeting him tonight, did you?”
“No,” she answered. “But I had every intention of meeting you, my lord! I ought to slap your face! You, feel sorry for Sir Lucas? Don't. He thought he could buy me! Now he knows better. So do you, perhaps. Celia St. Lys is not for sale.”
“You have made him angry.”
“Good. Imagine how I felt when
you
showed up at my house accusing me of God knows what and demanding that I grant the man my favors. You, of all people! God knows I have my faults, my lord, but I am not a harlot. The necklace was a gift. I did not ask for it. I certainly never agreed to do tricks for it! Do we understand each other now?”
“He has your letter, Celia,” said Simon. “He means to hand it over to your friends in Grub Street.”
She only smiled. “You wouldn't let him do that to me, surely,” she said. “The only reason I wrote that letter is because you made me.”
“I certainly did not,” he said angrily. “I only wanted you to return the bloody necklace!”
“But you never told me why,” she remarked. “If I had to guess, I would say that your master, the prince regent, wanted to borrow some money from Sir Lucas. And Sir Lucas would only agree to it if you brought me to him as a sacrifice.”
“He asked me to get the necklace back,” Simon said. “That is all. I would never have agreed to anything else. It was not my idea to bring you here,” he reminded her, “but yours.”
“But you knew he wanted me.”
“Naturally. But I never dreamed you would offer yourself.”
“Was I right about the money?” she asked.
“You know I cannot discuss that.”
She sighed. “I could not give you the necklace, even if I wanted to,” she said. “It's to be auctioned off at the end of the season. The proceeds are to go to the Foundling Hospital. I've given them my word. I shan't go back on it.”
“I would not ask you to,” he said. “Good night, Celia. Good morning, I should say. I'll leave you to enjoy your triumph.”
“Wait,” she said, rising from her seat. “I never said I wouldn't help you.”
Going to the writing table at the back of the room, she found paper and pen.
“He doesn't want a letter, Celia,” Simon said impatiently. “He wants you in his bed.”
“No, he doesn't,” she replied, writing quickly. “That's just what he
thinks
he wants. Like before, when he thought he wanted the necklace. It seems complicated, I know.” She laughed. “If it were simple, I could make you understand it.”
“Very funny.”
“Have faith, young man! He liked my first letter, didn't he?”
“Oh yes,” he admitted. “He practically danced a jig.”
She chuckled. “This one,” she said, bringing him the finished letter, “will have him turning cartwheels.”
 
 
She was quite wrong. Sir Lucas did not attempt any cartwheels. He was too drunk even to leave his hotel room, let alone attempt such exercise. “What is this?” he demanded groggily, as Simon dragged him out of bed.
“A letter from St. Lys,” Simon told him, putting Celia's latest into the man's hands.
“It's not pink,” Sir Lucas slurred, pushing it away.
“No, Sir Lucas. She wrote it here at the hotel. See the letterhead?”
Sir Lucas squinted up at him in confusion. “She was here? Miss St. Lys was here?”
“Yes.”
Rousing himself, Sir Lucas opened the letter. Upon reading it, he threw up his massive head and glared balefully at Simon. “You brute!” he spat, shaking his fist. “Did you think Miss St. Lys would not tell me how you treated her? How you insulted and terrorized her? You
forced
her to agree to meet me. You frightened my poor girl out of her wits. You villain!”
Simon scowled. “What! Let me see that!”
Sir Lucas moved with surprising speed. “You shall not see her letters! No one shall!” he cried, flinging Celia's letter into the fire. Taking her first letter from his inside coat pocket, he added it to the flames. “Here! Take the annuity, too. I do not want it. Take it!”
Simon took it, glancing over it.
“Now she is quite safe from you, Lord Simon!” Sir Lucas said. “You shall never see her again. You are out of our lives. We are rid of you forever! We are free! Free!”
“Thank you, Sir Lucas,” said Simon, pocketing the annuity.
“I should like to make you suffer as you have made her suffer,” said Sir Lucas, striding to the door. “I should like to challenge you to a duel! But I would not add to Miss St. Lys's distress.”
He tore the door open. “You, my lord, are a scoundrel! One day, you will get what you deserve.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Simon. “Good night, Sir Lucas. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“You should be boiled in oil!” Sir Lucas shouted after him, and slammed the door.
Chapter 10
Simon ran lightly down the stairs, crossed the landing, and climbed the stairs on the other side of the hotel. Passing down the corridor, he found Celia's door and knocked. This time she did not keep him waiting.
“Well?” she said, opening the door a few inches. “Did he give you what you wanted?”
She stepped back to admit him into the room, but he merely bowed, preferring to remain in the hall. “Yes,” he said, adding after a slight pause, “thanks to you.”
“I'm always happy to help,” she said, not moving from the doorway.
“And he burned your letters, too.”
“Naturally,” she replied. “I asked him to. I told him I was afraid of what might happen if they fell into the wrong hands.”
“
My
hands, I suppose.”
“No, my lord. His,” she replied. “I hope the prince will be pleased.”
“I should think so.”
“I am hoping he will come to my play on Thursday next,” she said. “I don't suppose you would be good enough to mention it.”
“Why don't I come in,” he murmured. “We'll discuss it. I would very much like that drink, if the offer still stands.”
She smiled. “Hadn't you better be getting back to Carlton House? Aren't you on duty? What if His Royal Highness should fall out of bed? Who will pick him up if you are not there?”
“Lady Conyngham, I should think.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?” she said eagerly. “Is it a one-off or is Lady Hertford out altogether? And what does Lord Conyngham have to say about it?”
He smiled. “Let me in and I'll tell you all about it.”
Celia considered it for a moment. “No, I don't think so,” she decided. “If I let you in, you're going to kiss me. And if you kiss me, how am I to resist what you do next? As much as I love palace gossip, I think I'd better keep myself to myself tonight.”
He frowned. “You are teasing,” he said. “Let me in. You know you want me. Why else have you been here all night in this room waiting for me?”
“Oh, I see!” she said, laughing. “You think I did all this for you?”
“Yes, and now I am here,” he murmured, leaning against the door.
“No, young man,” she insisted, pushing against the door he was holding open. “I gave myself to you once, much too quickly, and you have held me cheap ever since. I've learned my lesson.”
“I never held you cheap, Celia.”
She merely shook her head. “It's very late, my lord, and I am tired. Please go.”
“Very well, then,” he said. “Good night.”
She did not answer, but closed the door softly.
That afternoon, Captain Fitzclarence brought Miss Eliza London to the Theatre Royal.
“How are the rehearsals going?” he asked Celia as she returned to her dressing room from the stage. Celia was in half costume, with Kate Hardcastle's panniers tied over her own skirts.
“Surprisingly well,” she replied, as Flood hurried to remove the troublesome hoops. “Miss Archer is not as bad as I feared. In fact, she's much, much better than I ever dared to hope. I think we just might survive the night. Where did those come from?” she asked Flood, catching sight of some flowers partially wrapped in silver tissue. In the room were several handsome vases filled with pink roses, but these were wildflowers: bluebells, wild lupine, snowdrops, and golden asphodel intertwined.
Flood brought her mistress the card. It said only
Tonight
.
“Not even a question mark,” she murmured, smiling to herself.
“Are those from the Duke of Berkshire?” Fitzclarence asked.
“I'll never tell,” she replied, turning her attention to the smartly dressed young woman seated next to the officer on the pink sofa. “Who is your pretty friend?” she asked.
The young woman burst out laughing. “Go on with you, Miss St. Lys!” she cried, in unabashed Cockney.
Celia gave her another look. “Good heavens, Miss Eliza!” she exclaimed.
A bath and clean clothes had worked wonders for Miss London. Her gown of sprigged muslin was in the very latest style, as were her green velvet gloves and bonnet. Her hair had been washed, cut, and styled by an expert. Glossy black ringlets framed her unusual little face. Her wide-set gray eyes sparkled. Her full lips, emphasized with a little rouge, looked positively bee-stung. Even her teeth were good. Though she was still too thin, she looked very well; not quite a beauty, but certainly alluring.
Fitzclarence was grinning. “I told you she wouldn't recognize you, Lizzie!” he said.
Eliza jumped to her feet to give Celia a top-to-toe view of her transformation. “Don't I look a treat?” she cried, preening.
“You look lovely, my dear,” Celia said sincerely.
“Lovely!” Fitzclarence said indignantly. “She looks good enough to eat! I'll say this for Lord Simon: he knows how to spot a diamond in the rough.”
“Pshaw! I ain't no diamond,” Eliza cried, blushing.
“I think you are, Miss Eliza,” said Celia.
“Even her teeth are good,” said Fitzclarence, clearly proud of his new acquisition.
“A man once offered me ten shillings for me chompers,” said Eliza. “'Ow do you think I'd look without them, Miss St. Lys?” Opening her mouth, she drew her lips over her teeth at the same time, making an outrageous face. “Like an old woman, eh?”
The girl was so droll that Celia could not help laughing.
“Oh, Miss St. Lys!” Eliza went on. “You've been so good to me! I don't know 'ow I'll hever be hable to thank you for hall you've done.”
“Thank me, child? Whatever for?”
“For me new dress,” said Eliza, holding up her skirt.
“For me new 'air,” she said, touching her curls. “For me new everything!” she cried, spinning in a circle.
“But surely, Captain Fitzclarence did all that.”
He laughed. “Naturally, I did—with your money, Auntie Celia.”
“Oh, I see,” said Celia, her hands on her hips. “How much did all this cost me?”
“Never mind the cost,” Fitzclarence said impatiently. “Look at her! It had to be done. The poor girl was in rags! Besides, you won't get the bills for weeks and weeks. By then you will be rolling in it.”
“Rolling in it?” Celia repeated in distaste. “Rolling in what?”
“Money, of course. Did you not dine last night with the Duke of Berkshire?”
“I did.”
“And did he not make you a handsome offer?”
“He did offer me his protection,” she admitted.
“My dear Celia! Congratulations,” cried Fitzclarence.
“I'm sure you deserve it! I'm sure you shall be very happy. He seems like a dull, plodding, dependable sort of man—just what you need. He'll look after you properly. Make sure you get it in writing, however, and don't let him slip any conditions into the contract when you're not looking. My father promised my mother four thousand a year, but he cut her off when she went back to the stage. She was ruined, as he must have known she would be. Anyway, it was in the settlement, though I doubt she bothered to read it.”
“Don't worry,” Celia told him. “Nothing like that is going to happen to me. The Duke of Berkshire is nothing like your father, I'm happy to say.”
“Indeed! How much is he offering you?”
“None of your business,” she said primly.
“Perhaps it isn't. But you certainly can afford a few hundred pounds for Miss Eliza!”
“A few hundred pounds!” Celia exclaimed. “What did you do, take her to Madame Lanchester?”
“Of course,” he said. “Could I do anything less for your protégée? The protégée of Miss Celia St. Lys must cut a dashing figure. I knew you would want Miss Eliza to have the best of everything. Now she is a credit to you.”
Eliza clasped her hands together. “And I'll work as 'ard as hanything for you, Miss St. Lys. I'll pay back hevery farthing of what I owes you, I swear I will!”
“First of all, my dear,” said Celia. “My name is pronounced
Sin-Lee
, not
Sighnt-Lee
. You must learn to speak properly, and mind where you put your H's and where you don't.”
“Yes, Miss Sigh—Miss St. Lys. I'll be sure to mind my aitches.”
“Good. Now then! What sort of work can you do, my dear?” Celia asked kindly.
“Can you sew?” Flood broke in to ask.
“Mrs. Flood!” Fitzclarence said sternly. “Let us be clear on one thing! Miss London is not here to assist you in your menial labors. Miss London is to be an actress. She is to grace the stage with Miss St. Lys.”
Celia gave a startled laugh. “Indeed? Well, perhaps when she has learned to speak.”
“No, tonight,” he insisted. “I want her in the play tonight. I have been boasting to all my friends that my new mistress is to take the stage tonight—with my old mistress.”
“I am not your mistress,” Celia said coldly. “Old or otherwise.”
“They don't know that. Come on, Celia. All you have to do is snap your fingers, and she's in.”
“No, Clare. She's not ready.”
“I shall look a fool if you don't,” he said, frowning. “Come, Celia! You owe me. I want you to put her in the play tonight.”
“I do not owe you anything, Captain Fitzclarence,” she said sharply. “In any case, what part do you imagine her playing?”
“She'll be the maid, of course,” he said, as Eliza sat mutely begging with her huge gray eyes. “Poor child! She can't talk well enough for anything else—yet,” he added, squeezing Eliza's hand. “What do you care anyway? Does it really matter who plays the maid? It's only one scene, half a dozen lines at the most.”
“Mr. Grimaldi was going to do it for a lark,
en travesti
,” said Celia.
“Good old Joe!” said Fitzclarence. “He won't mind. He's the last person to stand in the way of a hopeful young talent.”
Celia looked thoughtfully at Eliza. “You'll have to learn a few lines.”
“I'm a fast learner,” cried Eliza. “Indeed, I am!”
“Where would you be now, Celia, if no one had ever given you a chance?” said Fitzclarence persuasively.
“Oh, all right!” Celia said crossly. “After nuncheon I'll try her out.”
“Oh, Miss St. Lys! Do you mean it?”
“I'll have to talk to Mr. Rourke, of course,” she added, raising her voice to be heard over Eliza's squealing. “I can't promise you anything.”
Fitzclarence grinned. “Oh, Rourke won't say no to you. No one can say no to Celia St. Lys—you keep them all in business, my dear. I knew I could count on you,” he added, climbing to his feet. “Didn't I tell you, Lizzie? Didn't I say it would be all right?”
“You did, Clare, you did!” Eliza cried, flinging her arms around him and covering his face with kisses.
“There, there,” he said, extricating himself from her enthusiastic embrace. “Let me go, there's a good girl.”
“Yes, Clare,” she murmured meekly, composing herself.
“I must be off now, or I shall be late,” he said. “Lizzie, you stay here with Auntie Celia, and do what she tells you.”
“For the last bloody time, I am not your auntie!” Celia said indignantly.
Eliza clung to Fitzclarence as he started for the door. “Aren't you going to stay and watch me, Clare?”
“I wish I could, little one, but I can't,” he told her. “You know I can't. I'm taking Miss Tinsley for a ride in the park this afternoon. I mustn't be late.”

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