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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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“Has she broken with him? Have you bought him off, or what? Or is she to keep two strings to her bow?”
“You are right,” Dorian murmured. “I shall have to deal with Fitzclarence.”
“You cannot both protect her, after all,” said Simon. “What if she loves him? It would be cruel to take her away from him. Like King David stealing the wife of Uriah.”
“She is not his wife,” said Dorian. “She may love him, but he is not worthy of her. In any case, he does not
love
her. If he did, he would have made her his wife.”
“Made her his wife? A half-pay captain and an actress! There's a match made in heaven,” Simon said with a short, dry laugh. “You think her suited to the domestic life, do you? Dorian, you've only just met her. You don't know about her.”
“I know a great deal about her, as it happens,” said Dorian.
“Oh yes? Where does she come from? Who are her people?”
“She comes from Berkshire,” Dorian replied.
“From Berkshire? You amaze me, Dorian. Did she tell you she was from Berkshire? Your own, sweet county? If you were the Duke of Durham, she would have been from Durham, I promise you. You are too naive.”
“She was not born in Berkshire, perhaps, but she was brought up there. I know this for a fact. You see, I met her before. Years ago. She was just a girl then.”
Simon frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked, after a long pause. “You knew her before? You knew her when?”
Dorian shrugged. Remembering his promise to Celia, he had no intention of saying anything more. Indeed, he was sorry he had said so much. “What does it matter?
Obviously
there was nothing between us in those days. She was only a child then, and I was a married man.”
“But
I
did not know her.”
“No. No, you were in India when she—at that time. It was a slight acquaintance, nothing more.”
“What was she? Village maiden? Farmer's daughter?”
“I have given her my word to say nothing more of her—her past. She has worked very hard to escape it.”
“I see. Was it as bad as that?”
“Yes, Simon,” Dorian said quietly. “I rather think it was as bad as that.”
Simon was silent. He'd never given much thought to what Celia's life might have been like before she had become an actress. “Surely,” he said, “things could not have been so bad, not in Berkshire.”
“No,” said Dorian. “I believe she was happy there. It was that brute she married. He was the source of her unhappiness.”
For a moment, Simon could not speak. Finally he was able to choke out three words: “Celia is married?”
“Widowed,” said Dorian. “Oh, I should not have told you this. I gave Sally my word. Simon, she told me in confidence.”
“And now you are telling me in confidence,” said Simon. “Don't worry, Dorian. I shan't say a word to anyone.”
At that moment, the curtain went up and they were distracted by the opening of the play.
Miss St. Lys made her entrance. Tonight her throat was bare, but as she lifted her skirts a little, she showed the audience slim ankles encased in stockings of pink silk. Her friends in the pit roared with approval. Celia clearly enjoyed the attention. She simpered and twirled, shamelessly displaying herself. The play came to a complete standstill.
Only then could the actors go on.
Simon could not help but steal a glance at his brother's face. Rather to his surprise, Dorian looked dismayed. Clearly, he did not care to see his “Sally” as the object of such open gallantry. “St. Lys is in fine form tonight,” he murmured.
Dorian sighed. “I do wish she would not—not—”
“Egg them on?” Simon finished his thought.
“Yes,” said Dorian, watching Celia with despair. “She should not encourage them like this. It will make them too bold.”
“But she loves the attention. She basks in it like a snake sunning itself on a rock. She'd freeze to death without the approbation of the crowds.”
“You mean to imply, of course, that she is a cold-blooded creature,” said Dorian. “She is not. She just wants to be loved.
This
is not love, though she may think it is. This is merely blind adoration. These people do not know her. They will never know her.”
“You sound rather as though you mean to take her off the stage,” said Simon, raising his brows. “That will only make you the most hated man in London, I fear.”
“They'll find someone to take her place,” Dorian said softly.
Simon looked at him, frowning. “You are serious! You mean to take her off the stage.”
Dorian made no reply.
On the stage, golden in the light of the foot lamps, St. Lys put her fingers to her lips, effectively silencing the whole theatre. The play resumed, and the brothers did not speak again until Dorian suddenly nudged Simon in the ribs. “Here is your pretty friend,” he murmured.
Miss Archer had indeed blundered upon the scene. She came out a little early, before Celia had finished her speech, and was obliged to stand there, looking foolish, until it was over. Fortunately, hardly anyone in the audience noticed her faux pas, as all their attention was upon the ravishing figure of St. Lys. Then Celia turned to her and, stretching out her hand, said, “‘I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening? Is there anything whimsical about me? Is it one of my well-looking days? Am I in face today?'”
As Miss Hardcastle asked these questions of Miss Neville, she seemed to appeal more to the audience than to her friend. The young men in the pit answered her loudly and with enthusiasm: “Yes, Miss St. Lys!”
St. Lys was not satisfied. “I said: Am I in face today?” she repeated.
“Yes, Miss St. Lys!” bayed her pack of hounds, louder still.
Celia gurgled with laughter and gave them all a fond wink.
Now it was Miss Archer's turn to deliver her lines. Frightened by the noise of the crowd, she found she could barely speak. When she did, she stammered and whispered, her voice so faint that even Miss St. Lys seemed to have difficulty hearing her.
“We can't hear you!” someone called from the gallery.
Cries of encouragement erupted from the pit: “Speak up, love!” and “Don't be nervous!” But this only seemed to frighten her more. Hanging her pretty head, Belinda whispered more lines, turning her red face away from the audience. Finally, her lips moved no more. She stood, petrified, and almost in tears. She turned as if to run from the stage.
“She is shy, poor thing,” Dorian murmured to Simon. “Most unfortunate for an actress.”
St. Lys did not miss a beat. Grabbing Belinda's arm, she threw back her head, laughing gaily. “What's that you say, my dear Constance?” she said, linking arms with the other actress. “‘Sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the goldfishes? Has my brother or the cat been meddling? Or has the last novel been too moving?'”
These were the lines Belinda ought to have delivered.
“‘No; nothing of all this,'” Celia went on, giving her own lines. “‘I have been threatened—I can scarce get it out—I have been threatened with a lover!'”
The scene continued with Celia, in effect, playing both parts. Belinda went on whispering her lines to Celia, and Celia went on blithely repeating them with a merry “What's that you say?” to the audience. Then she would speak her own lines.
The audience applauded wildly, always ready to approve of their idol. Belinda was rescued, and so was the scene. “Well done, Celia,” Simon murmured under his breath.
“If this keeps up, Miss St. Lys will be hoarse by the end of the night!” Dorian complained as the curtain went down on the first scene.
Fortunately, Miss Archer seemed less nervous as the play went on. She even improved a little. She was at her best in those scenes she shared with her mother, and at her worst when being made love to by Richard Dabney, the actor in the role of Hastings. Still, she was not very good.
Dorian tried to be tactful. “She's very pretty,” he told his brother. “I can see why you like her.”
“She's a little nervous.”
“Nervous! She would have been laughed off the stage if Miss St. Lys had not come to her rescue,” said Dorian. “What jokester told you Miss St. Lys was jealous of her talent?”
“Her mother,” Simon admitted.
Dorian laughed, and Simon, after a moment, joined in.
Eliza's moment came in the third act, right after the interval. As the scene began, people were still returning to their seats. Miss Hardcastle's maid entered stage right and, with the stage to herself, began straightening up her mistress's room, humming “Hot Codlins” as she did so. The audience, of course, knew the song made famous by Grimaldi the clown, and some of them gamely began to hum along with the pretty little maid. Encouraged in her mischief, the maid found her mistress's best dress and slipped it over her head—backwards, which made the audience laugh.
“Who is this?” Dorian asked, consulting his playbill. But the maid's part was such a small one that it was uncredited. “Whoever she is, she has a natural gift for comedy.”
In her borrowed finery, the maid pretended she was at a ball, simpering and flirting with imaginary admirers, coldly rejecting others. Finally, fluttering her eyelashes seductively, she offered her hand to the air. With a slightly wobbly curtsy, she began clumsily to dance with her pretended partner, while the orchestra, softly at first, began to play a waltz under the stage.
But what began as a facsimile of an elegant waltz soon deteriorated into a wild jig. The audience, led by the unruly young men in the pit, shouted encouragement and began to clap their hands in time.
By the time Miss Hardcastle appeared, the maid was careening about the room like a whirling dervish. Startled, the little maid froze for a moment in the most unlikely of positions—both arms and one leg flung up—as her mistress strolled past her, lost in her own thoughts. Without seeming to notice anything amiss, Miss Hardcastle began to speak. The maid quickly disembarrassed herself of her mistress's dress, and by the time Miss Hardcastle turned around, all was innocence. The audience roared with laughter.
When Miss St. Lys came out for her first curtain call at the end of the play, flanked by Mrs. Archer and Miss Archer, the audience had not forgotten the little maid. Since no one knew her name, they called her to the stage by singing her song, “Hot Codlins.”
“Did somebody call for me?” cried Grimaldi the clown, sailing from the wings.
“No!” they cried.
But he began singing his song anyway, getting through two verses before they could persuade him it was the girl they wanted.
“What?” he cried, feigning injury. “You don't want me?”
Pouting, he left the stage.
The entire cast came out and stood onstage, seemingly perplexed. “Who do they want?” they all asked themselves. “Who can it be? There's nobody else!”
Then Eliza came shuffling out, lugging a mop and bucket as if she meant to mop the stage, and was greeted with tumultuous applause. She stared at them all in surprise.
“Wot's all this?” she wanted to know.
Then everybody sang “Hot Codlins,” and the play was officially over.
Chapter 11
St. Lys, still in costume, was holding court in the Green Room, something she did not do often, but tonight she was bringing out a protégée. By the time Simon and Dorian made their way backstage, she was knee-deep in Life Guards, a glass of pink champagne in her hand. Eliza was with her patroness, half-hidden by the officers crowded around them. Fitzclarence was not among the throng of admirers, but nearly a dozen of his fellow officers were dancing attendance on the two actresses, veteran and novice alike.
Simon held back, watching his brother as the latter plunged into the crowd. His eyes narrowed as he watched Celia greet the Duke of Berkshire with a dazzling smile. He could not hear what they were saying, but Dorian turned and beckoned for him to come. Reluctantly, Simon made his way to them.
“I believe my brother owes you an apology,” said Dorian, but Celia laughed.
“No indeed!” she said quickly. “That was all just a silly misunderstanding, was it not, Lord Simon? Best we forget it altogether. Indeed, I have already forgotten it.”
“And so have I,” Simon said with a cold bow.
Celia beckoned to Eliza. “Your Grace, may I introduce my friend Miss London to you?”
“How do you do, my dear?” said Dorian, shouting over the noise. “You were wonderful!”
Eliza seized on him. “Would you believe they pies me to do it?” she shrieked in his ear.
While they were conversing, Celia caught Simon's arm. “Tonight,” she murmured in a low voice.
“I beg your pardon?” he said sharply.
She gurgled with laughter. “Did you really think it would be so easy? That all you had to do was send me a handful of bluebells and I would fall at your feet? I have not spent the last three years building a throne for you in my heart, Lord Simon, as you seem to think. You will have to try harder, I'm afraid.”
“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Celia,” he said, watching his brother fetch champagne for the new girl.
“Did you not send me wildflowers? And did the card not say, with rudest simplicity,
Tonight
?”
“There must be some mistake,” he said. “I did send some flowers, but not to you. I am very sorry if you were inconvenienced. They ought to have gone to Miss Archer.”
“To Belinda? You cannot be serious!” She laughed.
He glanced at her. “I assure you, I am quite serious.”
“
Tonight
?” she said, lifting her brows.
“I am taking Miss Archer to supper tonight.”
“How sweet! Hot codlins and pork pies from a street vendor, I suppose?”
He glared at her. “Private room at the Pulteney Hotel,” he snapped.
Celia burst out laughing. “I'm afraid you're going to be very disappointed, Lord Simon.” Turning away from him, she seized hold of the nearest man. “You remember Mr. West, of course. Tom, this is Lord Simon. Lord Simon is the devoted admirer of Miss Belinda Archer. Tom knows Miss Archer very well, don't you, Tom?”
“I wouldn't say that I know her well, Miss St. Lys,” the young man answered in confusion.
“But, Tom! You have been making love to her!”
“Miss St. Lys!” protested the young man, blushing. “I have been doing no such thing!”
“Yes, you have, Tom,” she insisted. “You were making love to her for hours and hours this afternoon. I saw you.”
“That simply isn't true,” he said, frowning. “I was not making love to her.
She
was making love to
me.
”
Celia threw back her head and laughed. “So she was! And not doing a very good job of it, I'm afraid.”
Tom sighed. “It's true she is not very good.
You
are much better, Miss St. Lys.”
“I ought to be; I have been at it longer. But I have given her the benefit of my experience. I have showed her over and over again how to make love to you, but she just doesn't seem to have the knack! Oh! If I weren't your sister, Tom, what I might do to you!”
“I collect Mr. West has been helping you with the new play,” Simon said coldly, tired of her nonsense.
Celia blinked at him in amazement. “Yes, of course! Why? What did you think I was talking about? I hope you did not think I was impugning the good name of your fair friend? Tom has been standing in as Sebastian at rehearsals. Sebastian is Viola's twin brother; I am Viola. Don't you think we look alike?”
“No.”
Celia sighed. “I'm afraid rehearsals are not going very well, are they, Tom?”
“I'm sure it's my fault, Miss St. Lys. I told you, I'm no actor.”
“Oh, you mustn't blame yourself, Tom,” she told him sweetly. “Poor Belinda is no better at making love to
me
than she is at making love to
you
.”
“Miss Archer was endowed by her maker with natural feminine delicacy,” said Simon. “Being a modest female, she is loath to put herself on display. It is true, she may be ill-suited for the profession, Miss St. Lys, in which you excel, but that is to her credit, not her shame.”
Her eyes narrowed with anger. “Perhaps you would be good enough to make her your mistress, then, and take her off the stage. I'm sure we'd all be most grateful—especially the audience.”
“Perhaps I will,” he said.
“
Tonight
?” she said, smiling.
Simon made no answer. Bowing, he left her to her friends. Celia stared after him, frowning, but as Dorian made his way to her, she gave him a dazzling smile. “What do you think of Eliza, Your Grace?”
“Very amusing,” he murmured.
“She needs polish,” Celia admitted, “but she has a certain something about her, and she's quite fearless on the stage. That's half the battle, you know, overcoming one's nerves.”
“My dear,” Dorian said, breaking in, “it's becoming very hot and crowded and noisy. Shall I escort you to your room to change your dress?”
She laughed. “But I like it hot and crowded and noisy! That is how it should be.
Life
is hot and crowded and noisy. Or hadn't you noticed? But of course you haven't! You live in an ivory tower.”
Dorian seemed taken aback. “I do not live in an ivory tower.”
“No; a marble mansion in Mayfair! It might as well be an ivory tower—or the dark side of the moon, for that matter—'tis so cold and remote!”
“I am sorry you think so, my dear,” he murmured. “Still, I do think it is time to go.”
He tried to take her elbow, but Celia pulled away from him. “No! I cannot leave now,” she protested, stealing a glass of champagne from one of the officers. “Tonight we are celebrating the debut of a great new talent. I mean to stay up all night! Gentlemen!” she cried, stumbling a little as she attempted, rather unwisely, to climb up on a crate at the back of the room. Two officers of the Life Guard came to her rescue and lifted her up. “A toast!” she cried, lifting her glass. “To Miss London!”
“But, my dear!” Dorian protested as the company erupted into cheers. “I had hoped to have a quiet dinner with you this evening. We must have a serious talk, you know, about your future.”
Celia glanced down at him crossly. “No no no, Your Grace! Of all things, I hate a serious talk. I am much too young for a serious talk, I am sure! I want to sing and laugh and dance the night away. And I shall! Everyone! I'm giving a party, and you are all invited!”
“Who's giving a party?” someone shouted from the back of the room. “I love a party!”
“
I
am,” cried Celia. “In honor of my friend Miss London! You are all invited to my little house to celebrate her first appearance at Drury Lane. The first of many, I hope.”
“When? When?”
“Now, of course!” she answered. “Is there ever a better time?”
“My dear,” Dorian said gravely, helping her down from the box. “Is this wise, do you think? All these people . . . in your house?”
“Of course it's not
wise
,” she returned recklessly. “In fact, it's a very bad idea—worst idea I ever had! But if I wanted to be wise, Your Grace, I'd grow a beard and read law. You needn't come to my party, if you don't wish,” she added primly.
“But of course I shall come, Sally,” he said, frowning.
“Are you sure? Because it's going to be hot and crowded and noisy, and I know how you hate that. You might think it beneath your dignity.”
“Not at all, my dear,” he assured her. “I shall be delighted to attend your party.”
“Good,” she said. “How would you like to be in charge of the food and drink?”
 
 
“My lord!” Mrs. Archer welcomed Simon to the dressing room she shared with her daughter. She was dressed to go out in a low-cut gown of blue satin trimmed with ermine. A purple turban crowned her head. Pinned between her continuously jiggling breasts was a jeweled and enameled badge in the form of three white feathers encircled by a golden belt, the emblem of the Prince of Wales. In his youth His Royal Highness, Simon knew, had been in the habit of offering such tokens to his favorites. “How good of you to come and see us again so soon,” said the woman, inviting him to sit. “May I offer you some sherry? Belinda is dressing, but she will not be long.”
Like St. Lys's dressing room, Mrs. Archer's was divided into two sections, but the curtain that divided them was of crimson velvet, not flimsy muslin. Simon could hear Belinda sniffling behind the curtain, but of her he could see nothing.
He despised sherry but accepted the glass. When she had filled her own glass, he proposed the toast. “To Miss Archer.”
“To Belinda!” Beaming, Mrs. Archer sat too close to him on the sofa. “Now then, my lord. Have you come with an offer?”
“You must understand, madam, that the matter is delicate,” Simon began. “If Belinda is, in fact, the natural daughter of the regent—”
“If!” she said indignantly.
“If,” Simon said firmly, “it is so, why have you waited so long to come forward?”
“But I have not waited, my lord. When Belinda was born, His Royal Highness made me a present of five thousand pounds.”
“Most generous.”
“That is only what he did for me,” she said. “He promised to look after Belinda. He promised to make her a handsome settlement upon her marriage.”
“Upon her marriage?” Simon repeated politely. “I see. And is Miss Archer engaged?”
“She is not engaged at present,” Mrs. Archer admitted. “And, without a fortune in hand, I do not suppose she will be engaged anytime soon. If we only knew what we could expect by way of a dowry . . . His Royal Highness's letter was not specific as to the amount of the settlement. He only said it was to be handsome.
Handsome
. That was the exact word he used.”
“May I see the letter?” Simon asked.
She smiled. “Oh, I couldn't possibly do that, my lord! His Royal Highness has used me very ill, it is true, but as long as I have a heart, I could never bring myself to betray him. The letter is very precious to me. Not even Belinda has seen it. Indeed, it is the sort of thing a mother might show only to, say, a future son-in-law.”
“I see,” said Simon.
“Well, it would not be right to keep Belinda's husband in ignorance,” she said. “He should know that his wife is of royal blood, and that her father has promised her a handsome settlement. I, of course, would never pursue the matter, but
he
might.”
“Then it is your intention for Belinda to marry.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Archer, bristling. “It's true she has grown up in the theatre, but I have guarded her virtue most carefully, my lord. She is as pure as the day she was born. All that is lacking is a fortune. But with a dowry of ten thousand pounds, I see no reason why I might not one day address my daughter as ‘my lady.'”
“Ten thousand pounds?” said Simon. “I shouldn't call that handsome. I should call it fantastical.”
“Ten thousand is nothing to him,” she said indignantly. “He gave as much to Mrs. Cleghorn for the pleasures of one night. I should think he would do that much at least for his own daughter. If she cannot marry, what will become of her? She will be passed from man to man. Is that what he wants for his child?”
“But surely, Miss Archer is destined for the stage,” Simon said. “Like her mother before her.”
“It seems she has not inherited my talent,” said Mrs. Archer darkly. “She is well enough in rehearsals, but onstage she loses her nerve completely. You saw her tonight, my lord. She let the St. Lys woman steal her lines and talk all over her!”

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