When You're Desired (31 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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“It was the fashion at the time,” his mother explained.
“And why have I never heard of this person before?” Simon asked.
“I daresay I mentioned her in my letters; perhaps you should have read them,” his mother replied tartly. “Of course you never met her. You were safe in the army when the wretched creature came into our lives. And you were in India still when I finally got rid of the nasty little guttersnipe. Oh, your father tried to warn me! He didn't want her in his house at first. But she was such a pretty, sprightly, happy little thing, she soon had him eating out of her hand.”
“I'm quite sure my father never ate from anyone's hand,” said Simon dryly.
“You never saw her in action! She had him wrapped around her little finger in just a matter of days. He bought her a pony and taught her to ride. No one could resist her. Dorian taught her Shakespeare. She helped Joanna sort her silks. She brought soup to the servants when they were sick. She was quite the little mistress of the house! Everyone loved her!”
He frowned. “So what happened?”
“When your father died, I daresay she expected him to leave her a mountain of money. But she was disappointed. So she found another old man she could cozen. This one she seduced and married. Sir Terence Plunkett of Fishamble, he was called. He was old enough to be her grandfather, but he had money, which was all Miss Hartley wanted. He took her away to Ireland, and I thought that was the end of my ordeal.”
“But it wasn't?”
“Oh no. Now she is back, greedier than ever. I suppose she has run through the great Plunkett fortune. She has her sights on something much greater. She has come back—with a piece of paper she claims to be your father's last will and testament.”
“That is impossible. Such a thing could not have been hidden all these years.”
“Of course it is impossible. It is nothing more than a clever forgery, but Dorian has allowed himself to be persuaded that his father wrote it. It is not witnessed, of course—she is too clever for that. She depends entirely on Dorian's good nature for her vile plan to succeed. He has already decided to give her thirty-five thousand pounds from his own pocket.”
“What!” Simon said sharply. “Thirty-five thousand pounds? Let me see this will.”
“Dorian keeps it with him.”
“My father would not be so foolish,” Simon said flatly. “Obviously, Dorian has been taken in by a clever adventuress. Thirty-five thousand pounds! It's incredible. Five thousand, perhaps, he might have left to a trusted and valuable servant. Ten thousand, possibly. But why should my father leave thirty-five thousand pounds to anyone not of his blood? Was he in love with her?”
“When he was dying, he called for her,” said the duchess, her face cold and hard as she remembered. “He did not call for me. It was her face he wanted to see, not mine. She stayed with him all night. She read to him, and sang to him. He wanted no one else with him. He died holding her hand.”
“That does not mean anything,” said Simon, though he looked rather grim. “Anyway, you say the will was not witnessed. Therefore it is not valid. It need not be honored.”
“Dorian is determined to do so. Indeed, he is determined to do
more
for her.”
“What do you mean?” Simon asked sharply.
“According to this supposed new will, Miss Hartley was to have had twenty-five thousand pounds. But Dorian insists on giving her the interest as well. Ten years' worth of compounded interest.”
“He told you all this?”
“No. I had to find out from the servants. When he returned from Ashlands yesterday, he brought one of the footmen back with him. It wasn't hard to get him to talk. I—” She hesitated, drawing his attention.
“There's more? Come, let's have it! What aren't you telling me?”
“There is one part of my conduct that troubles me,” she said. “I did conceal from your brother the fact that Miss Hartley had eloped with Sir Terence. Perhaps that was wrong of me. But Dorian was still reeling from the shock of his father's death. His wife, too, had suffered another of her miscarriages. Under the circumstances, I felt it would be kinder to let him think Miss Hartley had died.”
“Died?”
“He might have felt compelled to go after her, you see, and bring her back. Joanna was already jealous of the girl. It would have been quite disastrous.”
“I see. Dorian also was in love with her. She sounds rather fatal.”
“I did what I thought was best for everyone. But now she is back, and Dorian knows that I told a little fib. He won't hear my reasons, and perhaps it is just as well. Poor boy! He never even realized that he was in love with her. But of course, the moment he saw her again, she had him captivated. Now he won't hear a word against her. Simon, you will talk to him, won't you?”
“I certainly shall!” said Simon. “The damn fool. I shall talk to Miss Hartley, too, or Lady Plunkett or whatever it is she calls herself these days.”
The duchess snorted. “These days!” she said. “Oh, these days she calls herself Celia St. Lys!”
Simon jerked about, the color draining from his face. “
What
did you say?”
“I did not recognize her when I met her at the theatre,” said his mother, “but I suppose Dorian did. When I think that I actually encouraged him to make her his mistress, I could scream! Oh, she is clever! She waited until he was her lover, and then she sprang her trap.”
“Celia St. Lys is this Sarah Hartley person? Are you quite certain?”
“Oh yes! He took her to Ashlands on Sunday. They dug up her grave, which, of course, was empty. After that, I am sure he was willing to believe anything she said, and to do anything she wanted.”
“Dorian took St. Lys to Ashlands?” Simon repeated bitterly. “So that's where she was on Sunday! She told me she had gone to the country with friends.”
“But at least we do not have to worry about him marrying her,” said the duchess. “I have read in the papers only this morning that she is to marry Sir Lucas Tinsley! Her greed really does know no bounds. Thirty-five thousand pounds is nothing compared to the Tinsley fortune.”
This was a new shock and a new blow to Simon's dignity. “St. Lys is to marry Sir Lucas? No! I cannot believe she would stoop so low as that.”
“Why not? Because he is old and vulgar and physically repulsive? You never saw Sir Terence! He was hardly as rich as Sir Lucas, and twice as repulsive to behold, and she married him happily enough. He left her a tidy little sum when he died, and she was glad of it. Ah, well! At least Dorian is safe from her. Perhaps when he hears of her plans, he will come to his senses and see that she is no good.”
“May I see that?” said Simon, and took the newspaper she handed to him. Yes, there it was, boldly printed, the announcement of the engagement of Sir Lucas Tinsley to Miss Celia St. Lys.
“Perhaps we should inform Sir Lucas that his bride is nothing more than a confidence trickster. He is not her first victim, after all.”
“We shall do nothing of the kind,” said Simon. “If Sir Lucas breaks with her, she will run straight to Dorian. God knows what she would then persuade him to do. Leave this to me. I will deal with Miss Hartley.”
“Thank you, Simon! I knew that I could depend on you,” she said. “And you should know, too, that I have decided to make over to you your inheritance. Indeed, I have signed the papers already.”
To her surprise, he did not seem pleased. “You are too late, madam,” he said coldly.
“Too late?” she asked, bewildered, but he had already gone.
Chapter 19
It was a somber party of actors that gathered on the stage of the Theatre Royal that morning. “She told me she had come into some money,” Rourke said bitterly. “But she said she'd stay until the end of the season. What the devil are we supposed to do now?”
“She's come into some money, all right,” Mrs. Archer said, her handsome face contorted with rage and envy. “Sir Lucas Tinsley must be worth millions! All that lovely coal.”
“Ha!” said Miss Vane. “She'll never see a penny of his money. Just because a man is rich doesn't mean he's generous.”
“You're right about that, Miss Vane,” agreed Mrs. Archer. “I'd sooner see my Belinda the mistress of a generous man than the wife of a skinflint.”
“Mama!” Belinda protested.
Rourke shook his head sadly. “I
thought
she had accepted an offer from the Duke of Berkshire, to become his mistress. His Grace is a most generous gentleman, a true lover of the arts, and the theatre.”
“She'll be Lady Lucas,” said Miss Vane. “That's something, I suppose.”
“No, she won't,” said Mrs. Archer. “She'll be Lady Tinsley.”
“Is he a knight or a baronet?”
“What would he be knighted for?” Mrs. Archer said scornfully.
“Look here,” Joe Grimaldi broke in. “This is all very interesting, but what are we going to do? She was to play tonight. Obviously this Sir Lucas isn't going to allow his betrothed to take the stage. Very likely, we'll never see her again.”
“Fortunately,” said Rourke, “we have Miss Vane. She has played Kate Hardcastle to great acclaim in Bath.”
“Have you, my dear?” said Mr. Grimaldi to the actress. “I don't recall your mentioning that when you were rattling off your résumé yesterday.”
“Well, no,” said Miss Vane, lowering her lashes modestly. “I didn't think it tactful to mention it when Miss St. Lys asked me. She might have thought I was after the part.”
“I saw her in the role myself,” said Rourke. “It's why I brought her to London. She's every bit as good as St. Lys. In fact, she is better!”
“Oh la, sir!” Miss Vane said, blushing. “It's very kind of you to say so, I'm sure.”
“Can you go on tonight in her place?” asked Joe Grimaldi, coming to the point. “Or shall we have to take the play off altogether, and put up something else? That is the question.”
“I watched the performance last night from the wings, Mr. Grimaldi,” Miss Vane assured him. “I daresay I can manage. I might even improve upon a few things.”
“It's settled then,” said Rourke. “Miss Vane shall play Miss Hardcastle tonight.”
“What about Thursday?” cried the other actors. “What about
Twelfth Night
?”
“That won't be possible, I'm afraid,” said Rourke. “Not now. We shall have to put up something else, or keep on with
She Stoops
.”
There were groans all around.
“
Romeo and Juliet
is always a crowd-pleaser,” said Mr. Charley Palmer. “If Miss Vane could take the role of Juliet . . .”
“Oh!” said Miss Vane, her beautiful eyes lighting up. “I was never more praised in Bath than when I played as Juliet!”
“I shall play your nurse,” said Joe Grimaldi.
“And I, Mercutio,” said Rourke, becoming excited.
“And I, Tybalt,” said Richard Dabney.
There was a flurry among the curtains, the sound of footsteps, and Celia hurried onto the stage. “I see you are all here,” she said briskly. “Let's get started, shall we?”
Her fellow actors all turned to stare at her, the footlights flinging queer shadows up to their faces. “What are
you
doing here?” Joe Grimaldi inquired coldly. “Traitress!”
“What?” Celia cried, her brows raised.
“You've got a bloody cheek coming here!” said Mrs. Archer.
“Is this some sort of joke?” said Celia, frowning. “If so, it's really not at all funny.”
“When were you going to tell us?” demanded Palmer, the others forming an indignant chorus behind him.
Celia looked daggers at Rourke. “You told them? Yes; all right, everyone. I shall be leaving you at the end of the season—which is all the more reason that we get this right. I want to go out a success, not a failure. Shall we get started?”
They stared at her as if she had sprouted two heads.
“Won't your betrothed have something to say about that?” said Mrs. Archer.
“My
what
?” said Celia, startled.
“Your fiancé,” said Rourke. “Surely he means to take you off the stage immediately?”
“No,” said Celia. “No indeed. I don't know what you're about.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Archer coldly, “there is no need to pretend with us. The news of your engagement is in all the morning papers!”
“The news of my engagement? But I am not engaged!” she said angrily, becoming red in the face. “He hasn't even asked me yet! Is it in the papers, truly? Oh! Of all the high-handed, arrogant, conceited, selfish, self-important—The man is a tyrant! How he could he do this to me? I would not marry Lord Simon Ascot if he were the last man on earth! I would rather be sold into slavery! It would amount to the same thing!”
“It's fortunate, then,” said Mrs. Archer, “that you are engaged to Sir Lucas Tinsley.”
“What?” said Celia, now quite cross. “Oh, you are joking. I am no more engaged to Sir Lucas Tinsley than I am engaged to Lord Simon. I'd sooner marry a Barbary ape.”
“See for yourself,” said Rourke, thrusting the newspaper under her nose.
“Yes! Miss St. Lys! What do you say to that?” cried Mrs. Archer.
Celia took the newspaper and studied it, frowning. Her mouth worked helplessly. After a moment, she was able to form words. “It's not true,” she cried, looking at them. “I am not engaged to Sir Lucas Tinsley. I am not engaged to anyone. Lord! You don't think I'd do that to you? What you must have been thinking! What agonies you must have suffered! No, my friends, I would never leave you in the lurch. I know very well you could not do without me.”
“Of course not, Celia darling,” said Rourke. “We'd be entirely lost without you.”
“Actually,” Mrs. Archer said, “we'd be just fine. Miss Vane had already agreed to go on in your place tonight as Miss Hardcastle.”
“Is that so?” Celia said, her eyes narrowed almost to slits.
“Of course, now that you are
here
, Miss St. Lys,” Miss Vane murmured.
“And what about
Twelfth Night
?” Celia demanded. “I suppose you can do without me there, as well?”
“Indeed we could not,” said Rourke. “We'd have to cancel it altogether.”
“And do what? Another eight weeks of
She Stoops to Conquer
?”
“Miss Vane, it seems, was highly acclaimed in the role of Juliet,” said Joe Grimaldi.
Celia glanced over Miss Vane coolly. “Highly acclaimed? In Bath?”
“Yes, Miss St. Lys.”
“I see. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Miss Vane, but I am still here.”
“I'm very glad, I'm sure,” said Miss Vane.
Celia returned the newspaper to Rourke, saying, “You'll have to send someone to Fleet Street. This report must be contradicted as soon as possible. I'll sue if it's not. It's obviously someone's idea of a joke.” She clapped her hands together. “Now then! Let's just get to work, shall we? Clear the stage, please. Miss Vane, why are you not in costume?”
“I—I—” stammered Miss Vane. “Well, no one was quite sure what was going to happen, Miss St. Lys.”
“Well, now you know,” said Celia.
“Don't be angry with her, Miss St. Lys,” said Mrs. Archer. “It's not her fault.”
Celia laughed suddenly. “Did you
really
think you could just put her on in my place, and London would not notice the difference? They come here to see me, you know.”
“I think I would have done a very good job, Miss St. Lys,” said Miss Vane with dignity. “The audience might have been a little doubtful at first, but I would have won them over.”
“Is that so?” said Celia. “Why don't we try it and see?”
“Now, now, ladies!” cried Rourke, stepping between them. “Let us not quarrel. We are all friends here, I trust. Go and get dressed, if you please, Miss Vane.”
“Yes, Miss Vane. We have a lot of work to do on
Twelfth Night
if we are to be ready.”
“Certainly, Miss St. Lys,” Miss Vane said sweetly. “I'm sure you need the practice.”
“No, my dear; but
you
do,” Celia told her just as sweetly. “In our first scene together, when you lift your veil and I am unmoved by your beauty, your expression of feminine pique needs a little work. You look a little constipated; I'm not sure that's what the playwright had in mind.”
“Is that so, Miss St. Lys?”
“And in act three, when you say, ‘Love sought is good, but given unsought better'—”
“Yes, Miss St. Lys?” Miss Vane said, very coldly.
“I've been thinking about it, and I think you should
kiss
me, Miss Vane,” said Celia. “Shall we try it, and see if it works?”
 
 
Celia was changing out of her costume when Simon arrived at the theatre. He went straight to her dressing room and without knocking, went in.
“Dismiss your servant,” he commanded from the sitting room.
“You may go, Flood,” Celia said immediately.
Simon did not speak again until Flood was out of the room, then he pushed aside the muslin curtain. “Oh dear,” Celia murmured, belting on her comfortable old dressing gown. “You've seen that ridiculous announcement, I suppose?”
“I have,” he said, looking at her with cold eyes. Not for the first time, he wished she was not so beautiful.
“You should not believe everything you read in the papers,” she said.
“You mean it isn't true? You are not to be his—his wife?”
“No, of course not!” she said, smiling. “How could you ever believe such a thing? I ought to be furious with you,” she added, wagging her finger at him. “Don't you know me better than that?”
“I don't,” he said faintly, “think I know you at all.”
“What?”
“Why shouldn't you marry Sir Lucas? He is rich. He wouldn't be the first rich old man you've tricked into marriage with your charm and your beauty. Isn't that so, Lady Plunkett?”
She took a step back as if she had been pushed. “What did you call me?” she whispered.
“You do remember your first victim, don't you? Sir Terence Plunkett? Or was he your second victim? Was your first my father? Was it Dorian? How many men have you deceived in your splendid career?”
She could not speak, her throat was so constricted.
“Have you nothing to say, actress? Have you no lines for this scene?” he taunted her. “You have been found out.”
“I don't understand,” she said, shaking her head. “What are you saying to me?”
“I know who you are,” he said flatly. “You are Sarah Hartley. You were dropped in the streets by your parents, whoever they may have been. You were fortunate indeed that my mother took a fancy to you. She brought you into her home and made a lady of you, didn't she? And how did you repay her? By stealing the affections of her husband, her son, and God only knows who else! As for this—this
will
of my father's you claim to have discovered—you won't get away with it. You'll never see a penny of that money, I promise you, my girl.”
“I never—I never wanted the money,” she uttered, forcing out the words. “I never knew anything about it. Dorian—”
“Ah yes! Dorian! I was coming to that. Did you think I would not find out you were at Ashlands together? How cozy that must have been! Did you enjoy pretending you were mistress of that great house?”
Celia gave a guilty start. Her knees buckled, and she groped for the stool at her dressing table and sat down. “Who has told you this? Not Dorian!”
He gave a short laugh. “No! No, not Dorian. He brought a servant back with him from Ashlands. That is how my mother found out who you are.”
Celia passed her hand across her brow, where beads of sweat had appeared. “She knows, then,” she whispered. “It is done.”

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