When You're Desired (34 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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“We've already confiscated half a dozen powder kegs and made four arrests.”
“What!” she cried, startled.
“They'll be after hanging all the Irish,” said Flood, shivering. “So they will!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Simon. “That was my little joke.”
“Very funny,” Celia said coldly. “Mr. Grimaldi should put you in his act.”
“Shall I perform the search now? Would that be convenient?” he asked.
Celia looked at him, wide-eyed. “But surely you don't mean to search the dressing rooms, Lord Simon!”
“Yes; all of them, Miss St. Lys,” he replied.
“What? The ladies' rooms, as well as the men's?”
“Yes. All.”
“Not
my
room, surely?”
“I'm sorry . . . I can make no exceptions.”
“Who asked you to?” she snapped. “Go on, then.
Search.
”
“You may have one of my junior officers, if you prefer,” he offered.
Celia tossed her head. “I'm sure I don't care which of you paws my petticoats and which of you reads my love letters. Just get on with it, if you please. I have a lot to do.”
“What's in this cupboard?” he asked, starting for the wardrobe, only to find that Flood had thrown herself in front of it.
“Costumes,” Celia said smartly. “Stand aside, Flood. In fact, you'd better wait outside.”
“I'll not leave you, madam,” cried Flood.
Celia pushed her out into the corridor, saying, “We'll leave the door open.”
“Is this what you are wearing tonight?” Simon asked, observing Viola's masculine disguise, which had been placed on a tailor's dummy to preserve its shape.
“Yes.”
“What's this for?” he asked, pulling the rapier free of its sheath. The blade was of painted metal, probably tin, certainly not steel. Simon tested the dull edge with his finger.
“It's only for show,” she told him coldly. “It's
Twelfth Night
, for heaven's sake. It's not
Hamlet
. There will be no bloodshed.”
“No. It is a comedy, I believe.”
She frowned at him, detecting criticism where perhaps there was none. But then, her nerves were very raw today, as they always were before a first night. “What of it?” she snapped. “People like me in a comedy.”
“Yes, of course they do,” he replied, sheathing the blade. “Who would want to see you suffer, after all?”
“No one, I trust,” she said, snatching the rapier from him. Compared to his saber, certainly, it was a silly article and she was suddenly ashamed of it. “What do you suppose I might do with it? Suddenly take a flying leap off the stage and pierce the prince's heart?”
“You would not have to leave the stage to do that, Miss St. Lys,” he said. “Your beauty is enough to pierce any man's heart.”
She looked at him sharply. “Now you are mocking me! Perfect. That's just what I need.”
“I do not mock you, Celia,” he said gently. “No one who ever saw you could deny your beauty. I have been a fool, Celia—”
“Yes, I know
that
, my lord.”
He frowned. “Do not interrupt me. I am attempting to apologize.”
“I don't want to hear it. Why should you apologize for saying what you felt? Now at least I know what you really think of me.”
“No. When I saw you—when I said those things to you, I had not yet spoken to my brother. I had not seen the will. I have seen it now. Obviously it is genuine. But I should not have accused you.”
“You spoke to Dorian?”
Simon was pleased; at least she was listening to him. “Yes. I saw him last night. He explained everything.”
“You did not want to hear
my
explanation.”
“No,” he admitted. “I gave you no chance to defend yourself. Can you forgive me?”
“I don't know.”
“You shall have your inheritance,” he explained quickly.
“Is that what you think this is about?” she cried. “I don't care about that! Of course I am pleased that your father was thinking of me, but I never wanted his money.”
“I know that, child.” He reached for her.
“No!” she said violently, blinking back tears. “I can't think about this now. I have a play to think about, and it is a comedy, not a bloody funeral. Please! Just finish your searching and leave me in peace. It would be a fine thing if I forgot my lines, wouldn't it?”
“Of course,” he said, bowing. “We can talk later.”
“Yes, perhaps,” she said. “If I am not too busy.”
Taking a seat at her dressing table, she put her back to him and began trimming her nails. Behind her, he was rummaging in the drawers of her wardrobe.
“My lord?”
Celia turned at the sound of a male voice and discovered, to her annoyance, that one of Simon's officers had come into the room. The muslin curtain between the sitting room and the alcove stood open, and he had a clear view of St. Lys in her dressing gown.
Going out to meet the other guardsman, Simon jerked the curtains closed. “Yes, what is it, Osborne?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss St. Lys,” the young man called to the actress. Celia, naturally, ignored him. “I'm so sorry to disturb you.”
“Lieutenant!” Simon barked, focusing the officer's attention on himself.
“My lord, we've apprehended a suspicious character. He was trying to sneak out of the theatre. He won't tell us his name or his business. But Lieutenant West says he's definitely French. He could well be a Bonapartist agent. He's got a locked case with him.”
“I'll vouch for him,” Celia said quickly, poking her head through the opening in the curtains.
Simon frowned at her. “Who is he?”
“He's certainly not a spy or an assassin. He's an old friend.”
“What is his name, madam?” Simon demanded, as Lieutenant Osborne hid a smile.
“I shan't tell you, you great bully. Just let him go!”
“Perhaps you would be good enough to identify him,” Simon said coldly. “Lieutenant! Have the prisoner brought here—and his locked case.”
“Prisoner! This is ridiculous,” Celia complained.
Lieutenant West of the Life Guards appeared with the prisoner and the locked case, having refused to relinquish his prize to Lieutenant Osborne of the Royal Horse Guards.
“Tom! What are you doing?”
“Oh, hullo, Miss St. Lys. I caught this Frog sneaking out of the theatre!” West told her proudly. “I'm sure he has a bomb in his case.”
“That is ridiculous, Tom. If he came here to plant a bomb, he wouldn't be leaving the theatre with it, now, would he?” Celia said impatiently.
“Zees eez an outrage!” Monsieur Alexandre raged as he was pushed into the room. “Take your 'ands off of me, you big stupid rosbif!”
“Yes, Tom,” said Celia. “This is my friend. I vouch for him.”
“But who is he?” Simon asked curtly. “What's he doing here?”
“He's not doing anything here. He'd like to leave.” Simon picked up the case. It was something like a physician's black bag, and it was indeed locked. “What's in here?”
“Zat eez none of your business, monsieur!”
“Mind how you talk to his lordship!” said Lieutenant Osborne, giving him a push.
“Look here!” Tom West said sharply. “He's my prisoner, not yours. I'll shove him if he wants shoving.”
Simon held up his hand. “Give me the key, monsieur,” he warned the Frenchman, “or I shall be obliged to break it open.”
“No! Please!” Celia cried, as the Frenchman let loose a stream of curses in his native tongue. “There's nothing in there that need concern you, my lord. I vouch for him! I give you my word. Is that not enough?”
Simon smiled thinly. “I'm afraid not, Miss St. Lys. You do understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” monsieur said bitterly. “Never should I 'ave come to zees bloody country. Zee English! Zey are rude and stupid.”
“I'll tell you who he is, my lord,” Celia said hastily, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “But I must tell you in private.”
“Very well!” Simon snapped, motioning to his lieutenant. “I will speak to Miss St. Lys and the prisoner in private!” When he had cleared the room of everyone but Celia and her Frenchman, he said, with tolerable calm, “Well, madam? Who is this man?”
“Monsieur Alexandre,” she confessed, whispering, “is my hairdresser.”
“Your hairdresser?” he repeated incredulously. “If that is so, madam, then why all this secrecy?”
Celia groaned. “I promised him no one would ever find out that he is the man who did
this
to me.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled off her wig, revealing her smart new haircut.
Dead silence greeted the revelation, and she cautiously opened her eyes.
Simon was staring at her in horrified fascination. He looked as though all the blood had been drained from his body. Monsieur, it seemed, could not even bear to look at his handiwork. His face was turned away as if from a most pitiful sight.
“For God's sake,” Celia said angrily. “It's only hair. It will grow back.”
Simon shook his head. “You were butchered,” he said flatly.
“Oh yes?” she snapped. “I happen to think I look like Joan of Arc. It's supposed to be a surprise,” she went on impatiently, “for the play. Now will you please let him go?”
“I ought to lock him up for what he's done,” Simon muttered. “Very well, monsieur, you may go.” Going to the door, he informed his officers of his decision.
Meanwhile, Celia hastened to her dressing table to replace her wig. Was it really so bad? she wondered.
He
certainly thought so.
Oh well
, she thought.
It's too late now
.
His shadow fell across the mirror and she looked up at him belligerently. “You must admit it did look suspicious,” he said.
“Even after I vouched for him? I suppose your officer thinks monsieur is my lover.”
“Very likely,” he said.
Celia sighed. “Please, just finish your search and go. My nerves are completely shattered. I shall be a candidate for Bedlam by the end of the night.”
“I'm almost finished. What's in here?” he asked, opening another cupboard. “More costumes?”
“Aren't you the clever one.”
“And this?” he asked. Taking up a small, narrow box perhaps nine inches long, he opened it before she could stop him. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a fairly realistic version of the male member, executed in white leather. Shocked, Simon closed the box quickly and put it back in the wardrobe.
“It's not what you think,” Celia said quickly. She could not be certain, but she rather thought that his lordship was blushing. “It's just my little . . . codpiece, if you like.”
“Yes, of course it is,” he said quickly. “There's really no need to explain.”
“But it's for the play, my lord,” she said firmly. “You see, I'm playing the part of Sebastian—”
“I thought you were Viola,” he said.
“I am to play both parts,” she explained. “They are twins, you know, but when I am onstage as Sebastian, I need a little something extra, if you see what I mean. There's a special sort of pocket it fits into. Meyer informs me that his less endowed clients often request such . . . enhancements.”
“I would not know anything about that.”
“No, my lord.”
He frowned. “You mean you have discussed this with the tailor?”
“Of course, my lord. Who do you think made it for me?”
“I have to go,” Simon said abruptly. “I shall return with the prince at—at the appointed time. While I am gone, there will be guards posted at all the entrances and exits. During the performance, there will be guards posted on either side of the stage: one officer of the Life Guards, and one of my own, Mr. Osborne, but they will not be in the actors' way.”
“And where will you be?” she said.
“I shall be with the prince, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, seeing him to the door. “I hope you enjoy the play.”
“I'm sure I will,” he answered, “unless, of course, someone tries to assassinate His Royal Highness, and then I shall have to take a bullet.”

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