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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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BOOK: When You're Desired
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“She seemed a little nervous at first,” said Simon. “But she got better.”
“Oh, the pit was in a frenzy when she came on. But then, St. Lys had riled them all up, winking at them and showing a bit of leg—the hussy! Poor Belinda must have thought they were going to eat her. She is too timid for the stage. She may get a little better, but she will never be good enough for London. I am no longer young, Lord Simon,” she went on. “The parts are drying up for me. When I die, I shall have nothing to leave my daughter but debts. Debts . . . and His Royal Highness's letter. I would see Belinda married soon.”
“She is charming enough to attract a husband even without a dowry.”
“Yes, but of what kind?” said Mrs. Archer. “I would not see her marry anything less than a gentleman. But so far, I have received offers only of the most disreputable kind. Gentlemen do not see her as marriageable. They think she is like the other actresses. I would not see her become a rich man's mistress, Lord Simon. I would see her married.”
“That is certainly to your credit.”
“But . . . one has debts, you see. Terrible, crushing debts. Shall I speak plainly, my lord?”
“Please do.”
“If His Royal Highness does not keep his promise—if Belinda cannot marry—I fear she must be brought out by some gentleman or other as a woman of the town! Though it breaks my heart to say it,” she added, with a sidelong glance.
At that moment, Belinda herself emerged from behind the velvet curtain, looking younger than her nineteen years in a simple gown of sprigged muslin. “Oh!” she said. “Forgive me, Mama! I did not know you were entertaining a gentleman!”
Rising from the sofa, Simon bowed to her. “Good evening, Miss Archer. Your mama has been telling me all about you. Shall we go to supper?”
“Don't just stand there! Get your cloak, child! Hurry! We mustn't keep Lord Simon waiting. You must forgive her, Lord Simon—she's never dined with a gentleman before.”
“Yes, I have, Mama,” the girl protested. “This month alone, we have dined nine times with nine different gentlemen. It's been very jolly.”
“But I am
always
there to chaperone,” said her mother quickly. “I give you my word, Lord Simon, she is never out of my sight.”
“That's true,” said Belinda. “I would not go with them if Mama was not with me. I do not like how they look at me. They frighten me.”
“You are not frightened of me, I hope.”
She stared at him. “No,” she said, after a moment. “I do not think I am frightened of you, sir. You do not look at me the way they do.”
“And how do they look at you, child?” Simon asked.
She shivered. “Like hungry wolves at a lamb, sir. Like heartless, hungry wolves.”
“You must say
my lord
, child,” said her mother severely, “not
sir
. Lord Simon is the younger son of a duke. You must show him proper respect.”
On impulse, Simon offered the girl his arm. “Miss Archer may call me Simon, if she wishes,” he said. “That is what my friends call me.”
“Oh, I couldn't, sir—my lord!” the girl stammered.
“Do not argue with Lord Simon, child,” said Mrs. Archer. “One does not argue with the younger son of a duke.”
“I'm sure I did not mean to argue with you, sir—my lord!”
“Simon,” he said, quietly and firmly, taking her hand.
“Simon.” She forced the word out as a whisper.
“Shall we?”
They left the theatre by the stage door, and Simon put them in a hackney carriage. Soon they were installed in the dining room of the Pulteney Hotel.
“I have been remiss, Miss Archer,” Simon said, when the dinner had been ordered. “I have not yet complimented you on your performance this evening, my dear.”
She hung her head. “I don't know what happened to me,” she mumbled. “I was so good in the rehearsal—even Miss St. Lys said I was good in the rehearsal! But when I went out on the stage, my voice—it just wouldn't come!”
Simon patted her arm. “Not everyone is cut out to be an actress, you know.”
“Miss London is, it seems,” said Belinda. “How I envy her! She had never set foot on a stage before today, but she was not nervous at all.”
Mrs. Archer snorted. “She was only the maid. In my opinion, they destroyed the scene.”
“The audience seemed to like it,” Simon said mildly.
Mrs. Archer bristled. “What do
they
know? Philistines! Barbarians! I have no opinion of the audience.”
“No, nor do I,” said Belinda. “The audience frighten me to death. Sometimes I could
swear
they were looking right at me! It was most disconcerting. If Miss St. Lys had not been with me in my first scene, I don't know
what
I would have done. Oh! If only I could play to an empty house, I'm sure I would like it much better.”
“Of course you would, my dear, because you are a true artist!” crooned her mother. “You think of the play first. St. Lys thinks of nothing but the audience. She winks at them. She blows them kisses! She'd crawl around on all fours if she thought it would please them. Do not seek to emulate St. Lys.”
“As though I could!” cried Belinda.
“Acting is sacrifice. One must give oneself completely to the role. When I am Cleopatra, I cease to exist. I annihilate myself! But St. Lys is always St. Lys! She is not an actress,” sniffed Mrs. Archer. “She is a
performer
. No formal training at all. Four years ago, she was nothing more than the kept mistress of Lord Palmerston.
She
wanted to go onstage, and
he
wanted to indulge her. He paid Rourke ten pounds to put her on. That was how she got her start.”
“And before Palmerston?”
Mrs. Archer shrugged. “God knows where he found her! Some brothel, I should think.”
“Mama!” cried Belinda. “You mustn't say such things about Miss St. Lys.”
The waiters came in and Mrs. Archer greedily served herself from the silver dish. “I must speak as I find, child,” she chattered on. “St. Lys did not earn her place in the theatre, whatever she may pretend now. Her place, such as it is, was bought for her by her lover, Lord Palmerston. I daresay his lordship only meant it for a lark. He must have been quite dismayed when his little mistress made such a hit as Jessica, of all things, in
The Merchant of Venice
. It wasn't long before she began to see other men. Then she took up with that Frenchy. The Marquis de Brissac, as he called himself.”
“They were
very
much in love,” Belinda said eagerly, her face aglow. “He wanted to marry her.”
Mrs. Archer snorted. “That is what she
said
.”
“You have reason to doubt it?” asked Simon.
“I have every reason to doubt it!” said Mrs. Archer. “He promised her marriage, to be sure, but he never intended to make her his wife. She actually thought he was going to make her his marquise, poor thing.”
The last two words were spoken without any sympathy whatsoever. “He deceived her, then,” said Simon. “He promised her marriage so that she would leave Palmerston.”
“That is dreadful,” Belinda said softly. “Poor Miss St. Lys!”
“I heard,” Simon said, after a pause, “that she was married before she came to London.”
Mrs. Archer's eyes lit up. “Do tell!” she cried. “Oh! I had not heard
that.
I suppose Lord Palmerston persuaded her to leave her husband and run off with him? How deliciously sordid! And she so piously swears she does not approve of adultery! Her name has never been linked to that of any married man. And, all the while, she was a married woman!”
“She is a widow, I believe,” Simon said quickly, now sorry he had said anything.
“A widow!” Mrs. Archer made a face. “Too bad. There's nothing sordid about a widow. Unless, of course, she murdered him. How did he die?”
“I have no idea,” said Simon.
“I bet he was a soldier,” said Belinda. “She's always had a soft spot for a soldier. One almost never sees her without she is surrounded by red coats.”
“Aye,” said Mrs. Archer. “It was the soldiers coming home from war that made her famous. I suppose they were tired of all those swarthy Spanish ladies. They were in the mood for something blond. She certainly gave herself to them most freely—and still does, I daresay. I forget what the play was that summer, when the regent had his jubilee.”
“
Othello
,” Simon said coldly.
“Oh yes! She was Desdemona to Mr. Kean's Othello—dreadful, overrated monkey of a man! She
would
come out for her death scene practically naked. She
dampened
that nightgown, too, you know, so that it would cling to every curve of her body.
Nothing,
my dear sir, was ever left to the imagination.”
“Didn't
you
dampen your muslins, Mama, when you played Cleopatra?” Belinda asked.
“Eat your squab, my love,” her mother told her sharply. “Belinda loves squab, my lord,” she went on, forcing a laugh. “She never eats anything else. I have heard that Princess Charlotte is very fond of squab. Is that true?”
“I cannot tell you,” Simon answered distractedly. Looking up, he saw a young officer of the Life Guards making his way toward them.
“My lord,” said Tom West, making him a bow. “Ladies. I do beg your pardon. Terribly sorry to interrupt and all that sort of thing.”
“Good gracious!” squawked Mrs. Archer. “Has the Corsican escaped from Saint Helena? Has the war started up again?”
“No, ma'am,” he hastily assured her. “That is, not that I know of,” he added, with a confused look.
“That is reassuring, Mr. West,” Simon said dryly. “Why are you here?”
“It's your brother, my lord,” the young man told him. “The Duke of Berkshire is taken ill. Miss St. Lys sent me to fetch you. She says you are to come at once to her house.”
“What?” cried Simon, rising from the table so quickly that he overturned his chair. “What's the matter with him?” he demanded roughly. “What's happened?”
“I hardly know!” cried West. “One moment, His Grace was juggling oranges with Joe Grimaldi, and the next thing we knew . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “He just sort of fell over!”
“My brother was juggling oranges?” Simon said incredulously.
“Yes, my lord. Then he just sort of slipped down and never got up again. We tried to wake him, but . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “Will you come, my lord?”
“Yes, of course!” Simon started for the door, then paused. “Perhaps you would be good enough to see these two ladies home. I should be most grateful to you, Mr. West.”
“I should be delighted, of course,” West replied, after only the slightest hesitation. “Miss Archer. Mrs. Archer.”
“Much obliged to you, sir.”
With a curt bow to the ladies, Simon quit the room, walking briskly out of the hotel into the noise and traffic of Piccadilly.
 
 
White-faced, Celia met Simon at the door of her town house. She had changed from her costume into one of her simple pink dresses. She looked a little rumpled, and there were smudges of lampblack under her eyes, but she did not seem drunk, only frightened.
“He is in my room,” she said from the doorway. “Tom and I put him to bed. My servant is with him now.”
Two floors up, he found his brother snoring on Celia's bed, on top of the quilted coverlet, with Mrs. Flood watching over him. His shoes had been removed and his cravat loosened, but otherwise he was fully clothed.
“I didn't know what else to do,” she murmured.
Going quickly to the bed, he established that his brother had a strong pulse. Dorian smelled strongly of liquor. “What the devil happened?” Simon asked, rounding on Celia angrily. Celia seemed close to tears. “I don't know!” she answered, pulling her pink shawl tightly around her shoulders. “After the play, I invited everyone back to my house. We were all having a lovely time.”
“Was my brother having a lovely time? Juggling oranges, was he?”
“I really don't know what he was doing when—when it happened. I wasn't in the room at the time. I'd gone upstairs with Captain Harris.”
“Oh yes?” he sneered.
She glared at him. “He was showing us his sword exercises,” she said, “and he accidentally cut his hand. I was tending to his wound, when . . . when Dorian fell down. There was an awful lot of blood—when Robbie cut his hand, I mean, not when Dorian fell,” she added quickly.
BOOK: When You're Desired
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