When You're Desired (33 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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Dorian breathed a sigh of relief. “I am glad that's settled,” he said, sitting down. “I was afraid I was in for a battle royal. You know what this means, of course. If I had known of the existence of this will, you would have gotten your inheritance when you came of age. The very
day
you came of age. I know it is not a proper will, as the law would have it. It was not witnessed. But that would not have mattered to me. His intentions were clear as crystal. I would have plagued the woman's eyes out until she gave you control of your inheritance. I can be quite firm when I know I am right.”
“She has made it over to me, finally,” Simon murmured. “I have my inheritance now. She told me yesterday that she had done it, and today I have seen the papers.”
“Yes, but only because I forced her to do it!” said Dorian. “When I confronted her, she knew she had no choice but to sign the papers I put in front of her. She would have been quite ruined otherwise. She didn't tell you that, did she?”
“No,” Simon said. “She did not. I still do not understand,” he continued after a slight pause. “How did this come to be in—in
Sally's
possession? And why did she keep it a secret all these years?”
“I'm afraid you've got the wrong end of the stick,” Dorian told him. “I didn't get this from Sally. I got it from Crutchley. He's an attorney in Ashland Heath. Our father sent to him when he was on his deathbed. His clerk made a copy of the will. It was to be signed and witnessed the day our father died, but he was not in time. It was the
copy
our mother burned, not the original, thank God!”
“What do you mean? She burned my father's will?”
“Oh yes. Hotchkiss saw her do it. Fortunately for us, she never knew of the existence of the original. She did not tell you that, either, I suppose?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Now at least you understand why I must give Sally her money. It is what our father wanted.”
“Yes,” said Simon, returning the paper to him. “In your place, I expect I would do the same.”
“Good,” said Dorian. “I am glad we agree. Sally refused to accept any of it unless we were agreed. And the interest, too. Are we agreed there, also?”
“Under the circumstances, I believe that our mother must pay the interest,” said Simon. “Celia might even be entitled to damages.”
“That is what I said, too. But Sally would not hear of it. She would not take a penny from our mother.”
Simon shrugged. “We cannot force her. By all means, let her have her twenty-five thousand pounds, as set down in the will. I suppose she earned it, by making an old man happy.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Dorian, frowning.
“I don't judge her,” said Simon. “She came from the gutter, with nothing. She must have been delighted when my mother took such an interest in her—more so when my father did. I suppose the temptation was too great to resist—on both sides. Was he the first to have her? Or did you get there before him?”
“What?” Dorian was on his feet, his face quite pale. “What the devil are you saying?”
“I can't say I blame you,” Simon went on. “She's beautiful. She must have been quite something when she was innocent. Why, if I had been there, I might have been tempted myself.”
“Stand up!” said Dorian, moving swiftly across the room. “Stand up! For I cannot hit you when you are sitting down. How dare you imply that I—that our father—There was nothing untoward in that relationship. My father adored her. He delighted in her company.”
Simon remained where he was. “Obviously,” he drawled. “Why else would he leave her so much money?”
“You are despicable!” said Dorian, clenching his fists. “For God's sake, she was only a child! She was but fourteen years of age when our father died. What you are suggesting is too vile even for words!”
Simon had the grace to look ashamed. “Fourteen? I was led to believe that she was older—much older.”
“Led to believe!” Dorian repeated bitterly. “Yes, by our mother! What exactly did the old hag tell you?”
Simon passed his hand over his eyes. “That the girl seduced everyone in the house. That both you and my father were in love with her. That your wife was wild with jealousy. Is any of this true?”
“No indeed,” Dorian said furiously. “Of course we all loved Sally. She was such a sweet, clever child. My wife? Jealous of her? She was the child Joanna wanted so desperately but could never have, poor woman. It seems to me that the only one who was jealous of Sally was our mother!”
“But she also told me that, when our father died, the child seduced another rich old man. This one married her. She was married before, was she not? You told me that yourself.”
“Oh God!” Dorian groped for a chair. “How could she be so wicked? Here is what happened. When our father died, Sally was but fourteen. Our mother found out about the will and burned it. She must have decided then and there to get rid of the girl. She arranged for her to be married. She sent Sally to Ireland. This man—this Sir—Sir—”
“Sir Terence Plunkett,” Simon said calmly.
“Sally had never met him before. She was left with him at his house, a rather bleak and remote place from what I understand. She had no friends, no money, no one to help her. She had no choice but to marry the man.”
“At the age of fourteen?” cried Simon.
“He married her on her fifteenth birthday,” Dorian said quietly. “I need hardly tell you the marriage was not a happy one. In the meantime, my mother told us Sally had died. I never even looked for her. I thought she was buried in the churchyard. How she must have suffered!”
Simon's head was in his hands. “What have I done?” he murmured.
“It's not your fault,” Dorian said. “You couldn't have known. The worst of it is, she told Sally it was what I wanted. All these years, she blamed me. And I had no idea she was even alive. And I cannot even punish the person responsible! She sits in comfort in her rooms at the Pulteney Hotel—and thinks herself quite ill-used, I daresay.”
“Yes, she does,” said Simon, his face set and grim. “Not half as ill-used as she will think herself in the very near future, however.”
“What do you mean? I know what you are thinking, Simon, but no! We cannot expose her without exposing Sally. It would be a humiliation to her if anyone knew she had been married to that—that Irish oaf! She doesn't want anyone to know she was my mother's pet charity case.”
“I have something very different in mind,” said Simon. “There really is only one way to make amends for all the pain and misery my mother has inflicted upon her. The money's not enough. There's not enough money in the world to make up for what she has suffered.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to marry her, of course,” said Simon, “if she will have me.”
Dorian coughed gently. “That's a very good thought, Simon, but you see, I have already offered her the protection of my name, and she has declined the honor. Somehow, I don't really think she'll have you.”
“But I am not going to offer her the protection of my name,” said Simon. “I offer her my heart.”
“Your what?” said Dorian incredulously.
“I do have one, you know.”
“I'll take your word for it,” said Dorian. “But, Simon, you don't even like her!”
“I love her,” Simon said simply.
“Well, I don't think she loves you! In fact, I'm sure she doesn't.”
“I hope to God you are wrong,” said Simon. “I shall look a bloody fool if you are right.”
 
 
The next day, the Theatre Royal was a hive of noisy activity as players and stagehands, painters and carpenters, all gathered to put the last touches on the play.
“Me, I cannot work like this!” cried Monsieur Alexandre, in the alcove of Celia's dressing room, after a particularly large crash, followed by shouts. “
Je dois avoir tranquillité pour mon travail! J'ai besoin de silence . . . sauf si vous voulez finir par ressembler à . . . un hérisson
,” he added ominously.
Celia was seated at her dressing table and caught his eye in the mirror. “
Un hérisson!
” she cried. “No, monsieur, I most certainly do not want to look like a hedgehog! Flood! Go and tell them to be still for twenty minutes.”
Presently, a deep and profound silence reigned over the theatre.
Monsieur took a deep breath and picked up his golden scissors.
St. Lys was having her hair cut.
Flood stood in the shadows of her mistress's dressing room, helplessly weeping as monsieur made the first cut. The Irishwoman let out a wail of grief as the long golden curl fluttered to the floor. Even monsieur seemed to lose his nerve.
“
Est-ce que vous voulez vraiment, mademoiselle?
” he asked, almost pleading.
But Celia did not hesitate. “Yes, of course it is what I want.
Coupez,
” she commanded. “
Faites de moi un beau garçon.
”
Monsieur sighed, and seemed almost in tears himself as he began to crop her hair. Twenty minutes later he was done. Celia opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. Her eyes widened in shock. “Monsieur!” she breathed, running her fingers rapidly through the woefully short curls. “
Qu'avez vous fait? Mon Dieu! Vous m'avez scalpé!
I would rather you made me look like a hedgehog than a shorn sheep!”
“
Jamais! Pas du tout!
The effect, it is most charming,” monsieur assured her, hastily putting away his scissors. “
Vous ressemblez à la Pucelle d'Orléans.
”
“Butcher!” cried Flood, chasing him out of the room. When he was dispatched, she hurried back to her mistress. Falling to her knees, she began gathering up the golden curls that had fallen to the floor. “Oh, madam!” she cried. “Whatever were you thinking?”
“Actually,” said Celia, smoothing her hair down into a smooth, golden cap, “it's not so bad. I suppose I do look a bit like Joan of Arc. I just never knew my head was
shaped
like that. Anyway, it's the right look for the part, and what's done is done.”
“Aye! 'Tis done, all right!” said Flood. Having gathered Celia's hair in her apron, she climbed to her feet. “And what are you going to do in the last scene, when you're supposed to reveal to everyone that you're a girl?”
“I shall take the duke's hand and place it on my breast,” said Celia.
“Sure won't Davey Rourke like that,” Flood said darkly.
There was a knock on the door. “Hurry! Help me get the wig on,” cried Celia, snatching her blond wig from the stand. “No one can see me like this. It's a surprise.”
There was another knock, louder, and suddenly the door opened. “Celia darling? Are you decent?”
“What is it, Mr. Rourke?” Celia called from behind the curtain.
“Lord Simon is here—”
“Is he? Tell him to go away!” said Celia. “I won't see him. How dare he come here, today of all days! He knows I am busy.”
“Yes, Miss St. Lys,” said Simon, coming into the room. “I know you are busy. I won't take up much of your time. As you may have heard, His Royal Highness means to attend the play tonight . . .”
Celia jumped from behind the curtain, her shorn head concealed under a blond wig and her body wrapped in her old dressing gown. “Don't tease me!” she said. “My nerves cannot take it. Is he really coming?”
“Yes. I know it is an inconvenience, but—”
“Inconvenience!” she cried, astonished. “How can you say that? It is a very great honor. Why, it practically guarantees the house a successful run. We are all delighted, are we not, Mr. Rourke?”
“Oh yes! We're all beside ourselves with glee,” said Rourke.
“I did not mean that the prince's coming here would be an inconvenience,” said Simon. “But I'm afraid the theatre will have to be searched quite thoroughly from top to bottom.
That
may indeed inconvenience you all.”
“You're searching the theatre?” cried Celia. “Whatever for?”
“The last time His Royal Highness went to a play, someone took a shot at him,” Simon reminded her. “Needless to say, I was not in charge of the prince's security on that occasion. I am determined that there be no unpleasantness like that this evening.”
“But that was just some wretched lunatic!” Celia protested. “Anyway, what do you expect at Covent Garden?
This
is the Theatre Royal. You don't really think we're harboring assassins here, do you?”

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