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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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Dorian stiffened with anger, but St. Lys merely laughed. “All my parts come naturally to me, Miss Tilney,” she said.
“Tinsley!” snapped Lucasta. “My father is Sir Lucas Tinsley,” she added proudly. “You will have heard of him, of course. He is one of the richest men in England.”
“Is he?” Celia said politely. “In that case, we must send him one of our letters begging for a donation. Is he a charitable man, your father?”
“Of course. But he only gives to the
deserving
poor,” Lucasta replied haughtily. “I hardly think
you
qualify, Miss St. Lys.”
“But it is not for
me
, Miss Tinsley,” Celia protested. “I am neither poor nor deserving. It is for the
children
of the London Foundling Hospital; they are poor
and
deserving. Indeed, it is a cause near and dear to my heart. Every summer, we hold a benefit for the children.”
“One does like to give back, doesn't one?” said the duchess, smiling complacently.
Lucasta sneered. “Foundlings! You mean those horrid little creatures that are dropped in the streets by their parents to be fed and clothed at the expense of the public? My father says it is a mistake to encourage such practices by feeding the wretches.”
“Good Lord, Miss Tinsley!” said Celia, prettily taken aback. “May I ask who, if anyone, is included in your father's idea of the deserving poor?”
“My father believes that the good Lord helps those who help themselves.”
“The good Lord may indeed help those who help themselves,” Celia agreed, “but I think that
we
have a duty to help those who
cannot
help themselves.”
“I agree,” said Dorian.
“Are we going to settle our bet or not?” Lucasta said impatiently.
“Have you a bet?” Celia asked, smiling.
“Not I,” Dorian said quickly. “Miss Tinsley and my mother have.”
“And we need you to settle it for us,” said Lucasta.
“You will help us, won't you, Miss St. Lys?” said the duchess.
“Certainly, ma'am, if it lies within my power.”
“The fact is, this young lady bet me ten pounds that your golden hair is not your own, my dear,” said the duchess. “I do not often take bets, but in this case, I felt I could not refuse.”
“You are not offended, I hope, Miss St. Lys?” Dorian asked anxiously.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” she assured him. “I myself like a good wager now and then.”
“I should be very glad to give my winnings to the New-foundlanders,” put in the duchess.
“Foundlings, Your Grace. Thank you.”
“You have not won
yet
,” said Lucasta. “I still say it is a wig.”
Celia smiled at her. “Why don't you give it a tug?” she said.
Miss Tinsley accepted the invitation with alacrity. Marching up to Celia, she yanked her hair hard enough to make the actress wince in pain.
“Are you all right, Miss St. Lys?” Dorian asked.
“She's fine,” said Fitzclarence. “Aren't you, Celia?”
“I trust this settles your bet for you, Miss Tinsley,” said Celia.
“Yes, of course it does,” said the duchess. “You may give Miss St. Lys ten pounds for the founderlings.”
“I do not have it with me,” Lucasta said crossly.
“No matter,” said the duchess. “Dorian can take it to Miss St. Lys tomorrow. What is your address, my dear?”
“Eighty-four Curzon Street,” Celia replied.
“Curzon Street,” the duchess repeated, impressed. “How delightfully convenient. Why, Dorian, she is practically on our doorstep.”
Lucasta scowled.
“I think now we must leave Miss St. Lys in peace,” said Dorian.
The duchess dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Come here, my dear,” she said to Celia. “Take my fan.” She held it out. “I want to make you a present of it. Come, child. You are not afraid of me, are you?”
Celia went forward and took the fan. “You are very beautiful, my dear,” the duchess said softly. “I wish I knew your secret.”
“My secret, ma'am?”
“Your beauty secret,” said the duchess. “Miss Tinsley tells me that you use nothing but Milk and Roses. I cannot believe it. Why, your skin is
perfect.
”
Celia looked back at her, smiling faintly. “Thank you, Your Grace. I do have a little secret, as it happens.”
“I knew it!” Lucasta exclaimed in triumph. “I knew it was not all down to Milk and Roses.”
“It's very good, whatever it is,” said the duchess.
“Thank you, Your Grace. It
is
good. Better than anything you will find on the market. I daresay, it's like nothing you've ever tried before,” she added.
“How do you know what I've tried before?” Lucasta asked sourly.
“It goes on quite invisible, and it won't rub off.”
“My dear,
that
is impossible,” declared the duchess.
“Are you wearing it now?” Lucasta demanded.
“I am never without it,” Celia replied.
“And it won't rub off?” Lucasta asked.
“No. You may try, if you like,” Celia invited her.
Rather than risk her gloves, Lucasta took out her handkerchief and drew it firmly across Celia's cheek. To her amazement, the white cambric came away quite clean.
“I told you,” said Celia, smiling.
“Good heavens!” cried the duchess with great eagerness. “I should not have thought it possible. How does it feel on the face?” She patted her own cheeks rapidly.
“Like air, ma'am. I don't even know it's there until I look in the mirror.”
Rising from her seat, the duchess moved closer in. Opening her lorgnette, she scrutinized Celia's face minutely and with magnification. “I vow!” she breathed. “'Tis
quite
undetectable! And it doesn't collect at the corners of your mouth? It does not dry out and crack?”
“Oh no, ma'am, never. I would not like that at all!”
“If it does all you say, one must have it,” said the duchess. “What is it called?”
Celia was now enjoying herself. “Nature's Bloom, ma'am,” she said, opening her new fan. Of tortoiseshell, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, it was really quite beautiful and must have been expensive.
For skin like St. Lys's, Lucasta would gladly have sold her immortal soul. “Where can I get it?” she cried.
“I'm sorry, Miss Tinsley,” Celia told her. “It's not available to the public.”
“Nonsense!” Lucasta said angrily. “Who makes it?”
Celia smiled. “Its creator is in heaven. When my supply runs out, 'tis gone forever.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Lucasta. “Even if the man is dead, he must have left his formula behind. There must be some way to make more Nature's Bloom. Where did you purchase it?”
“'Twas a gift,” Celia replied, “from the Creator himself. He made it for me especially.”
“Then I demand that you sell me your supply. Name your price!” Lucasta commanded.
Fitzclarence could take no more of the joke, and laughed aloud. Looking around in amazement, the duchess saw that Dorian was also laughing. All at once, the duchess realized that St. Lys had been fooling. As disappointed as she was to realize that there was no invisible cosmetic that carried away all one's flaws and never wore off, she accepted the joke with good grace, and managed to laugh at her own folly.
“You should not get an old woman's hopes up like that,” she chided Celia, wagging her finger. “Nature's Bloom, indeed! Better than anything on the market! Oh! If only it
could
be bottled. I for one would bathe in it.”
Lucasta was the last to get the joke, and the only one unamused.
“How
dare
you mock me!” she cried, her face red. Her hand shot out and she slapped Celia hard across the face. “There! That'll teach you, you cheap, vulgar, painted harlot!”
Chapter 3
Sir Lucas Tinsley leaned back in his chair, resting his leonine head on his chest. “Let us come straight to the point, my lord.”
“Please,” said Simon. He looked out over the theatre. The chandeliers had been lowered and attendants were trimming the candles.
“Your royal master owes me money.”
“Our position, Sir Lucas, is that the original amount of the loan has been repaid in full.”
Sir Lucas grunted. “The regent signed an annuity. By rights, I am entitled to collect ten thousand pounds per annum. His Highness must pay. He is already a year behind in his payments.”
“He is your sovereign, Sir Lucas.”
“He is not above the law, Lord Simon.”
“We've been through all this before,” Simon said impatiently. “Why am I here?”
Sir Lucas shrugged. “I am a rich man. Ten thousand pounds per annum is nothing to me, and as you say, the original amount has been repaid. Upon consideration, I see no real benefit in embarrassing His Royal Highness. I might be willing to cancel the annuity altogether . . . in exchange for . . .”
“Yes?” Simon prompted him. “In exchange for . . . ?”
“In exchange for your assistance, Lord Simon.”
Simon raised his brows. “My assistance? I don't understand. Why should you require my assistance?”
“You have had some experience, I believe, in dealing with such matters,” said Sir Lucas. “His Royal Highness is forever getting tangled up with some woman or other. Greedy, grasping females—out for all they can get!”
“I may have had some dealings with women such as you describe.”
Sir Lucas snorted. “More than that, from what I hear. It was not long ago that you had dealings with Mrs. Cleghorn, the opera singer. I understand your master gave her a bond for ten thousand pounds, but afterward he seemed to repent of his folly. He sent
you
to negotiate with the woman. You persuaded her to return the bond for less than a tenth of its value. Well done.”
“I'm afraid I have no memory of that, Sir Lucas.”
“Of course not. You are discreet. Your master, however, is not. He boasts of it.”
“I see,” Simon said, after a moment. “And you want me to perform a similar service for you—and forget all about it afterward?”
“Precisely.”
“And if I perform this service, you will cancel the annuity?”
“Yes, of course.”
“All right,” said Simon, gritting his teeth. “You'd better tell me.”
“There's nothing much to tell,” said Sir Lucas. “About a month ago, I met a woman. I gave her a very valuable piece of jewelry, a diamond necklace—with the understanding that she would grant me her favors. However, she did not.”
“I take it, you want this necklace returned.”
“Naturally, I want it returned,” said Sir Lucas. “I will not be made a fool of by an
actress
. Miss St. Lys cannot have her cake and eat it, too.”
Simon gave a violent start. “Miss St. Lys!” he exclaimed. “Oh, you poor fool.”
Sir Lucas scowled. “I beg your pardon!”
“You are by no means her first victim, Sir Lucas,” Simon told him. “She is quite practiced in the art of deception, as cruel and cunning as she is beautiful. Mrs. Cleghorn is a model of virtue compared to her. I have crossed swords with St. Lys before,” he went on. “She is clever, but she is no match for me, as she will discover to her cost. I'll get your necklace back for you, Sir Lucas. But first, you must tell me everything. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out. If I am to help you, I must know all. Where did you meet her?”
 
 
Celia at that moment was in her dressing room, blinking back tears as Flood applied witch hazel to her swollen cheek. Flood crooned to her softly.
Fitzclarence was lounging on the pink sofa in the next room. The muslin curtain had not been drawn between the two areas, and he had an excellent view of Celia at her dressing table. “Well?” he drawled. “Are we going to have a bruise or not?”
Pushing Flood away, Celia inspected her face in the mirror. One cheek did indeed look pinker than the other. “I should have hit her back,” she muttered angrily. “One should always hit back. Else the blows keep coming.”
“Indeed,” said Fitzclarence.
“I ran away,” Celia continued bitterly. “In the army, I'd be shot for cowardice.”
“You were perfect,” he told her firmly. “You showed her how a lady behaves. You curtsied like a princess, and you left the room like a queen. I was proud of you.”
“I should have kicked her,” Celia insisted. “That bitch!”
“That bitch,” said Fitzclarence, “has a dowry of three hundred thousand pounds.”
“Worth every penny,” Celia sneered. “She will make him a proper duchess.”
He laughed. “Oh,
he
's not going to marry her.
I
am. I've just decided. And when she is my wife, Celia, you shall be avenged. I shall send her to bed without any supper. Worse, I shall send her to bed without
me
.”
Celia rose from her dressing table, and Flood, anticipating her mistress's needs, instantly was there with the actress's cloak. As Flood fastened the clasp at her throat, Celia pulled on her gloves. “Of course he is to marry her,” the actress said crossly. “Why else would he have anything to do with that cross-eyed pig of a girl?”
“Shall we wager on it?” he said, grinning.
“If you marry Miss Tinsley, I'll give you a thousand pounds for a wedding present.”
“And if the Duke of Berkshire marries her, I . . . I shall go into a monastery!”
Celia could not help laughing.
“I am quite serious, you know,” he said. “Her Grace remarked on what a pretty-behaved girl you are. The duke could not take his eyes off of you. You have made a conquest there, I think.”
She tossed her head. “Another one? How nice for me.”
“He has forty thousand a year,” Fitzclarence said persuasively. “He is a widower. He has no heir.”
“Then he is as good as married,” Celia said impatiently. “And, therefore, no good to me. I don't want to be anybody's kept mistress.”
“But you're clever. You could make him
marry
you.”
“Naturally, I could,” she said airily. “But then what?”
“Well, you'd be a duchess. That's something.”
“I'd be his property,” she retorted. “I'd be locked in a cage for the rest of my life, and
he
would hold the key. I may be clever, but am not such a fool as that.”
He laughed. “Don't you want a husband?”
“Lord, no!” Celia replied, shuddering. “I'd rather have gallstones.”
“My father had gallstones,” said Fitzclarence. “He suffered greatly. Gallstones are no laughing matter.”
“Neither are husbands,” Celia said tartly.
“Yet many ladies
do
laugh at them,” he said.
“Naturally one laughs at other people's husbands,” said Celia. “It's only polite! One's own husband is not so amusing.”
“What?” said Fitzclarence, starting up in surprise. “
You
have a husband?”
“We do not speak of him,” said Flood, firmly, “and he is moldering in his grave.”
“You're quite right, Flood,” Celia said contritely. “He left us a little money, anyway, so we should not speak ill of him. Shall we go?” she said, picking up her reticule and her newly acquired tortoiseshell fan.
Celia and Fitzclarence went out of the room together, leaving Flood to finish her work and lock up. “We shall have to cancel our excursion to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night, I'm afraid,” Celia apologized as they moved through the corridor. “Peg Copeland is breeding, and Lord Torcaster most kindly has sent her down to the country to convalesce. I am to take her place in Mr. Palmer's benefit. I must go straight home and study my lines like a good girl.”
“When is the last time you did anything like a good girl?”
“You'd be surprised, Captain Fitzclarence!”
“I don't care what you say,” he said, leading her to the stage door with his hand firmly under her elbow. “I am taking you to Crockford's for supper.”
Crockford's was a fashionable club much frequented by the aristocracy. One could eat and drink there, to be sure, but that was not its main function. It was first and foremost a gaming hell. Though an indifferent gamester, Celia often found herself in such places, being plied with free food and drink, as well as complimentary gaming chips. The proprietors were always glad to see the famous actress. St. Lys was good for business, and her friends were welcome, too.
“Absolutely not,” Celia said firmly as he pulled her through the door into the cold night. “I must go straight home, Clare. It's been three years since I played Juliet. I must study or I shall be laughed off the stage.”
“Nonsense. You could stand there drooling for three hours and they'd still pay to look at you.”
“Then I'd better brush up on my drooling!”
“You must eat, Celia,” he said persuasively. “You're naught but skin and bones. And you know Crockford always lays on a good supper.”
Celia's belly rumbled. She could never eat before a performance, and she was always starving afterward. And Mr. Crockford
did
lay on a good supper. “All right,” she agreed weakly. “But we mustn't stay long.”
“No indeed,” he agreed easily.
Celia frowned suspiciously. “I mean it, Clare. We'll have a light supper at Crockford's.
One
glass of champagne. But then you must take me straight home.”
“Of course,” he assured her, patting her hand as he drew it through the crook of his arm.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
A hackney awaited them at the end of Drury Lane. Fitzclarence handed Celia in, climbing up beside her and closing the door. Celia caught her breath in surprise as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the carriage lamps. On the opposite seat sat two of Clare's fellow officers. She knew them. Between them sat a third male, also in regimentals. His hands were tied and his head encased in a black silk hood.
“What on earth—” Celia began angrily, as the hackney carriage lurched forward. “Clare! I demand to know the meaning of this.”
“Hush,” Fitzclarence murmured at her side. “All will be revealed.”
At a sign from him, the black silk hood was removed. The rosy face of a good-looking, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, even younger than Fitzclarence, came into view. He blinked at them like a newborn kitten.
“You said you wanted a greenhorn,” Fitzclarence murmured.
“Greenhorn? He's an infant,” Celia protested. “He ought to be wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger!”
“I'll leave that to you, then, shall I?”
The boy was staring at the actress with his mouth open. “Bloody hell!” he breathed. “You're Celia St. Lys!”
“Yes, I know,” Celia said dryly. “And you are?”
“West,” he said eagerly. “Tom West.”
Celia smiled a little doubtfully, then shrugged her shoulders.
“Welcome to the regiment, Mr. West,” she said.
 
 
By the time Simon made his way backstage to Celia's dressing room, the actress had left the theatre. From the shadows, he watched her Irishwoman come out of her dressing room and carefully lock the door. He knew from experience that Flood could not be bribed. He waited until she had gone, then made his way back through the corridors to the stage door.
Before reaching it, he turned suddenly, whirling around so swiftly that the person creeping behind him cried out in alarm. His gloved hand clamped down on a thin wrist. “Why are you following me?” he demanded.
It was a girl, though not an actress by the look of her. She was too thin and dirty. More likely she was a prostitute, of the more common variety. The alleys behind the theatre were full of such pitiful creatures. Probably she had snuck into the playhouse to get warm. Her frizzy hair was as black as it was wild, and she wore a dress of yellow satin that had seen better days. “Was you looking for Miss St. Lys, sir?” she said, her common accent an insult to the English language. “For a shilling, I'll take you to 'er, I will. For another shilling, I'll let you do what you like,” she added, confirming his original assessment of her character.

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