When You're Desired (5 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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Simon eyed her coldly. “Not bloody likely,” he said, releasing her arm. “Do you really know where I can find St. Lys?”
“I do, sir. I 'eard 'er in the 'allway, talking to 'er young man. 'E's ever so 'andsome.”
“Captain Fitzclarence. Where did they go?”
She held out her dirty hand. “Ain't you going to pie me?”
“Where did they go?” he repeated.
Her face fell. “To Crockford's, sir,” she whispered.
St. Lys, Simon knew, was fond of the place and often went there with her “friends,” but that was no guarantee. “How do I know you're telling me the truth?”
“I wouldn't lie to a fine gen'leman like yourself,” she said indignantly.
“Of course you would,” he retorted. “You'll get your money when I know you're telling the truth. You're coming with me.”
“Oh!” she said, her eyes lighting up. She smiled, showing surprisingly good teeth. “Don't mind if I do!”
Together they went out into the night, the girl shivering in her thin dress as they walked to the nearest hackney stand. The girl had never traveled in such style before, and as the vehicle moved along, she ran her hands over the cushions in evident delight. Simon studied her by the light of the lamps. She was an odd-looking little thing, hardly a beauty, though not, he decided, unattractive. Her skin was pale. Her large gray eyes were set very wide apart. Her nose was short; her lips wide and full. He had already seen her miraculous teeth. He decided he liked her face; it seemed to be cleaner than the rest of her.
“Let me see your hands,” he told her curtly.
She held them up. At a word from him, she removed the tattered black gloves. Her hands were clean, too.
“What is your name?”
“Eliza, sir.”
Common, like the rest of her.
The carriage rocked gently. Simon tried to imagine her clean and neatly dressed, her wild black hair tamed, but his imagination failed him. He had no mistress at the moment, but he was not yet desperate.
They arrived in St. James's Street. From the outside, Mr. Crockford's house looked like all the other houses. Simon ordered the girl to wait for him outside; she was not presentable. If he found St. Lys inside, he would return and pay her half a crown; if not, he warned, she could look forward to a long walk back to Drury Lane.
Leaving her in the cold, he went in. The proprietor met him at the door with an oily smile. Mr. Crockford did not like Lord Simon. Lord Simon had forbidden his officers to set foot in the place. Occasionally they disobeyed, and their commander came to drag them away from the tables. Such unpleasant scenes were bad for business.
“May I interest your lordship in a game of faro?”
“No,” Simon answered curtly. “I'm looking for Captain Fitzclarence. Is he here?”
“You may find the captain in the supper room, my lord.”
“With St. Lys?”
The proprietor merely bowed. One must be discreet, after all.
Simon plunged into the smoke-filled club where scores of men and women—mostly wealthy gentlemen and their bejeweled mistresses—huddled around various gaming tables. Here and there a masked female moved through the crowd. These possibly were ladies with reputations to protect, but more likely they were courtesans pretending to be ladies with reputations to protect.
St. Lys, of course, would never be found amongst the incognitas.
As he stood in the doorway of the supper room, the Earl of Torcaster called out to him.
The aging roué was seated at a table with a companion. Simon could not escape the acquaintance. The earl's first wife had been Simon's aunt on his father's side. Rather curiously, his lordship's second wife had been Simon's aunt on his mother's side. Happily, Torcaster's current wife was no relation to Simon at all. Unhappily, he still considered Simon his nephew.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“You remember Miss Rogers, of course.”
“Good evening, Lord Simon,” said the earl's companion. She was a lovely young woman with black hair, lively dark eyes, and toffee-colored skin. She was almost covered in jewels—rubies and diamonds mostly.
“Selina,” Simon said, giving her a polite bow. Miss Selina Rogers, the ranking beauty of Covent Garden, had been his mistress briefly, but she had left him for a rich man. Simon had not loved her, and so they had parted on relatively good terms. He had no regrets and no hard feelings, though he was a little surprised to see her with Torcaster, a man old enough to be her father.
“I am looking for Captain Fitzclarence. By any chance have you seen him?”
Torcaster frowned in concentration. “The D. of C.'s bastard? No, dear boy. But St. Lys is here. If he is not with her now, he soon will be. Lucky bastard.”
“Is St. Lys here?” Simon said casually.
“Can't you smell her?” said Miss Rogers, laughing. “You must be the only man here who can't! She was playing at French roulette when last we saw her.”
“Yes, dear boy,” said the earl, “angels do play at French roulette.”
“Thank you.” With a slight bow, Simon withdrew, moving swiftly to the next room. He paused on the steps to survey the room, and spotted his quarry almost immediately. St. Lys was seated at the very center of the room with a group of red-coated officers, directly under the chandelier. More men crowded around her table. As they shifted, vying for the actress's attention, Simon caught tantalizing glimpses of the actress: golden hair, pink satin, a white elbow on the green baize table. He was loath to approach her, loath to join the throng of men clustered around her like excited bees around a flower, lest he be mistaken for one of her panting admirers. Sooner or later, he reasoned, she would have to get up from the table, and then he would intercept her.
A flash of scarlet across the room caught his eye. Fitzclarence was making his way to St. Lys, holding aloft two glasses of champagne as he threaded his way through the crowd. Simon watched, his eyes narrowed, as the circle around the actress opened up to admit him. For a moment, he could see St. Lys's face clearly, outrageously beautiful with her golden hair cascading down her back as she gazed up at Fitzclarence adoringly. Laughing, she took her champagne and clinked her glass against his. Simon could not hear her laugh, but he knew the sound, like the throaty purr of a cat—irritating, but arousing, too.
“Lord, but she's a pretty child!”
Turning his head slightly, he discovered that Lord Torcaster and Miss Rogers had followed him. Torcaster had spoken.
“I remember the first time I saw her,” he went on. “She was Shylock's daughter in
The Merchant of Venice.
This would have been before your time, my dear,” he added, patting Miss Rogers's hand.
“Not at all. I was Portia,” she coolly replied.
“Really? Then you know her?”
Selina lifted a shoulder. “Slightly.”
“She had a scene in the play where she elopes with her Christian lover,” Torcaster said, returning to his narrative. “When St. Lys went down the ladder backwards in those breeches, there was not a man in the house who did not sit up and take notice. For weeks, I searched in vain for that raven-haired Jewess. Months later, I found her: Cordelia in
King Lear
. Blond, by God, and a Christian!”
“Dreadful production,” Miss Rogers said, shaking her head.
“Worst
Lear
I ever saw!” Torcaster said with feeling. “What can they have been thinking? Edmund Kean was fine in the role, but they
killed
Cordelia! It's as though they'd never read the play. Cordelia marries Edgar. Lear regains his throne, and Cordelia marries Edgar. Everybody knows that. Her death made a tragedy of the whole thing, and that
cannot
be what the Bard intended.”
Selina laughed. “But that is exactly what the Bard intended. They changed it in the seventeenth century. Mr. Kean thought it might be fun to change it back again.”
“Fun! I don't go to the theatre to see beautiful girls murdered.”
Simon smiled faintly. “The first time I ever saw St. Lys was in the role of Desdemona.”
Selina sniffed. “That part should have gone to me. St. Lys is more suited to comedy, don't you think? I don't say she is a
bad
actress, only that some roles are just too big for her.”
“It was the role that made her famous,” said Simon, shrugging.
“Only because you men came back from the war hungry for blue-eyed blondes,” she said. “All you men were in love with her in the summer of 'fourteen. Dark girls like me didn't stand a chance in those days. She still has a certain fondness for a red coat,” she added, glancing across the room.
“She's always had the most deplorable taste in men,” said Torcaster. “Lord Palmerston had her first, of course. Then there was that demmed Frenchy—”
“Oh! The Marquis de Brissac, as he called himself,” sneered Selina.
Torcaster grunted. “Got himself killed in a duel, didn't he?”
“No, my lord. You remember. When Napoleon escaped from Elba, he rushed back to France to stand with his king and got himself killed. Anyone would have thought she was his widow the way she carried on!”
“She seems to have recovered from her grief,” Simon observed.
“Yes,” Selina agreed, laughing.
Torcaster shook his head. “Poor thing,” he murmured. “She could have had me.”
Chapter 4
“No, Clare; I beseech you,” Celia protested weakly even as she took her third glass of champagne from the young man's hand. “You promised. One glass.”
“There's no such thing as one glass of champagne,” he replied. “Look! They made it pink just for you.”
Awestruck, Celia held up her glass. “How did they do that?”
“By adding three drops of claret.”
Celia laughed, and touched her glass to his.
“What are we drinking to?”
“To Mr. West, of course,” she said, looking down at the Honorable Thomas West, upon whose strong young back she was seated. Looking down made her feel slightly dizzy. “Are you all right, Tom?”
“Tom's all right,” Fitzclarence assured her carelessly, and seated himself beside her. Tom grunted in surprise, but his back held up nicely. Fitzclarence leaned closer to Celia to murmur in her ear. “You'll never guess who is here.”
“You are right,” she said, laughing. “I shall never guess, so you had better tell me.”
Fitzclarence half rose and glanced over his shoulder, then hastily ducked back down. “Oh no! He's coming this way.”
There was only one person, she thought, who could have such an extraordinary effect on her friend. “Your father,” she guessed, giggling.
“Worse!”
“Who?” Celia was on her feet. She saw him at once: Colonel Lord Simon Ascot, commander of the Royal Horse Guards. He was looking right at her with those frigid green eyes. As she stared at him, shocked, he made her a slight bow. He had never done
that
before.
She sat back down, ducking her head, her heart pounding. Picking up a mother-of-pearl marker, she tossed it onto the green baize table.
“I'm sorry, Miss St. Lys,” the attendant apologized. “The wheel is in motion. No more bets.”
Flustered, Celia took it back. “Lord! What is
he
doing here?” she whispered anxiously to Fitzclarence.
“Who, Miss St. Lys?” asked Tom West. Half-hidden by her skirts, he could see nothing but the lower half of the room.
Celia gave the young man a rap on the rump with her fan. “We discussed this already, Mr. West. If you want to be my garden bench, you must remain perfectly quiet.”
“Beg pardon, Miss St. Lys!”
“Hush!” cried Celia, watching the turn of the roulette wheel as avidly as those who had placed bets. As the croupier announced “Zero,” which was the house's pocket, and swept away all the chips in play, Celia sighed in sympathy with all those who had gambled and lost. She would have lost, too, if Lord Simon had not distracted her.
She glanced over at him again. He had not been coming toward her before, but now he was. “He
is
coming this way. What can he want with me?”
“I owe him fifty pounds.”
“Have you got it?”
“Of course I haven't got it.”
“Let's just stay calm. Don't look at him, for heaven's sake! He might go away if you don't look at him. They say it works on lions.”
Fitzclarence could not help looking. “No; still coming. He looks
very
determined.”
“That's just his face. It's made of granite, you know,” Celia said bravely, but a slight quickening of breath gave her away. Few people on earth had the power to discompose St. Lys, and no one could do it so thoroughly as Lord Simon. Her hand shook as she placed her last chip on number five, but then, in a fit of indecision, she withdrew it from play before the croupier set the ball on the track.
“He's looking at you.” Fitzclarence sounded relieved.
“He can have nothing to say to me,” she declared, watching the wheel spin. “I'm not the one who owes him money.”
As she spoke, she could feel the crowd separating to make way behind her back—Lord Simon was just the sort of man, she thought sullenly, that weaklings always felt compelled to give way to. She could feel her legs trembling, and was very glad not to have to stand on them.
He's only a man
, she reminded herself, watching the little ivory ball bounce from pocket to pocket, as if her very life depended on it.
He cannot eat me, after all.
Recalling the adage about flies and honey, Simon had every intention of being polite to St. Lys. That was before he saw what she was sitting on, or rather whom. He could not see the boy's face, but he recognized the uniform. His temper frayed at the sight, and it was all he could do not to kick the young idiot in the buttocks.
“Captain Fitzclarence!” he said sharply. “Is this one of your men?”
“No, my lord,” replied the craven Fitzclarence. “I've never seen him before. You will excuse me, Lord Simon,” he added, bowing quickly. “I must fetch more champagne.”
Simon let him go; he had not come to quarrel with young Fitzclarence, after all.
Celia was vexed, but said nothing. She had expected Fitzclarence to abandon her. Indeed, everyone seemed to have abandoned her. A moment before, she had been surrounded by a warm wall of friends. Now she could feel a cold draft at her back. He stood next to her.
Now that the danger was actually upon her, she felt quite calm, as she did when she stepped onto the stage. She was Celia St. Lys, and people were watching. She would not, on any account, allow Lord Simon to get the better of her—certainly not in public.
“Good evening, Miss St. Lys.”
She took her cue from him—he wished to be civil; therefore, she would be rude. She waved her hand twice, as if to brush away a gnat, but did not otherwise respond.
“Madam, I would speak to you,” he said, an edge to his voice.
This time Celia favored him with a sidelong glance that did not rise above his waist. “Move along, young man!” she said crisply. “The great and powerful Lord Simon has declared this place off limits to the little children of the Royal Horse Guards. You may not fear your colonel's wrath, but I assure you, he quite terrifies me.”
No one at the table dared to laugh, but there were smiles, especially from her friends in the Life Guards. Simon was all too aware that any public quarrel with St. Lys was likely to attract the notice of the whole room, and probably would find its way into the gossip columns as well. “Don't let's play games, madam,” he urged her in a low voice.
“Don't play games,” she repeated loudly, laughing. “Don't let Mr. Crockford hear you say that in his establishment! This is a house of games, you know.”
This time there was laughter, scattered about the room.
“Dammit, Celia,” Simon muttered. “Must you—” He bit back his words.
Celia tilted back her head to see his face. “Why, Lord Simon!” she cried, affecting astonishment. “It
is
you, after all. Did we not agree, sir, to divide London between us? You were to have the
miserable
half. It's not fair of you to try to make
my
half miserable, you know. You would not want me to make
your
half happy. Of course, you are never happy unless you are making someone else miserable.”
He let her babble. “Get up,” he said curtly.
Her eyes flashed. “You cannot give me orders, Lord Simon. I am not one of your men.”
“I was talking to your—what did you call him? Your garden bench?”
“Are you acquainted with my garden bench?” she asked.
“What's your name, boy?”
“You may answer,” said Celia sweetly.
“Have you no self-respect, Mr. West?” Simon demanded when the boy had given his name.
“We're just having a little fun with him,” said Celia. “Tom is new to the regiment—”
“Breaking him in, are you?”he sneered. “By God, if he were one of mine—”
“But he's not.”
Simon's lip curled. “No. He's one of
yours
.”
Celia laughed lightly. “Is this true, Tom? Are you one of mine?”
Tom West did not hesitate. “Yes, Miss St. Lys!” he cried. “Thank you, Miss St. Lys. I'm so happy,” he added in a burst of spontaneity. “I was never so happy in my life.”
It was now almost necessary for Simon to kick the boy, but he restrained himself.
Celia smiled sweetly. “There, you see, Lord Simon! He is happy.”
“He is a bloody fool and a disgrace.”
“That is your opinion.”
“And you, madam, are drunk.”
Celia looked swiftly around the table. Everyone had heard, but they pretended they had not. They were all afraid of him. She lifted her chin and glared at Simon, her eyes blazing. “How dare you,” she gasped.
“Did he insult you, Miss St. Lys?” cried Tom West. “If I were not on my knees at present, I would defend you.”
“It is very rude to eavesdrop, Mr. West,” she told him, rapping him smartly on the buttocks with her fan.
“Sorry, Miss St. Lys!”
“I only want to talk to you,” Simon said.
“You can go to blazes,” she hissed at him.
“Don't be a fool, Celia,” he advised her. “It is in your best interest to hear what I have to say. Take a turn about the room with me and hear me out. Then you can go back to ruining yourself and everyone around you.”
“I don't wish to take a turn about the room with you,” she declared, her voice a little unsteady. “I don't wish to know you, or see you, or hear you, or
smell
you. If you persist in bothering me, I shall have no choice but to appeal to the management for relief. Since there are no
men
here to defend my honor,” she added fiercely, glaring around the table.
“But Miss St. Lys—”
“Shut up, Tom!” she snapped. To Simon she said coldly, “
Rouge ou noir, monsieur
?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Choose,” she said, holding up her last marker. “Red or black? If you win, I will take a turn about the room with you. Lose, and you must go away. That's fair, isn't it?”
“Black.”
“Of course.” She placed her chip on the board. As the ivory ball dropped onto the track, she gazed up at him steadily.
“Twenty-seven,” the croupier announced presently. “Red.”
Bursting into immoderate laughter, she clapped her hands in delight. She had not won much money, to be sure, but she had won her freedom from an odious man, and that was not an inconsiderable prize.
“Did you win?” asked Fitzclarence, returning to the table at that moment with champagne.
“Yes, I did,” said Celia, snatching the glass from his hand. “Good-bye, Lord Simon,” she added, fluttering her fingers at him. “Parting is such sweet—”
She broke off abruptly, gasping. “Juliet!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “Dear God—the play! Oh, I must get home at once! Oh, Clare! You
promised
.”
“I will take you,” Simon said neatly. “We can talk on the way.”
“You lost, my lord,” she reminded him.
“I said I'd go. We can go together.”
Celia frowned at him, but before she could speak, a small, thin creature in yellow satin darted forward to seize Simon by the sleeve.
“Fine gen'leman you are!” bawled the creature, a Cockney under a cloud of bushy black hair. “I done what you wanted. Now
pie
me what you owes me!”
Laughter erupted around the room, but Celia could only stare in mute astonishment.
“And you call yourself a gen'leman,” Lord Simon's friend grumbled, drawing more laughter from onlookers. “'Ere, what are you laughing at?” she demanded angrily. “I earned that money, I did!”
They only laughed harder.
“Do you know this person, Lord Simon?” Celia asked incredulously.
“Certainly not,” he said coldly.
“She certainly seems to know
you
,” Celia observed. “For shame, my lord! Why, she's hardly more than a child!”
Simon glared at Eliza. “I told you to wait outside, girl. Here—take your money and go, before I lose my temper.” So saying, he flung a handful of coins at her.
With a howl, the girl fell to her knees to retrieve the money. Some others, thinking it a good joke, began to toss coins at the girl, too, to her delight. Celia thought it a disgusting spectacle. “Stop it!” she said angrily. “That's quite enough.”
Eliza went on picking up coins until Celia made her stop. “Come, my dear,” she said gently, helping her to her feet.

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