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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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BOOK: When You're Desired
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“That is what I thought you meant,” Simon said. “I don't suppose I can talk you out of it?”
“No.”
“And when do you mean to make her this offer? Soon, I daresay?”
“Tonight. After the play.”
“Tonight!” Simon exclaimed. “Quite out of the question, I'm afraid. Tonight she dines with Sir Lucas Tinsley.”
“What are you talking of?” Dorian said angrily. “Tonight she dines with me.”
Simon shook his head. “I'm afraid it's all been arranged. Sir Lucas wants her, and she has agreed to . . . to sell herself to him.”
“What!”
“I'm sorry. I am to escort her to him. Believe me, it's the only reason I'm here.”
Dorian was frowning. “You arranged this?”
“Ten years ago, the regent borrowed a hundred thousand pounds from Sir Lucas. He's been paying an annuity often thousand pounds ever since. Sir Lucas has agreed to cancel the annuity in exchange for—”
“In exchange for Miss St. Lys?”
“I am sorry to pain you, Dorian, but it's perfectly true. She agreed to it.”
“I do not believe you,” said Dorian, thrusting out his jaw. “Miss St. Lys? Celia St. Lys? No! No, I don't believe you.”
“I am sorry, Dorian,” Simon said again. “Sorrier than I can say.”
“It isn't true,” Dorian whispered.
After the interval, the play went on, the two brothers watching in silence. In the final act, Juliet awakened in the tomb. Finding her Romeo dead, she took her own life, plunging a dagger into her breast. Aided by her delicate beauty, Celia gave a heart-wrenching performance. The audience wept like babies.
“I cannot believe it,” Dorian whispered stubbornly. “Simon, you will not make me think ill of her. She is lovely! She would not sell herself.”
“I see. You think she will agree to become your mistress for love? You were not thinking of offering her some reward for services rendered?”
Dorian glared at him. “That is different.”
“How so? A mistress is a mistress.”
“She would not sell herself to Sir Lucas Tinsley.”
“She has already done so,” Simon told him. “It gives me no pleasure to be the one to tell you. Indeed, I wish it were not so. I'm your brother. I would not lie to you, Dorian.”
Still shaking his head, Dorian left the box.
Simon sat for a moment. He was not wrong, he was sure. Someone had to put a stop to St. Lys's reign of terror. The Marquis de Brissac, he reflected, had been fortunate in death. Had he lived, he would have been obliged to marry St. Lys, and she certainly would have brought him to misery. Even in France, a faithless wife could bring ruin and disgrace to her husband. The marquis, Simon decided, must have been mad even to think of such a thing.
Rather surprised that St. Lys did not return to the stage for any calls, he left the box and joined the throng of men on their way to the Green Room. An excitable bunch, they seemed to have but one wish—to catch a glimpse of St. Lys. In a few weeks, Simon thought coldly, they would all be able to go to the exhibition at the Royal Academy and see their idol six feet high and perfectly nude, as Venus in the
Judgment of Paris
.
St. Lys was not to be found in the Green Room, but Simon thought he saw her slipping down the steps toward the tiring rooms. Pushing his way through the crowd, he descended into the maze of corridors. Catching up to her, he caught her by the arm.
“Where do you think you're going, my girl?” he said.
In her final scene, Juliet had been attired in a drape of filmy white muslin—someone's idea of a burial shroud. That, combined with her unbound golden ringlets, made her quite a distinctive figure. Or so he thought. But the girl who cried out in surprise and turned to look up at him was not Celia. She wore an excellent golden wig and a costume identical to Celia's. She was young and pretty, but she certainly was not the Saintly One.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded, scowling at her.
“I beg your pardon, sir!” she gasped, frightened.
“Who put you up to this? St. Lys?”
The girl cowered beneath his fierce gaze and tried to stammer some reply. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir!”
Belatedly he realized she was hardly more than a child. He had been duped, to be sure, but surely Celia St. Lys was responsible for that, not this infant. Ashamed of himself, he released her. “I beg your pardon, child,” he murmured less brusquely. “I thought you were St. Lys.”
“But I'm Belinda,” she stammered, looking up at him with huge brown eyes.
With a bow, he left her. Pushing his way against the crowd, he slipped into the passageway that led to the actresses' tiring rooms. Celia's was not difficult to find. A brass plate engraved with her name marked her door. And if that were not indication enough, a man was on his knees peering into the keyhole.
“You there!” Simon called angrily. “What do you think you're doing?”
Startled, the man leaped to his feet. “N-nothing!” he stammered, staring helplessly as Simon bore down on him, looking incredibly warlike in his uniform, one hand on the hilt of his sword. By contrast, the other man was small and bland, a nonentity. “I-I-I dropped my spectacles, that's all. Can't see past the nose on my face without them.”
“They're on top of your head,” Simon told him dryly.
“Oh! Thank you, sir,” the man said gratefully.
“You're a bloody Peeping Tom is what you are,” said Simon. “Go on! Get out of here.”
He did not have to tell the man twice. He ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. When he was quite out of sight, Simon knelt down and put his own eye to the keyhole. The room was either completely dark, or St. Lys had a keyhole cover.
At that moment, as he was in that position, the door opened. “Is it yourself, Lord Simon?”
Simon looked up into Flood's lean, leathery face. “Good evening,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Miss St. Lys is expecting me, I believe.”
“On your knees?”
“Is she ready?”
“She is not,” said Flood. “I'm afraid you'll have to wait, my lord.”
“She has ten minutes.”
Flood inclined her head at a regal angle and closed the door in his face.
Chapter 8
Some fifteen minutes later by Simon's watch, St. Lys still had not come out. Simon was quite annoyed, but before he could rap on the door, a girl came hurrying down the corridor. “Oh!” she said, stopping in confusion before him. “It's you.”
Simon looked down at her, belatedly recognizing the little actress whom he had mistaken for Celia a while before. Now dressed demurely for the street in a carriage dress of brown bombazine, she had shed her golden wig and scrubbed her face. Her own natural hair was chestnut brown, and neatly pinned in a twist at the base of her slender neck. She was prettier than he had thought before, with delicate features and the huge, frightened eyes of a fawn.
“We meet again,” said Simon gently. He still had not found a suitable mistress to replace Miss Rogers, and he was regretting his earlier rudeness to the girl. He hoped to make up for it now. “Belinda, is it not?”
She nodded.
“What a pretty name,” he said, hoping for a smile. “Were you named for the heroine of Mr. Pope's poem?”
“No, sir,” she said, looking down in confusion. “For Miss Edgeworth's heroine.”
Simon was taken aback. “You must be very young.”
“Yes, sir, I am not sixteen,” she replied.
Fifteen! Simon was not interested. His tastes did not run in the direction of inexperienced young girls.
Belinda raised her hand to knock upon the door, but hesitated. “Were you waiting for Miss St. Lys, sir?” she asked. “I was just coming to return her wig.” She had it in her hands, a rich display of gold coils, like stacks of guineas, attached to a flesh-colored cap. “It is made of her own hair, and she is very particular about it.”
Flood, at that moment, opened the door of her mistress's dressing room. “About time, too, you whey-faced hussy!” Snatching the wig from Belinda's hands, she inspected it thoroughly while the girl stood wringing her hands.
“What is this?” Flood demanded, rounding on Belinda furiously. Some flaw, apparently, had been discovered.
Belinda burst into tears. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Flood! I didn't think you would notice.”
“Didn't think I'd notice!” Flood cried, red in the face. “You've butchered it altogether, Miss Archer.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Flood, it wasn't my fault!” Belinda protested. “It was a gentleman. He wanted a lock of the Saintly One's hair. He cut it with a penknife before I knew what was what. He must have thought I was Miss St. Lys.”
“You?” Flood sneered. “Mistaken for my mistress? Was the gentleman blind?”
“No, Mrs. Flood,” Belinda said miserably.
“Wait until my mistress finds out!” said Flood, shaking her fist at Belinda.
The door slammed.
“Miss St. Lys is going to
kill
me,” Belinda whimpered. “That is her favorite wig.”
“Dry your eyes, girl,” Simon told her, offering her a clean handkerchief. “It's only a bit of hair; it'll grow back.”
Belinda did not understand that he was joking. “Grow back, sir? How can it? It is a wig.”
“Never mind,” he said quickly. “What did you need it for, anyway? I don't recall a scene with two Juliets.”
“Do you remember the scene when Juliet's body was carried to the tomb?” she asked him. “Well, I was the corpse.”
“
You
were the corpse?” Simon repeated, surprised. “Where was St. Lys?”
“In her dressing room, preparing for her final scene. I was at the Capulets' ball, too,” she added. “I was one of the dancers. I was dressed in green.”
A voice made for the stage suddenly rent the air. “Belinda! Belinda, my love!”
Sybil Archer, still costumed as Dame Capulet, had caught sight of her real-life daughter with the tall officer and was barreling down the hall to put a stop to anything that might need stopping. Though well past her prime, and perhaps a little stout, Mrs. Archer had not lost all of her beauty. She certainly had not lost any personality. “What are you doing here, child?” she asked Belinda, glancing over at Lord Simon suspiciously. “And who are you, sir?” she demanded, before her daughter could answer.
Simon recognized her from the stage. “Good evening, Mrs. Archer,” he said, bowing politely. “I am Lord Simon.”
“Lord Simon!” cried Mrs. Archer, her eyes widening. “Of course you are! Do forgive me. I ought to have recognized you. Belinda, this gentleman serves the Prince of Wales. He has sent for us at last! Go and put on your green dress, my love! Quickly! We mustn't keep the prince waiting!”
“His Royal Highness?” Belinda gasped. “Oh no, Mama! Why should the prince want to see
me
?”
“Because, my darling, you are charming,” replied her mother. “Now run along and do as you are told. Do not argue with your mother!”
Belinda did as she was told.
“Poor child,” said Mrs. Archer, reaching for Simon's arm. “She knows nothing.”
Simon eluded her grasp. “I'm afraid there has been some mistake, Mrs. Archer. You seem to think that His Royal Highness has sent for you. It is not so.”
She blinked at him. “He doesn't want to see Belinda?”
“No. Why should he?”
“Because she is his daughter, of course!”
Simon smiled disdainfully. “I would advise you, madam, not to say such things.”
“But it's true!” she insisted. “You have only to look at her to see her noble father! She is the image of Princess Charlotte—everyone says so. Her father is George, the Prince of Wales.”
“Is she?” said Simon, unimpressed.
“Indeed she is. Twenty years ago, I was a beautiful young actress and he was a handsome young prince. We were madly in love.”
“
Twenty
years ago?” Simon echoed. “But your daughter is
fifteen
. She told me so herself.”
“Belinda,” Mrs. Archer said firmly, “is nineteen.”
“Surely, madam,” said Simon, frowning, “there can be no reason for Miss Archer to lie about her age.”
“That is my fault, Lord Simon,” Mrs. Archer said quickly. “I ask Belinda to say she is fifteen. Well, you cannot expect me to own that I am forty-nine!” she added defensively.
“Forty-five
is quite bad enough. I was thirty when Belinda was born. I have letters to prove what I say.”
“You have letters?” Simon said sharply.
“I was his Perdita and he was my Florizel. You know the play?
The Winter's Tale
by William Shakespeare? Florizel is a prince. He falls in love with Perdita and wants to marry her. His father objects because she is not of royal blood.”
“I see,” said Simon. “Florizel proposes to Perdita?”
Mrs. Archer smiled. “Of course I would never, ever
dream
of using those letters to embarrass His Royal Highness.”
“I am very glad to hear that, madam.”
“I want only what is best for Belinda, you understand. I am glad her father means to acknowledge her at long last. Indeed, he can hardly deny her, the resemblance is so striking. He will know her and love her the moment he sets eyes on her, I am sure.”
“But he is not going to set eyes on her,” said Simon.
“Isn't he?” she said, blinking at him. “But isn't that why you are here, Lord Simon?”
“No, madam. You have taken me by surprise completely.”
“Oh, I see. He does not wish to see her. I understand. But he has sent you to make us a handsome settlement, so I shall not be angry.”
Simon lifted his brows. “Settlement?”
“He will want to make his daughter a most generous provision, I am sure. I understand he gave Mrs. Cleghorn ten thousand pounds, and
she
is not even the mother of his child! He'll do more for his own flesh and blood, I am certain.”
The door to St. Lys's dressing room opened, and Flood stepped into the hall, keys in hand.
“I should be very glad to discuss the matter with you, Mrs. Archer,” Simon murmured, “another time, perhaps.”
“But we are both here now,” she said. “Why don't we take Belinda home and put her to bed. Then you and I can talk, Lord Simon. I'm sure we can come to an agreement.”
Simon hardly heard her. “Where is your mistress?” he demanded of Flood, who was locking the door.
“Were you waiting for St. Lys, Lord Simon?” Mrs. Archer said, considerably surprised. “Don't tell me the prince has succumbed to
her
charms!”
“No indeed,” Simon said.
“
You
, my lord?” Mrs. Archer shook her head sadly. “If you were hoping to see her tonight, then I'm afraid you have been duped. She has been gone these thirty minutes at least. The moment the curtain went down, she was off like a rocket.”
“What?” said Simon, glaring at Flood. “Is this true?”
“Aye,” Flood said proudly.
His eyes narrowed to slits. Taking the keys from her, he pushed open the door. The room was black as pitch. St. Lys had indeed given him the slip. “Where did she go?” he shouted, turning on Flood furiously.
“She didn't say,” Flood replied.
Simon knew it would be useless to question her further. He let her go, saying, “Your mistress will rue the day she crossed me.” As Flood made her escape, he turned to Mrs. Archer. “Did
you
see where she went, madam?” he asked, checking his temper.
“No,” said Mrs. Archer. “I assumed she had gone off with one of her friends in the Life Guards. She has so many beaux, one cannot keep them straight. Anyway, you are well rid of her. She is not worthy of you, Lord Simon. You could do much better. You are the younger son of a duke, after all. What is she? She came to us from the gutter, and her kind is always two steps from the street. Ah! Here is my Belinda now. Isn't she lovely?”
Miss Archer was indeed hurrying up the corridor, having changed from brown bombazine into sea-green silk. She looked charming.
“Is she not an angel, Lord Simon?” her mother enthused. “She would be a credit to you, sir. She would be a credit to anyone. She has beauty, talent, and modesty. A rare combination. I say it though I am her mother. She should have been Juliet tonight, you know.”
“No, I did not know,” said Simon, looking at Belinda.
“Oh yes. She was understudy to Mrs. Copeland. But St. Lys, of course,
insisted
on taking the part, even though she is much too old to make a convincing Juliet. Belinda would have been
so
much better, and St. Lys knows it. She has always been jealous of my Belinda. Now that Mrs. Copeland is gone, my daughter is her only competition. Belinda is younger and prettier, and St. Lys can't stand it!”
Belinda heard her mother and blushed. “Mama, you mustn't say such things.”
“Stand up straight, child,” said her mother. “Shoulders back! Let his lordship look at you. There, my lord! Is she not the image of Princess Charlotte?”
Simon saw little, if any, resemblance. In any case, he hadn't the time to pursue the matter further. “Please excuse me now,” he said, giving them a bow. “It was very nice meeting you both.”
“Oh!” said Belinda, raising her eyes to Simon's. “Then . . . you have not come to take us to the prince?” she asked timidly.
“No, Miss Archer,” Simon told her. “I'm afraid that was a mistake.”
“I am so glad!” she said with obvious relief. “I'm sure I would have died of fright!”
“Lord Simon was waiting for St. Lys,” said Mrs. Archer, with a touch of bitterness. “But she has let him down. She has run off with someone else.”
“Oh no,” murmured Belinda kindly. “How wicked of her!”
“You are much better off with us, Lord Simon,” said Mrs. Archer. “Belinda would never treat you so ill. She is a good girl.”
“Mama!” the girl protested, blushing rosily.
“I pray you will excuse me,” Simon murmured. “I really must be going now.”
“But we have so much to discuss, Lord Simon!” Mrs. Archer protested. “Belinda—His Royal Highness—the settlement! What about the settlement, my lord?”
Simon paused, remembering her talk of letters. She might not really have them, of course. But then again, she might. “Perhaps,” he said, “you might do me the honor of dining with me tomorrow, Mrs. Archer? I should be very glad to discuss it with you then.”
“Did you hear that, Belinda?” said Mrs. Archer. “Lord Simon wants to take us to supper! We would be delighted, my lord. You may collect us after the play, if you like. Belinda is to take the part of Constance Neville tomorrow. So it is to be a very big night for her.”
BOOK: When You're Desired
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