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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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BOOK: When You're Desired
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“Your brother was at the theatre this evening,” she told him.
“Looking for me?”
She shrugged. “I daresay he was there to see Miss Archer. But he
did
inquire about you. I told him you had gone to a ball. I believe I was able to convince him that you and I had quarreled about it. Anyway, I'm sure he suspects nothing.”
“You'll never guess who I met at one of these balls,” Dorian said brightly, after a pause. “Lady Torcaster's, I think. Yes; I believe it was hers, for I also saw Fitzclarence there. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but he was making love to the heiress, Miss Tinsley.”
“Never mind all that,” she said impatiently. “Who was it you met?”
“Your friend Mr. West has a sister.”
“Eligible?”
“Unmarried, if that is what you mean.”
“Yes, of course. Did you dance with her?”
“I did,” he answered. “You said I should find the prettiest girl in the room and bother her conspicuously. Lady Rowena—that is her name—is very handsome. She looks a bit like you, Sally, at least from a distance, anyway. Up close, her hair has more red in it. Her eyes are not as blue. You are certainly taller. And she has freckles on her nose.”
“Other than that, we could be twins! Did you like her?”
Dorian shrugged uncomfortably. “She's too young. And hot-tempered! I paid her a compliment, and she practically snapped my nose off.”
“What was the compliment?”
“I asked her if anyone had ever told her she looked an awful lot like Celia St. Lys.”
“You didn't really say that to her, did you?” Celia laughed.
“She ought to have been flattered. Instead, she seemed to take offense.”
Celia cast her eyes up to heaven. “Oh, you are hopeless! You go to a ball. You walk up to a pretty girl—and you say, ‘Pardon me! But has anyone ever told you you look an awful lot like
my mistress
?”
“You are not my mistress,” he protested.
“But that is what everyone thinks. You're lucky all she snapped off was your nose!”
“I haven't told you the best part! She said, ‘No, Your Grace. Has anyone ever told you you look like Lord Granville?'”
Celia laughed. “You do look like Lord Granville.”
“I do not.”
“Do too. Right down to his webbed feet.”
“I do not have webbed feet.”
“He denies it, too.”
“Anyway, I returned her ladyship to her mama after we danced. I got out of there and went on to the next one.”
“Good,” said Celia. “And finally, you went to your club?”
“Yes, and dismissed the carriage and both footmen,” he answered. “I came here to you in a hackney. It wasn't as nasty as I thought it would be, the hackney carriage. There was straw on the floor, but it seemed to be clean.”
“The first time is always the hardest,” Celia told him. “And you told your valet to send flowers to all your victims? I mean, to all your dance partners? It will be expected.”
“I couldn't quite remember the name of the last girl,” Dorian confessed. “But Hill assured me it would be in the morning paper, or else he'd get it from the servants' grapevine. He's a very resourceful man, Hill. What shall I do without him? I've never been anywhere without my valet before.”
“Exactly,” said Celia. “If you took him with you, the bloodhounds would
know
you had left town. Do you think I like going away without Flood?”
“Someone will look after you at Ashlands,” he assured.
“And you,” she told him, laughing. “Hotchkiss will do the honors himself, I'm sure.”
“And who will you have?” he asked, smiling. “Mrs. Stampley?”
“Heavens, no!” said Celia, remembering Mrs. Stampley as the rather forbidding housekeeper at Ashlands who ruled the servants with an iron hand. “I should like one of the little housemaids. They will think it a treat to look after me. Mrs. Stampley, I am persuaded, would regard it as an insult.”
“Very likely,” he agreed, laughing.
“I wonder if any of them will know me when they see me,” Celia said, no longer laughing. “Mrs. Stampley had an especially sharp eye. One never dared put a foot wrong when she was about. I could feel her eyes upon me, cold and suspicious. She always seemed to know when I was going to
break
something.”
“If anyone recognizes you, it will be Hotchkiss,” Dorian declared. “Nothing ever escaped his notice.” He frowned. “He certainly must have known you were not dead, Sally. Which means he has lied to me all these years. And Mrs. Stampley, too. I'll put up with a lot, God knows, but I won't put up with that.”
“You mustn't be too hard on them, Dorian,” Celia said quietly. “Your mother had all the power. They had to do as they were told or risk their livelihoods.”
“I shall never forgive my mother,” he said. “I know you do not want her crimes exposed, my dear—”
“No, I don't,” she said fiercely. “And you have given me your word.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I have given you my word.”
She smiled at him. “I just want my locket back—and to see the bluebells.”
“We'll be there before the sun comes up,” he promised.
 
 
The sky was streaked scarlet and gray as the hired chaise drew near Ashlands, the ancestral seat of the dukes of Berkshire. Celia had not slept at all, but Dorian slumbered on the opposite seat, his head on his chest. She let him sleep until they reached the lodge gates. Then she reached out and touched his knee.
He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Sally! Are we home at last?”
“Not quite, Your Grace,” she replied. “The gates are closed. You must show yourself, or we'll never get in.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I always send my man ahead of me to smooth the way. No one is expecting me today—and most especially
not
in a hired chaise.”
“A duke in a post chaise . . . What
is
the world coming to?” Celia murmured.
“I should warn you, too, that I've never brought a woman home before. The servants are bound to think . . . well, you know.”
“You'll just have to swear them all to secrecy,” she answered with a shrug. “No one will ever know that I was here.”
A shadow passed across his face. “Yes,” he murmured. “My servants have been keeping secrets
from
me for the last ten years. They can bloody well keep a few secrets
for
me. If not, they must seek employment elsewhere. I've a mind to turn them all out as it is.”
Opening the door, he leaned out, shouting, “It's all right, Mrs. Ruddle! It is I, Berkshire. Tell your husband he can open the gate.”
Looking out the window, Celia beheld a woman in a nightcap at the lodge window.
“Is that you, Your Grace?” cried the woman.
“I am come home,” Dorian said simply, closing the carriage door.
Chapter 16
As they waited, the sky continued to lighten.
“You remember Mrs. Ruddle, don't you?”
“I remember a Mrs. Ruddle,” Celia replied. “However, mine was considerably older ten years ago. I know that time stands still here at Ashlands, but I didn't think it went backwards.”
“Why, that's right!” he said. “Old Mrs. Ruddle died—oh, it must be six years ago now. This is New Mrs. Ruddle. She married Old Mrs. Ruddle's son, Bert.”
“Oh yes. When I knew her, she was called Mrs. Bert.”
“She'll send young Peter up to the house on the pony to let them know the master has come unexpectedly. I don't think I've ever come home unexpectedly. It will be interesting to see how they rise to the occasion.”
“Young Peter!” Celia exclaimed. “I remember him—Peter at the Pearly Gates of Heaven. He was such a pretty little baby! I quite adored him. And so clever! He could blow bubbles the day he was born. I used to come and tickle him in his cradle. He seemed to like it.”
“I daresay.”
“I liked Old Mrs. Ruddle,” Celia said sadly. “I'm sorry she's no longer with us. She made the best plum cake in the entire world. I used to come and help her wind her wool sometimes, and she'd pay me in cake. I don't suppose New Mrs. Ruddle—”
“I'm afraid not,” Dorian told her, grimacing. “She does her best, poor soul, but I'm afraid Old Mrs. Ruddle took the secret of her plum cake with her to the grave. We shall never see its like again.”
The creaking of the cast-iron gates distracted him. “Those hinges want an oiling,” he said, frowning as the carriage passed through the open gates into the passage carved into the stone lodge. Dorian ordered the driver to stop. As Celia watched, amused, it took him a moment to lower the steps. As he climbed out of the carriage unassisted, she rewarded his efforts with a burst of applause.
“If only Hill could see you now, Your Grace! He'd burst with pride.”
“Nonsense,” Dorian replied cheerfully. “Hill would never approve. I'll just be a moment—I want a word with Ruddle about the noise. I won't have my gates
creaking
.”
By now, Ruddle was closing the gates behind the chaise. Celia heard Dorian's boots crunching on the gravel as he went to have a word with his servant. On impulse, she left the carriage herself. Finding the door of the lodge standing open, she went in.
The Ruddles' big, warm kitchen was just as she remembered, though the woman putting a kettle onto the hob over the kitchen fire was not the same woman, and the baby gurgling in the wooden cradle was not the same baby. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bert,” Celia called softly and gently, but the woman at the fire jumped as if she had shouted.
New Mrs. Ruddle had dressed in a hurry, throwing her apron and work dress over her nightgown, by the look of it. Upon seeing Celia, she hastily sketched a curtsy. “Bless you, madam!” she cried, her face red from the fire. Her eyes looked Celia up and down, and Celia could just guess what the other woman was thinking.
Who are you?
“I'm Miss St. Lys,” Celia told her.
“
Miss
St. Lys,” Mrs. Ruddle repeated, with unpleasant emphasis on
Miss.
Her lips pursed in strong disapproval. Obviously, she thought Celia was no better than she should be. “You've come down with His Grace, then, have you, miss?”
Celia tried again. “Yes. I'm Miss
Celia
St. Lys, from London.”
Mrs. Ruddle's eyes hardened. “London, is it?” she said coldly. “Figures.”
“I'm an actress at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane,” said Celia, struggling to keep her countenance. “Perhaps you've heard of me, Mrs. Bert?”
“No, miss,” Mrs. Ruddle said shortly. “And it's Mrs. Ruddle, thank you kindly. Was you wanting the privy?”
“Privy?” Celia raised her brows in surprise. Ten years ago, the lodge had boasted no such luxury, though the Ruddles, like the good lodge-keepers they were, always had a clean chamber pot at the ready for a weary traveler. It was more than a mile from the lodge to the great house, and not everyone had been blessed with a strong bladder.
“Oh,
we
never use it
ourselves
,” New Mrs. Ruddle told her, misunderstanding Celia's hesitation. “'Tis for the use and enjoyment of His Grace and His Grace's friends—such as yourself, miss. You'll find it sparkling clean.”
“I'm sure,” Celia murmured. “You're very kind, Mrs. Ruddle. But I would not want to inconvenience you.”
“You won't find a better one nor a cleaner one at the great house,” Mrs. Ruddle said belligerently, “if that's what you think!”
Celia was taken aback by the woman's vehemence. “Thank you, Mrs. Ruddle,” she said gently. “I should be delighted to use your privy.”
“So I should think,” said Mrs. Ruddle, grumbling. Still grumbling, she led Celia to the surprisingly modern convenience at the back of the house.
“There! You see!” Mrs. Ruddle said proudly, setting a candle on the washstand beside the privy chair. “Sparkling clean! The last person to sit there was Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Berkshire. On Christmas day, it was. Her Grace was returning from church when nature called. ‘Ruddle!' said she, ‘never have I seen a privy so clean. Keep up the good work.' It will do for
you
, miss, I daresay,” she added with a sniff.
“It is indeed very clean, Mrs. Bert,” said Celia. “Er—Mrs. Ruddle, I mean,” she hastily corrected herself as the woman drew herself up indignantly.
“I suppose you know what to do?” Mrs. Ruddle asked suspiciously.
Celia hid a smile. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Ruddle!”
Mrs. Ruddle nodded. “I thought you might!” she said, her lips pursed in disapproval. “I'll leave you to it, then.”
When Celia returned to the kitchen, she found Dorian seated at the deal table with a tankard of ale, and Mrs. Ruddle was frying streaky rashers over the fire. “I'm afraid we've been asked to breakfast,” the duke told her rather sheepishly. “I hope that's all right.”
“Of course,” said Celia, going over to the cradle to look at the baby. She was delighted to find the child awake. “Boy or girl, Mrs. Ruddle?” she asked.
“Girl.” The woman and her husband exchanged a nervous glance as Celia played with their baby. It was as though they feared the child might catch the London disease.
“What is her name?” Celia persisted.
“Hilda,” Mrs. Ruddle answered shortly.
“Ah!” said Celia, looking down at the infant benevolently. “May I?” she asked the babe's mother, and Mrs. Ruddle made no protest but watched anxiously as Celia lifted Hilda from the cradle. “You were named for your grandmother, weren't you, little Hilda?” she crooned to the babe, who looked up at her with round blue eyes. “Or should I call you New Hilda?”
“Was you acquainted with my old mother, miss?” cried Bert Ruddle in astonishment.
“I was,” said Celia. “But that was before I went to London to make my fortune.”
“You don't say!” cried Bert Ruddle.
“I used to come here quite often,” Celia said. “I'd sit on the stool at your mother's feet and help her with her spinning. In return, she'd give me a slice of her famous plum cake.”
“I've not had proper cake since Mother died,” Bert Ruddle lamented.
“I know how she made it,” said Celia. “I ought to know; I sat and watched her do it often enough. I'll show you, Mrs. Ruddle, if you like.”
“Did you know my mother well?” Bert Ruddle asked her slowly.
Celia laughed, bouncing the baby in her arms. “Don't you know me, Bert Ruddle?”
Mrs. Ruddle forgot to tend the bacon. “Mr. Ruddle! What's she ever talking about?”
“Hell's bells!” said Bert Ruddle, staring at Celia. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you was—”
Swallowing hard, he shook his head.
“Who, Bert?” Celia said eagerly. “Pretend you
don't
know any better. Who am I?”
She wanted so badly to be remembered that tears filled her eyes.
“Your Grace!” Bert Ruddle cried, appealing to the other man. “Look at her! Look at her, Mrs. Ruddle! Is she not the spit and image of—of Miss Sarah what died at so young an age?”
“Why, it can't be!” cried Mrs. Ruddle, staring. “It couldn't be.”
Celia smiled at her. “Tell me, Mrs. Bert, did little Hilda blow bubbles the day she was born, too? Is she as clever as her big brother, Peter?”
Mrs. Ruddle's mouth fell open. “Oh, my stars and garters! It
is
you, Miss Sarah! But how—You're not a ghost, are you?”
“No, Mrs. Ruddle,” said Dorian. “She's not a ghost. Miss Sarah has come home.”
Mrs. Ruddle hurried back to the bacon. “Mind you,” she said darkly, tossing the words over her shoulder, “I always said it wasn't done proper, didn't I, Mr. Ruddle?”
“Aye, so you did, Mrs. Ruddle,” her husband confirmed.
“What wasn't done right?” asked Dorian.
Mrs. Ruddle began bringing the food to the table. “The doctor never came, did he, Your Grace? And my brother Frank, what works in the stables, said it was a mighty strange thing, Miss Sarah taking a fall like that, when he was certain her pony had never left the stall all that morning! And the way the poor child was put in the ground! With no one there to mourn her except Her Grace and the two footmen what carried the coffin. I said it then, and I say it now—it wasn't done right!”
“And I told
you
,” said Bert Ruddle, getting in on the act, “that I saw Miss Shrimpton leave two days before the accident, and Miss Sarah was in the landau with her! So it couldn't have been Miss Sarah in the coffin. But you said I was drunk.”
“And so you were, Albert Ruddle,” said his wife primly. “Not what he's a drinker, Your Grace,” she added hastily, taking the baby from Celia.
“No,” Dorian said gravely.
Celia joined Dorian at the table. “Well, you were both right,” she said diplomatically. “I
did
leave Ashlands with Miss Shrimpton before the ‘accident,' and, no, it wasn't handled proper.”
“Did you ever tell anyone what you saw, Ruddle?” Dorian asked. “Besides Mrs. Ruddle, I mean.”
“No, Your Grace,” Ruddle confessed. “If my own wife didn't believe me, what chance did I have? Anyway, I thought—Well, when we heard Miss Sarah had
died
, I realized I couldn't have seen her leaving. I decided I must have been mistaken in what I saw. And I haven't touched a drop of drink since the day.”
“That's too bad,” said Dorian. “I could use a drink right about now.”
“So could I,” said Celia.
“Who do you suppose is in the grave if it ain't Miss Sarah?” asked Mrs. Ruddle, wrinkling her brow. “One of them gypsies, I daresay, though I wouldn't have thought any of them fair enough to be mistaken for our Miss Sarah.”
“Good God, I hope not,” Celia cried. “Dorian! Is it possible?”
“We'll find out soon enough,” he said. “We shall have to open the grave. There's nothing else for it.”
“Never on a Sunday, Your Grace!” cried Mrs. Ruddle, scandalized.
“Yes, I'm afraid so, Mrs. Ruddle. Don't worry, my dear,” he added, glancing across the table at Celia, who looked decidedly nauseous. “You'll be spared all of
that.
I'll set you down at the house and go on to see the vicar myself.”
“But where did you go, Miss Sarah?” asked Mrs. Ruddle. “Why did you leave us? Where have you been all these years?”
“That's not important, Mrs. Ruddle,” Dorian said quickly. “What's important is that Miss Sarah has come back to us. She is home where she belongs.”
“For a little while, anyway,” said Celia, smiling.
After breakfast, she returned to the hackney carriage with Dorian and they completed the drive up to the house. The sun was now up, and the sight of the lime avenue, gilded by the dawn, brought tears to Celia's eyes. “I never thought I would see it again,” she murmured, drying her eyes. “It's even more beautiful than I remember. The lodge, too. What a happy place. And wasn't it good of the Ruddles to remember me?”
“I thought you wanted to keep your identity a secret, my dear.”
“Yes, I thought so, too,” Celia replied. “But no, I want to be remembered. Besides, it was rather obvious that Mrs. Ruddle thought I was your fancy woman. That sort of thing is all right in London, of course, but not in the country! I didn't want her to think ill of me.”
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