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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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BOOK: When You're Desired
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“Right,” she said.
Chapter 21
“I shall never see him again,” Celia murmured, as Flood hurried back into the room.
“God willing,” Flood murmured.
“Celia darling,” called a familiar voice from the doorway.
Celia's nerves, quite badly frayed, abruptly gave way. “What now?” she practically snarled at David Rourke.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked innocently.
“No! Not at all! Bring a friend!”
“I don't think I have any left at this point,” he murmured. “Everyone's snapping at me! One of the officers broke Mrs. Archer's mirror, and you would think that I—”
Celia gasped. “Not her
lucky
mirror? The one she always looks into right before she goes onstage?”
“The very one.”
“Oh no,” Celia groaned, dropping her head in her hands.
“Never mind all that, darling. I was wondering what you mean to wear for ‘God Save the King.'”
With the prince regent in attendance, it was customary for the anthem to be played by the orchestra and sung by the entire company before the curtain went up on the first act.
Celia caught her breath. “Oh dear! I hadn't thought . . . Flood—”
“The audience ought not to see you in costume before the play starts,” said Rourke.
“No, to be sure,” Celia murmured.
“I was thinking . . . His Highness is very fond of the military style. He'll probably be wearing his field marshal's uniform. You've a Life Guards habit, don't you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Celia. “I shall have to send Flood home for it.”
“That leaves Miss Vane.”
“What about her?”
“Poor child! She was only wondering if she might borrow something from you, Celia darling. She has really nothing suitable for mingling with royalty. Olivia's in mourning in the first act—she can't go out all in black to sing ‘God Save the King'!”
“No,” Celia agreed. “She can borrow my Life Guards habit. I shall wear my Royal Horse Guards habit.”
“Madam,” Flood protested. “His Lordship won't like that one bit!”
“I know,” said Celia, “but what can I do? I can't go out there naked—that would completely spoil the surprise of my first scene.”
The plan hit a snag, however, when Lieutenant Osborne of the Royal Horse Guards refused to allow Flood to leave the theatre. Lieutenant West of the Life Guards gamely offered to escort the dresser there and back again. A loud argument ensued between the two young officers, which might have come to blows had Captain Fitzclarence not intervened.
“Clare!” Celia exclaimed in astonishment. And after Tom West and Flood were on their way, she peppered him with questions. “What are you doing here? Where is your bride? Why are you not on your honeymoon?”
“That's all over, I'm afraid,” he said, pulling a long face. “My father and her father could not come to terms, and the whole thing is to be annulled. That's two days of my life I'll never get back.”
“You wanted too much money,” Celia guessed.
“Sir Lucas said he would give her ten thousand pounds and not a penny more!”
“So little?” cried Celia. “That is shocking.”
“Anyway, she only agreed to run off with
me
because she thought her father was going to marry
you
. Now that that's off—”
“My dear boy,” she protested. “'Twas never on. But I do know one young lady who will be very glad to know you are not married.”
“Oh yes?” He grinned. “Who?”
“Miss London, of course! She has been crying her eyes out for two days.”
“Oh yes, the amusing little Cockney. Is she here?”
“She is at my house,” said Celia. “But I left a
billet d'entrée
for her with the porter.”
“Then I shall see her after the play tonight,” he said.
Leaving him, Celia hurried along to Mrs. Archer's dressing room. “I heard of your tragedy,” she said, when Mrs. Archer's dresser reluctantly had admitted her. “I know nothing can ever replace your lucky mirror—”
“It belonged to Mrs. Barry herself, the first actress ever to grace the English stage.”
“I've got a lucky handkerchief, if you want to borrow it,” Celia offered. “It was woven by a two-hundred-year-old sibyl. The pattern of strawberries was printed with the blood of virgins.”
Mrs. Archer stared at her. “Yes, I can see that, Miss St. Lys. I cannot accept. That is your handkerchief. You carried it in
Othello
, when you were Desdemona.”
“And so did you, Mrs. Archer,” Celia said, pressing the silken square into the other actress's hands, “when
you
were Desdemona. It's really
your
handkerchief; I've just been looking after it. And how is Belinda?” she went on, peeking toward the back of the room. The curtains of the little daybed had been drawn, but she assumed that Belinda was inside, as she was not in sight.
“Oh, Miss St. Lys,” cried Belinda, starting up out of the bed. “Have you heard the terrible news? The Prince of Wales is coming—to the play—tonight! Can nothing be done to prevent him?”
“Why should we want to do that?” cried Celia. “It is an honor! It will guarantee that the play is a success. You want the play to succeed, don't you, Belinda?”
“Yes, of course she does,” said her mother, shepherding Celia from the room. “It's just nerves, Miss St. Lys. You'd know that if you were an actress. Thank you for returning my handkerchief to me. I
did
wonder who had stolen it.”
Pushing Celia out into the corridor, she closed the door firmly.
 
 
At half-past six, half an hour before the curtain was slated to rise, disaster struck. The Prince of Wales was not late, as everyone expected—as everyone had the right to expect. No, His Royal Highness arrived early. The theatre was embarrassingly empty. Nothing had been prepared for his entertainment before the play. Little could be offered in the way of refreshments. Left to his own devices, the regent expressed a desire to meet the cast.
“Of course!” cried Celia when she heard. She knew who was to blame: Lord Simon. He had done it on purpose, too, she was sure, to catch them all off guard, and make her look ridiculous. Fortunately, she was mostly dressed.
Hardly anyone else was ready, but it would have been unthinkable to delay the prince. They all hurried into their clothes and rushed to the stage just as the prince arrived, flanked on one side by Captain Fitzclarence and on the other by Lord Simon.
Simon's eyes widened in surprise as he saw what St. Lys was wearing. The dark blue habit, richly laced in gold, was the feminine version of his own uniform.
He probably thinks I wore it for him
, Celia thought sourly, stiffening as he gave her a smile.
What nonsense! It just so happens I look better in blue than scarlet
.
Miss Vane, now a brunette, stood beside her in the Life Guards habit. Her figure was not as tall and athletic as Celia's, and it fit her perhaps a little tight across the bust, but that is no great defect in a man's eyes. His Royal Highness clearly liked what he saw, and though he politely went down the line, greeting each member of the cast, his glance strayed more than once toward the two lovely girls in the middle.
Rourke was quite right; His Royal Highness was inordinately fond of the military style. He had indeed chosen to wear his field marshal's uniform, the splendor of which hid somewhat the increasing corpulence of his figure. He was wearing his best brown wig, too, and his blue eyes looked especially sharp. Celia somehow resisted the strong urge to make certain that her own wig was perfectly in place, and as the sovereign stopped before her, she sank into a graceful curtsy.
“Your Royal Highness.”
“Miss St. Lys,” he said. Taking her hand, he raised her up, and kept her hand. “Are you thinking of joining my Royal Horse Guard?”
“Have you a commission for me, sir?” she answered.
He laughed pleasantly. “Oh, now that
would
be a scandal, would it not? Beautiful workmanship,” he went on, running his hand down the length of her sleeve from shoulder to wrist. “Weston made it for you, I suppose.”
“No, sir. Mr. Schweitzer.”
“Oh yes,” he said, fondling her other sleeve. “I see it now. The lace is extraordinarily fine—really quite beautifully done.”
“Thank you, sir. Monsieur Nugee was responsible for the lace.”
His Royal Highness expressed surprise. “Monsieur Nugee? But surely he has gone back to France.”
“Yes, sir. I had the habit made three years ago, but I never had the occasion to wear it—until tonight.”
“Oh?” he said. “And what is so special about tonight?”
“Why, Your Royal Highness is with us tonight,” she replied.
“And I suppose three years ago you had fallen in love with a handsome young officer of the Royal Horse Guard,” the prince went on, giving her a wink, “and you had it made to please him? And where is he now?”
“Sir! It was all so long ago,” Celia murmured, blushing.
Simon leaned forward and murmured in the prince's ear.
“I see,” His Royal Highness said gravely. “Forgive me, my dear. I did not know.”
“Didn't know what, Your Royal Highness?” Celia asked, very much alarmed.
“I was just telling His Royal Highness that the young man fell at Waterloo.”
“What a terrible pity,” said the prince, pressing Celia's hand.
“I happen to know,” Simon said, surprising both Celia and the prince, “that as he fell, he thought of no one but you, Miss St. Lys. And later, when he was lying in his bed, feverish from his wounds, it was your name he called out. At least,” he added, “that is what his valet told me.”
Celia stared at him in disbelief. “Now?” she breathed. “You tell me this now?”
“You've overset her,” the prince complained. “There, there, my dear. Time heals all wounds. And the lace really is quite splendid!”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, recovering her composure. “May I present my dear friend Miss Julia Vane? Miss Vane comes to us from Bath and we were very lucky to get her. Tonight marks her official London debut . . .”
The prince and his entourage passed on.
 
 
Promptly at seven o'clock, Dorian stepped out of his carriage and walked up to the doors of the Theatre Royal. “Please, sir!” cried a young woman, catching hold of his sleeve. “Won't you 'elp me? They won't let me in!”
“I am not a bit surprised,” Dorian said coldly, but as he was removing her hand from his sleeve, he recognized Celia's friend. “Oh, it's you, Miss Eliza.”
“Begging Your Hexcellency's pardon, sir! Miss St. Lys left a ticket for me at the door, but the soldiers say they won't honor it—not tonight, because the prince is coming, you see.”
“Never mind,” he said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. “I'll look after you.”
“Oh!” she said. “Thank you ever so!” and stuck out her tongue at the guards as she sailed past them on the Duke of Berkshire's arm.
 
 
Finally, after what seemed like two eternities of torment, the actors took their places, the curtain rose, and the play began. Celia waited in the wings, listening for her cue, then ran lightly up the steps to the stage. Right before she went on, the stage boy flung a bucket of ice-cold water over her, drenching her from head to toe. Instantly, her gown of white muslin was rendered almost completely transparent, and she had just a few seconds to artfully arrange some blue tatters over her breasts before going out.
There was an audible gasp from the audience, as good as a standing ovation to Celia. All at once her nervousness left her, and she was supremely confident. She was Viola, an innocent, noble maiden, washed onto the shores of Illyria after a cruel shipwreck. She was frightened and alone; her dear brother presumably was dead, lost at sea, as she herself might have been. Glancing up, she saw Eliza London and the Duke of Berkshire in the latter's stage box. How had that come about? she wondered, but there was no time for conjecture. Her teeth chattered as she spoke her lines, but that was not acting; the water in that bucket had been bloody ice-cold.
Fortunately, the scene was a short one.
When next she appeared, she was better dressed, in male attire. In her scarlet coat and scandalously tight white breeches, she looked a very pretty toy soldier. But it was her cropped head, when she removed her shako, that made the audience gasp.
BOOK: When You're Desired
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