Chapter 6
“You have a very pretty room here, Miss St. Lys,” Dorian complimented his hostess as she was pouring out the tea sometime later.
“Do you like it, Your Grace?” she said, with a proud glance around the room. “It suits me, I think.”
The room was sparsely furnished, its walls lined in pink silk, but everything in it had been chosen with exquisite taste. A suite of French furniture consisting of a sofa and two deep armchairs formed an attractive cluster around the fireplace. There was no rug upon the parquet floor. The only pictures in the room were of the actress herself, prints of St. Lys in her various roles: Desdemona looking back on Venice, Juliet on her balcony, Ophelia drowned. Over the fireplace was a large oil painting depicting Celia as Peggy, the heroine of
The Country Girl
. She sat at her desk, a letter in her hand, looking back over her shoulder. Judging by the expression on her lovely face, the letter could only have been from her lover.
“I should not tell you this, perhaps,” he said presently. “You may laugh.”
She was already smiling. “I may; for I dearly love to laugh.”
He smiled back at her. “I shall risk your derision, and tell you that I did a little amateur acting when I was at Eton.”
She did laugh, but kindly. “Let's have it, then,” she invited him.
“âA mote it is to trouble the mind's eye,'” he declaimed, rising from the sofa. “âIn the most high and palmy state of Rome, a little ere the mightiest Julius fell, the graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.'”
Celia frowned, puzzled. “
Julius Caesar
?” she guessed.
“You have been led astray by false clues, Miss St. Lys,” Dorian told her, clearly delighted that she had gotten it wrong. “Those lines are not from
Julius Caesar
. They are from
Hamlet
.”
Celia groaned. “Yes, of course. Polonius, is it not? I should have known; I've played Ophelia often enough.”
“Ophelia? I wish I had seen you.”
“Oh, I
love
going mad!” Celia said eagerly. “I just wish they'd let me drown myself onstage. It's absolutely no fun to die in the wings, I can tell you. I much prefer to die onstageâand so I shall tonight,” she added, “when I play Juliet.”
Dorian was taken aback. “You play tonight?”
She nodded. “In Mr. Palmer's benefit. Mrs. Copeland was to have the part, but she has been taken ill. In truth, she has fallen pregnant and his lordship has taken her off the stage. I could not say no to Mr. Palmer. He has five children, and they must have something to live on in the summer months when the theatre is closed.”
“It is most unfortunate,” he murmured. “I was going to ask you to dine with me tonight.”
“I should love to!” she said quickly. “I can never eat a bite
before
I playâbutterflies in my stomachâso I'm always starving afterward. I should be delighted to dine with you after the play. You need not attend the performance, of courseâyou might just send your carriage for me.”
“Not attend?” he exclaimed. “And miss the chance to see your Juliet?”
“It may be your last chance,” she said. “I am getting a bit long in the tooth to play Juliet. Why, I've not played as Juliet these four years at least! I was up all night looking over my lines. âGive me my Romeo, and when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun.' Why, I do believe I got it right that time!” she added, pleased with herself. “Though I daresay I shall make a perfect mangle of it onstage tonight! I shall have to fudge and slur my way through it somehow.”
“You will be too tired, perhaps, after the play,” he said anxiously.
“Too tired for what, Your Grace?” she asked, smiling innocently.
“To dine with me, of course.”
She laughed. “Too tired to lift a fork? Too tired to raise a glass? Never!”
“Then I shall not fail to collect you,” he said warmly. “And the night after?”
“Back to Mr. Goldsmith, I'm afraid,” she said. “But next week, on Thursday nightâtouch woodâwe begin
Twelfth Night
. Oh, I do hope we run more than twelve nights!”
He wrinkled his forehead in concentration. “
Twelfth Night
. Is that the one about the two gentlemen from Verona?”
“No, Your Grace,” Celia answered, laughing. “That's
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
, oddly enough.
Twelfth Night
begins with a shipwreck. Viola's twin brother is lost at sea. She washes up on the shores of Illyria. Disguising herself as a boy, she goes into service to Duke Orsino. Viola falls in love with the duke; he is in love already with Countess Olivia. Olivia falls in love with Viola in disguiseâ” She broke off, laughing. “It's . . . complicated.”
“And you are to play in this costume?” he asked. “In breeches?”
“Oh yes,” she assured him. “My public love me in breeches. I have been practicing the art of manly behavior. I must bow instead of curtsy. I must walk with my chest puffed out. I must stroke my chin manfully when deep in thought. I must curse, and smoke, and drink, and stomp. And break women's hearts. You men really are quite awful, you know!”
“My dear Miss St. Lys,” he murmured, blushing.
The clock on the mantel began striking ten o'clock, and at once Celia set down her cup and rose from the sofa. As if connected to her by a string, Dorian jumped up, too. “Oh dear! Here I am, going on and on with my nonsense, and you have been longing to get away!” she said merrily. “You must have so many things to do. I shan't keep you an instant longer.”
“I have nothing to do,” Dorian assured her. “I can stay all day if you like.”
“Nonsense,” she said quickly. “I know how busy you are, even if
you
do not. An important man like you? Really, I could not in good conscience detain you another moment.”
“No, really,” he insisted. “I've absolutely nothing to do. I'm free as the air.”
“But I am not, Your Grace,” she confessed. “Monsieur Alexandre will be here at any moment to do something with my hair, and then I must dash to rehearsal.”
Dorian was mortified that he had not gotten the hint before. “Of course
you
are busy, Miss St. Lys. How very stupid of me.”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
Dorian bent over her hand, but before he could go, the doors of the drawing room were thrown open, and Lord Simon, one hand upon the hilt of his sword, strode into the room. His eyes burned holes into Celia, who had jumped behind a chair for protection.
“I hope you are satisfied, madam!”
With these words, he flung a folded newspaper at her. It landed on the tea table, knocking over one of her delicate pink cups.
“Simon!” cried Dorian, more astonished than angry. “What do you mean bursting in here shouting at Miss St. Lys? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Simon, brought up short at the sight of his brother, was for a moment robbed of speech.
“Dorian,” he said stupidly.
Celia had composed herself. “How nice to see you again, Lord Simon,” she murmured coolly. “I believe you know your elder brother already, but if you don't, I should be very glad to present you.”
Simon ignored her. “What are you doing here, Dorian?” “I might ask you the same question, sir!” Dorian said indignantly.
“I have some business to discuss with Miss St. Lys,” Simon said at the same time.
Dorian retrieved the newspaper from the table. “Something to do with this?” he asked, scanning the columns until something caught his eye. “Venus defies Mars,” he read. “Why, this is about you, Simon,” he exclaimed, glancing up in surprise. “No names are given, of course, but it
is
you, is it not? You are âMars' andâand Miss St. Lys, you are âVenus.'”
“Oh, thank you, Your Grace,” Celia said, resuming her seat. “May I see that, please?”
“Of course,” Dorian said courteously, handing it across to her while he remained standing. “Really, Simon, you cannot hold Miss St. Lys responsible for the latest
on dit
.”
“âVenus defies Mars!'” Celia exclaimed softly as she read. “âVenus
defeats
Mars' would have been better, but at least they give me top billing. That's something, anyway.”
With a light laugh, she tossed the newspaper back onto the table.
“Oh, you
are
enjoying yourself,” Simon said, eyeing her with cold contempt. “St. Lys is a heroine!” Simon said scathingly. “And where's the girl now, may one ask? I daresay you left her to die with her fleas on the nearest street corner.”
She frowned. “You've come for the girl?”
“That guttersnipe? Certainly not. I don't care three straws about her!”
“Then why are you so angry?” she asked reasonably. Smiling when he made no answer, she climbed to her feet. “I am sorry I don't have more time for you today, my lord . . . Your Grace. I wish I did. It has been fascinating. But I'm afraid I'm frightfully busy today. I hope you will come again very soonâwhen I have more time,” she added firmly as neither man showed any sign of moving.
“Come, Simon,” Dorian said at once. “Miss St. Lys has much to do before she plays tonight. You can't blame her for the newspapers. She can have no control over the press. Nobody reads that stuff, anyway.”
Simon frowned at Celia. “I didn't know you were playing tonight, madam.”
“I didn't know I needed your permission, my lord,” she returned, still smiling.
“I must speak to you. I shan't require more than five minutes of your time.”
“So sorry. Really, I've no time to spare!”
Without another word, Simon bowed curtly, turned on his heel, and left the room. A moment later, they heard the front door open, then close very firmly.
“You must forgive my brother,” Dorian said. “He was packed off to the army when he was but fifteen, and he has been fighting the whole world ever since. I fear he is ill-qualified for the demands of a polite society. Peace is not his metier.”
“Clearly,” she agreed. “Until tonight, Your Grace,” she said, holding out her hand.
He kissed her hand and left.
Celia stood at the window to watch the duke leave the house. When he looked up, as she knew he would, she kissed her fingertips to him. He got on his horse and, accompanied by his groom, rode off in the direction of Hyde Park. No sooner had the duke disappeared from her sight than the drawing room door opened and Simon was upon her again.
Celia stared at him in astonishment as he closed the door behind him. “How did you get in?” she demanded.
“I never left,” he explained.
“But we heard the doorâ”
“Yes. I pretended to go out.”
“I see. Did you hide in the linen closet?” she asked politely.
“Book room,” he replied, naming his hiding place.
“I have a book room?” she exclaimed in surprise.
“You have a room with book
shelves
,” he replied dryly. “It is located behind the servants' staircase on the ground floor.”
“Ah! The shelf room. It's where I keep all my shelves. It's quite handy having them all in one place.”
He strode toward her, his left hand, as always, on the pommel of his sword.
“If you've come back to murder me,” she said, remaining at the window, in full view of the street, “let me just warn you that I have some very inquisitive neighbors. Mr. Dickson, in the house opposite, is particularly attentive. If he were to look out of his window and see you slicing off my head with your saber, he might be tempted toâ”
“Applaud?” Simon suggested, moving past her to the mantelpiece. He coldly glanced up at the painting of Celia. Not for the first time, he wished she was not so bloody beautiful.
Celia gave a silvery laugh. “
Raise the alarm
, I was going to say. Applaud! I'd forgotten how amusing you can be when you try, young man.
Quite
the rattle!”
Simon bit back an angry retort. “I have not come to murder you,” he said. “Not today.” Withdrawing his eyes from her image, he forced them to look upon the original. He glanced over her regimentals with disdain; though, as a man, he could not help but notice and appreciate the firm yet feminine contours of her legs and haunches. “I see you've joined the regiment at last. Did Meyer make those breeches for you?”