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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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“Of course not, Celia darling,” cried Rourke. “Belinda was just getting in a little practice while we were waiting for you.”
“Oh, I do humbly beg your pardon, Miss St. Lys,” Miss Vane cried. “I was just going over some lines with Miss Archer. I didn't mean to step on your toes. You don't mind, do you?”
“No indeed,” Celia said, smiling magnanimously. “I am obliged to you, I'm sure. There is nothing so tedious as going over lines with Miss Archer, as I'm sure you have discovered.”
Belinda, dressed in mourning, started up from her chair, a black veil flung back from her face. Celia had not noticed it before, but her left arm was in a sling. “I am trying my best, Miss St. Lys!” she quavered, almost in tears. “Really I am.”
“What happened to your arm?” Celia asked, feeling slightly ashamed of her impatience with the girl—but only slightly.
“I fell, if you must know,” said Belinda. “Lord Simon took me riding in the park, and I—I fell. It was not my fault,” she added. “It was the horse's.
I
wanted it to be still, but it
would
keep moving, no matter what.”
“
That
is Lord Simon's fault,” said Celia. “If he had looked after you properly, you would never have taken a fall from your horse.”
“Oh, but I didn't fall off the horse, Miss St. Lys,” said Belinda. “I never actually got
on
the horse, you see. I fell off the mounting block.”
“I see,” said Celia, fighting the urge to laugh. “I wish I had been there to see it. I mean, I would have given Lord Simon a proper scolding!”
“I wish you
had
been there,” said Belinda. “He wasn't very nice to me at all. And he used the most shocking language I have ever heard.”
“Really? What did he say?”
Belinda's eyes widened. “I could never repeat what he said, Miss St. Lys! I told you it was shocking.”
“Well, my dear,” said Celia, “he
is
a soldier.”
“Mr. West is a soldier, and
he
never uses rough language like that! He is a gentleman.”
“I'm sure you're right,” said Celia. “I'm sorry you had such an unpleasant time yesterday. Are you quite sure you are well enough to go on with rehearsal? You do seem to be a little hoarse. Are you coming down with a cold?”
“I don't think so,” said Belinda, her hand at her throat.
“Are you sure, my dear?” Celia said solicitously. “You do sound
very
hoarse.”
“It was rather cold in the park yesterday,” said Belinda, now with both hands at her throat. “Now you mention it, I do feel a little . . . a little . . . congestion.” She coughed.
“There! I knew it. You must take the rest of the day, and rest your voice, or you will have laryngitis by tonight. Go on, child. Do as I say.”
“Might I really be excused, Mr. Rourke?” Belinda asked weakly, coughing.
“I really do think we need her to rest her voice,” Celia said firmly. “Don't you, Mr. Rourke? I can stand in for Miss Archer, and Miss Vane can rehearse with me.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss St. Lys!”
“No talking, dear,” Celia commanded. “Run along. Have a nice, long rest.”
Belinda scampered off, leaving Celia alone on the stage with Miss Vane. “You come to us from Bath, I believe, Miss Vane?” Celia began politely, moving in a slow circle around the other actress. “What did you do there?”
“I was Lydia Languish in
The Rivals
,” said Miss Vane, turning to face her inquisitor. “I was Dorinda in
The Beaux Stratagem
. Lady Townley in
The Provoked Husband
. Donna Olivia in
A Bold Stroke for a Husband
. Marianne in
The Mysterious Husband
. Lady Teazle in
The School for Scandal
. Angelina in
Love Makes a Man
. Harriet in
The Jealous Wife
. Rosaria in
She Would and She Would Not
. Julia in
The School of Reform
.”
Miss Vane ticked them off on her fingers until she ran out of fingers. Celia stopped in front of her, and they stood face-to-face.
“Is that all?” Celia asked, unimpressed.
Miss Vane was not as tall as Miss St. Lys. She lifted her chin defiantly. “No, Miss St. Lys. I was Marian in
The School for Prejudice
. I was Volante in
The Honeymoon
. And I was Leonora in
The Revenge
. I'm only seventeen!” she added.
Celia shrugged. “I
was
hoping you might have done a
little
Shakespeare.”
“I was Beatrice in
Much Ado About Nothing
. Miranda in
The Tempest.
And . . . I was Juliet in
Romeo and Juliet
.”
“Oh?” said Celia. “That's something, anyway. Shall we just take up where you left off with Miss Archer?”
Miss Vane looked around, confusion in her large, expressive eyes, which were neither blue nor green nor gray, but all three at once. “But, Miss St. Lys, Miss Archer and I were practicing one of the scenes she has with
you
, not with me.”
“Yes, I know,” said Celia. “Shall we begin with—what is it? ‘Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face.' Somebody get a veil.”
“Really, Miss St. Lys,” Miss Vane protested. “I wasn't trying to take your part! I don't want to be Viola. I'm perfectly happy in the role of Sebastian.”
“Really?” said Celia. “You wouldn't want to be Olivia?”
“I—I don't know what you mean, Miss St. Lys,” said Miss Vane. “I was hired to play Sebastian.”
“Not in
those
breeches, my dear,” said Celia dryly. “I don't know how things are done in Bath, but here in London, we're rather particular about our breeches, I'm afraid.”
“I beg your pardon!” said Miss Vane. “Mr. Rourke! Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”
“Now just a moment, Celia darling,” Rourke protested, though rather weakly.
“Go on!” Celia invited him. “Defend these breeches, if you can.”
Miss Vane stamped her foot. “Nobody talks to me like that! I don't care if you
are
Celia St. Lys!”
Celia yawned. “Look here, child! Can you play Olivia, or not? Because it is obvious to me that Miss Archer
cannot
. Unless, of course, by some miracle she has suddenly become an actress? No? I didn't think so!”
The stagehand brought Celia the veil she had called for, but Miss Vane would have none of it. She tossed her blond curls. “If you think that
I
am the sort of person who would stoop so low as to steal a role from another actress—”
“Save it for
The Inquisitor
,” Celia said impatiently. “You won't have to steal anything. It's being offered to you on a silver platter. Now, can you do it or not?”
“Of course I can do it,” said Miss Vane.
“We'll see,” said Celia. “Your hair will have to go back to being brown or whatever it was before you went blond, of course. Olivia and Viola can't both be blond.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“You keep saying that,” Celia observed. “I can't imagine why.”
“What about Sebastian?” asked Rourke.
“I shall play both parts,” Celia announced. “Sebastian
and
Viola. They
are
meant to be twins, after all. They are never onstage together, except the last scene. Belinda will have to do that. It's only a few lines. Surely she can manage it.”
“I should think so,” Rourke agreed. “Yes! It could work.”
“I shall have to study the part,” said Miss Vane, who had, by this time, taken the veil.
“I'd rather you
learned
it, dear, if you don't mind,” Celia said sweetly. “You have three days—plenty of time. Shall we just run through it now? Someone fetch Miss Vane a script.”
“May I have ten minutes?” cried Miss Vane.
“This is
London
, my darling,” Celia told her. “You may take five.”
 
 
Six hours later, Celia took the stage as Kate Hardcastle. After the play, Rourke knocked on her dressing room door. “Celia darling! Are you decent?” he called.
“Come in,” Celia called, so pleasantly that it almost frightened him out of his wits.
“Are you all right?” he asked nervously, remaining in the doorway.
“Of course, Davey! What can I do for you?”
Rourke decided to risk it. “The thing is, Celia my love, Miss Vane's asking for more money, now that she is to play Olivia, and so I was wondering . . .”
“You were wondering if you might take a little from my share to pay her?”
“Well, it
was
your idea, Celia darling, to give her the part of Olivia.”
Celia emerged, smiling, from the alcove, in a pink and white ensemble. “It's perfectly all right, Davey,” she said. “She's good. She's worth it. You should pay her whatever she wants.”
He stared at her in amazement.
“I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders,” Celia went on. “Have you told Miss Archer yet that she's been replaced?”
“It's her mother I'm worried about.”
“Well, I can't help you there, old friend,” she said, looking at him almost tenderly. “We've been together a long, long time, haven't we, Davey? You've always been good to me.”
To his horror, tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Not once in four years had he ever seen her cry, except onstage. “Good God, what is the matter?” he asked, deeply shaken.
“Oh, Davey! Something's happened. I've come into some money. Rather a lot, I'm very sorry to say.”
“Well, that would make anybody sad, wouldn't it?”
“I am leaving you at the end of the season. I haven't told anyone else yet. I shall finish out
Twelfth Night
, of course,” she assured him. “I wouldn't leave you in the lurch. But then I must go.”
“You will be missed,” he said simply.
Celia frowned. “No,” she said. “This is the part where you beg me to stay. There will be blood in the streets if I go. The theatre will go dark, and nothing will ever be the same. For about five minutes,” she added bitterly. “Then I shall be quite forgotten—like Mrs. Siddons and Mrs. Jordan.”
“You will never be forgotten, Celia darling,” he told her. “You'll live forever, just as they do, in our hearts. Don't forget us.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “I shall always be with you in spirit.”
“Please, God, no!” he said, making a face. “Drury Lane has ghosts enough without you haunting the place.”
A little later, Dorian came to collect her. His carriage was waiting at the stage door. “Shall we go to supper?” he asked.
Celia felt strangely energized, as she always did after a performance, but she could see that he was tired. “Not tonight, I beg of you,” she said, using a thin voice. “I don't know why, but I'm simply exhausted. Would you mind terribly just taking me home?”
He smiled. “Of course. I'm rather tired myself, and I still have much to do.”
“What can you have to do at this hour that cannot wait until tomorrow?” she protested.
“I have been with my attorneys all day. They have the papers ready for my mother to sign. I see no reason to put it off.”
“Do it tomorrow,” she advised. “You're tired.”
“I shall sleep better knowing the thing is done,” he said. “I've asked Simon to come to Berkshire House in the morning. I want to present him with his inheritance, not an argument with his mother. The thing will be done tonight.”
Celia shivered. “I am glad it falls to you and not to me.”
Chapter 18
Her manservant opened the door to her, a branch of candles in his massive fist. “
Buenas noches
, Doña Celia,” he said, as she stood waving good-bye to the duke's carriage.
“
Buenas noches
,” she replied, throwing off her cloak and jerking off her gloves. “I don't suppose you could find me something to eat?” she asked him prettily, clasping her hands together, behaving rather more like a damsel in distress than the mistress of the house.
“
Claro que sí
, Doña Celia,” he replied. “
Enseguida
. And this letter, she came for you yesterday,” he added, indicating the pearl-gray envelope on the tray on the hall table. “Did you not see it?”
“By hand or by post?” Celia asked, with a terrible sinking feeling.
His eyes widened in surprise. “
Por cierto, a mano
, Doña Celia,” he said, and Celia was happy again. Of course the letter had been hand delivered; if it had come in the post, it would have been in a bag with dozens of others.
She picked it up, broke the seal, and read it, recognizing Simon's scrawl immediately. “I am at my club. Send word to me when you get this, and I will come to you.”
He hadn't even signed it! “Of all the arrogant,
insufferable
, crass—”
“Doña Celia?” Tonecho was locking the door. He turned to her with a look of concern. “
Es una mala noticia?
”
“No, it's not bad news,” she quickly assured him, tossing the note back onto the tray. “It's . . . it's nothing of importance. You may go to bed, Tonecho. I'll find something to eat in the kitchen. No, really, I'll manage,” she insisted, overriding his protests. “I'm not completely helpless, you know. Good night!
Buenas noches! Adelante!
” She herded him down the hall to the servants' staircase.
In the kitchen, she found bread and cheese and beer—and Captain Fitzclarence. Startled, Celia almost dropped the beer jug as the latter emerged from the scullery. She scarcely recognized him, for he was out of uniform. Rather, he was attired in a black evening coat with a snow-white waistcoat, black jersey breeches, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. His cravat was a work of art. “Clare!” she said angrily. “You frightened me out of my wits!”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, taking the beer from her and setting it on the table. “I don't know why you're surprised. Didn't you get my note?”
“
Your
note?” she cried, staring at him. “
That
was from you? But I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought,” he said impatiently. “I am in a hurry, in case you hadn't noticed.”
“On your way to St. James's Palace, by the look of you,” she said, laughing.
“Look here!” he said plaintively. “Don't you know a desperate man when you see one? Can you lend me the money or not?”
“What money?” she asked, frowning. For a moment, she forgot she was an heiress, and felt very protective of her little savings.
“You told me if I married Miss Tinsley you'd give me a thousand pounds.”
Celia gasped. “Clare!” she breathed, sitting down at the table. “You haven't done it!”
“Well, not yet,” he admitted. “But she has agreed to marry me. I'm just going to fetch her now. I need that money, Celia!” he added rather violently.
“Well, I don't have it, young man,” Celia said tartly. “I know it's remiss of me, but I don't happen to
keep
thousands of pounds lying about the house just in case you should show up in the middle of the night asking for it!”
“I don't need all of it,” he said crossly. “Just fifty pounds or so, for the post chaise?”
“Fifty pounds,” she repeated, laughing. “It will take a good deal more than that to get to Scotland. It's quite three hundred miles. Even if I had enough money, you'd never make it. Her father
will
send the Bow Street runners after you, you know. If that matters!”
“For your information,” he said coldly, “I am not taking her to Gretna Green. I'm to be married from Bushy House this morning.”
Bushy House, as Celia knew, was the residence of His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence. It stood some thirteen miles from London.
“Oh,” she said, considerably relieved. “Then you are not
eloping
with Miss Tinsley, per se? You have your father's consent. She has her father's consent, I suppose?”
“Of course. Do you take me for a fool?” he snapped. “Look here, Celia! I need money for the post chaise, and money to pay the parson. She may be an heiress with a dowry of three hundred thousand pounds, but she ain't
made
of money. Will you help me?”
Celia rose immediately from the table. “Of course I'll help you, you silly boy,” she said. “Wait here.”
Taking up the candle, she went upstairs. When she returned a few minutes later with the money, Fitzclarence was no longer alone. He was seated at the table with a huge figure standing over him.
Celia stared in dismay. “What are
you
doing here?” she demanded angrily.
“Busy night?” Simon coldly inquired. He looked like a giant in his uniform. She could almost swear the top of his head touched the ceiling.
“No more than usual, my lord,” she answered, recovering some of her poise, if not all of her composure. “May I offer you some bread and cheese?”
“Do I look like a mouse to you?”
Fitzclarence got up from the table. “Is that for me?” he asked quickly, reaching for the banknotes in Celia's hand.
“Why is she paying
you
?” Simon wanted to know. “Shouldn't it be the other way around?”
“How dare you,” Celia gasped, glaring at him. “Clare!”
“Hmm?” Fitzclarence had counted the money and was tucking it away.
“Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
“Like what?”
“But I wasn't talking to you, Celia,” said Simon. “I was talking to your pretty boy. I asked you a question, Captain Fitzclarence. Why is she paying you? Are you her kept boy?”
“No, my lord,” Fitzclarence replied, frowning. He wanted to be going; he wanted no altercation with the big dragoon, but Lord Simon stood between him and the door. “It's a wedding present, that's all,” he answered civilly.
Simon's eyes widened. “You're
married
?” he said, with a catch in his voice.
“Not yet,” said Fitzclarence. “But it
is
my wedding day. I'd like to collect my bride now, if you don't mind.”
Simon did not move. “I don't believe it,” he said, looking from one face to the other.
“I can scarcely believe it myself,” said Fitzclarence nervously. “Well, aren't you going to congratulate me, Lord Simon? It is customary.”
“No,” said Simon, looking hard at Celia. “I do
not
congratulate you. I do not wish you joy. I wish you hanged. I wish you at the devil. I wish you a lifetime of pain and misery beyond all human imagining. I hope you and your
wife
know nothing but darkness all the days of your lives. All the joy shall be mine as I watch you suffer.”
Fitzclarence giggled nervously. “That's . . . not very nice,” he observed.
“I'm not a very nice man,” Simon told him.
“I couldn't agree more,” Fitzclarence murmured under his breath.
“What is the matter with you?” Celia's eyes flashed angrily at Simon. “Why can't you just offer him your best wishes like a normal person?”
“Those
were
my best wishes.”
“Oh, you are impossible,” she said bitterly. “I suppose you have come here to put a stop to it! Why? What business is it of yours? Why can't you just let the boy be happy? What gives you the right to interfere in his life?”
His eyes blazed with terrible fury. “
You
ask me that?” he roared. “You
dare
ask me that, madam? My God, I could throttle you! Do you expect me to be glad for you? Do you expect me to stand aside while you make the worst mistake of your life? Does he know I was in your bed only three nights ago?”
“I rather think he knows it now!” Celia said furiously, her face turning pink.
“You gave yourself to me so sweetly, so wildly,” he went on, much to Celia's dismay. “You were a tigress in my arms, but I tamed you. You cried out for mercy when the pleasure would have torn you in two. You wept like a child at the beauty of it.”
“Oh, hush!” she pleaded, covering her eyes with both hands.
Fitzclarence, too, seemed more embarrassed than interested—but Simon was still between him and the door.
“You are mine, Celia,” Simon went on inexorably. “The moment I first saw you, I knew you were for me, whatever you may think. I'll never let you go. I'll never give you up.”
She looked at him, her eyes enormous. “Simon, what are you saying?”
“I won't let you do this to me, Celia. I won't let you do this to us. Not again. You shall
not
marry him. I'll kill him where he stands before I let him have you.”
“Oh no-no-no-no-no-no!” cried Fitzclarence, waving his hands. “My lord! There's been a mistake! I am not—”
Simon glanced at him, his gaze cool and green and contemptuous. “Oh, I know that, boy,” he said softly.
Fitzclarence swallowed hard. “What I mean is, I am not—I am not going to marry Celia—Miss St. Lys, I mean.”
Simon snorted. “Of course you're not, boy. I just said so, didn't I? See how easily he gives you up?
That
's the paltry, puking excuse for a man you choose for your husband?”
Celia folded her arms and glared at him. “You idiot!”
“Is that where you were on Sunday?” Simon demanded. “I know you were not in London. Where did you go? Were you with
him
, hatching your plans?”
“What business is it of yours where I go or who I am with?” she retorted. “What do you care? You have your virgin to keep you warm. You only show up here when you want a bit of rough. I'm just your rumpy-pumpy girl, that's all I am.”
“Please,” Fitzclarence whispered. “Please, just let me out of here.”
“For God's sake,” Simon said angrily. “You know damn well Belinda means nothing to me! You know damn well it's you I cannot live without.”
“You'll live to get over it,” she snapped. “Just as you got over it three years ago. You sent her
my
wildflowers! You should not have done that.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” he snapped. “I only wanted you to feel jealousy. I see I only injured your pride, however. Still, it is no reason to marry this—this jackanapes.”
“You don't actually think I would, do you?” she said. “Lord, he's only a child. Marry Clare? Do I look like a cradle robber to you?”
“I beg your pardon,” Fitzclarence said indignantly.
Simon caught his breath. Crossing the room, he seized Celia's hands. “You mean . . . you're not going to marry him?”
“Of course not, you ass,” she answered. “It's
his
wedding day, not mine.”
“Yes,” said Fitzclarence, moving to the unblocked door, “and I if I do not leave now, I shall miss it.”
“Wait!” Celia caught the young man at the door and smoothed his lapels. “There!” she said, satisfied. “I wish you joy, Clare.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, watching Simon warily out of the corner of his eye as she fussed over him.
“Oh yes! You look gorgeous, Clare,” she said, her eyes suddenly full of tears. “Your mother would be so proud, if she were here. Are you quite sure this is what you want? You can still change your mind, you know.”
“Of course it's what I want, you silly girl,” he said, laughing. “Lord! I never knew you were so sentimental! It's my wedding, not my funeral.”
“I know,” she said, trying to smile.
“I'll see you again very soon,” he promised.
He kissed her cheek and was gone.
Celia stood for a moment in the doorway, waving to the young man as he departed. Then she quietly closed the door and locked it. “What am I going to do with you?” she said, walking toward him. “You keep turning up like a bad penny.”
He went to her swiftly, but softly, and taking her face in his hands, took her lips in a long, luxurious kiss. “Where did you go?” he whispered against her forehead. “I wanted you so much. I searched for you everywhere. I waited at my club for hours, but you did not send to me. Why did you not send to me?”

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