When You're Desired (6 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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“Friend of yours?” Simon said coolly.
“I stand friend to any member of my sex who is mistreated by one of yours,” Celia replied. “Come, child. We'll take you home. We'll look after you now, won't we, Clare?”
“We will?” said Fitzclarence, much surprised. “Yes, of course we will,” he added swiftly, as Celia gave him a look. Gallantly, he offered the creature his arm. “Yes, my dear. You are quite safe now. Come.”
The crowd parted to let them through. Simon did not pursue them. The lady had won the first battle, but she would not win the war.
“Wait!” cried Tom West, bumping into him. He had gone to fetch St. Lys's fur-lined cloak; it was draped over his arm. Simon halted him with a hand. Holding the boy at arm's length, he surveyed him dispassionately. He could not have been more than seventeen. Thick golden curls tumbled into his guileless blue eyes. As he looked up at Simon, who was the taller, he tossed his head like a young colt to clear his vision.
“I know you, don't I?” Simon said, frowning. “Your father is Lord Ambersey, is he not?”
“Yes, my lord.” The boy looked past Simon anxiously. “Should I—should I not go after them?” he asked.
“I wouldn't bother,” Simon replied.
“But—won't Miss St. Lys wonder what has become of me?”
Simon laughed shortly. “Trust me, boy. Miss St. Lys has already forgotten that you exist.”
 
 
As the hackney coach rumbled away into the night, Fitzclarence looked doubtfully at the creature in yellow satin, who was seated opposite, petting the cushions. “What on earth are you going to
do
with her?” he whispered to Celia, who was seated beside him.
Celia did not answer because she did not know. “What's your name, child?” she asked the girl very gently.
The girl looked at her, as if surprised by the question. “Who, me? I'm Eliza. Eliza London.”
“How do you do, Miss London? I am Celia St. Lys.”
Eliza giggled. “Oh, I know you are, Miss St. Lys! Everybody knows you. And you, too, Capting Fitzclarence,” she added coyly.
Fitzclarence raised his brows. “You think you know me, child?” he said coolly.
“Oh yes!” she cried. “You're the king's grandson.”
Fitzclarence was pleased. He liked people to know that royal blood flowed in his veins. But he said, modestly, “Unfortunately, I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, so it's of little consequence. I never think of it.”
“Nothing wrong with being a bastard, is there?” Eliza said quickly. “I'm a bastard myself, you know. That's 'ow I got the name o' London. My father could 'ave been any man in London walking about on two legs.”
“Really? Celia's a bastard, too,” Fitzclarence said.
Celia stiffened with indignation. “You have no proof that I'm a bastard,” she said coldly. “The only thing that can be said for certain is that I'm a
foundling
, like Tom Jones.”
Eliza gasped. “I know 'im! Ain't 'e the flashman at the Cocoa Tree?”
“Celia here was left in a church when she was but a few days old,” Fitzclarence told Eliza. “All tucked up in a dirty blanket, she was, and there was nothing with her but a handkerchief and two little locks of hair tied up in a pink ribbon.”
“I
beg
your pardon,” Celia said. “'Twas a clean blanket.”
“How romantic!” cried Eliza. “Oh, it's just like a princess in a story, ain't it? Then what happened?”
“I don't know; I never asked,” Celia answered repressively. “
You
shouldn't ask, either,” she added as Eliza opened her mouth again.
“Sorry, Miss St. Lys.”
Celia shrugged. “Where do you live, Miss Eliza?” she asked. “We'll take you home.”
“Oh, you can just set me down anywhere,” Eliza said cheerfully. “I got plenty of money now.” She jangled her coins in her hands happily.
“It's nearly three in the morning, child,” Celia protested. “Set you down anywhere? I
don't
think so. Why, with all that money, you might end up in the Thames with your throat cut,” she added, only half in jest. “And then your friend would blame
me
for your untimely demise.”
Eliza stared at her. “My what?”
“Your friend Lord Simon,” Celia said. “Tall? Black hair? Green eyes?”
“Oh, was that his name?”
Celia shook her head. “He didn't even tell you his
name
? How rude!”
“I didn't even know 'e was a lord.”
“He's the younger son of a duke.”
Eliza was impressed. “Blimey!”
“How is it you happened to meet him?” asked Celia. “Is it a regular thing, or what?”
“If you don't mind her asking,” Fitzclarence said dryly.
“Forgive me, my dear, but you are not exactly the sort of female I would have thought
he
preferred,” said Celia. “Not that you don't deserve him, of course—I am sure that you do—but Lord Simon is the sort of man who thinks very well of himself. Just to give you an idea, his last mistress was Miss Selina Rogers of Covent Garden. You've heard of her, I suppose? That last play of hers was utter trash, I'm sorry to say, but she made her entrance by hot air balloon, so that's something, I suppose.”
Eliza stared at her wide-eyed. “Mistress!” she said faintly. “Blimey! I ain't 'is mistress.”
“No, I didn't think you were.”
“I only just met 'im tonight—hafter the ply.”
“The ply?” Celia repeated, puzzled. “Oh, the
play
. What play?”
“Your ply, Miss St. Lys.”
“
My
play?” Celia was astonished. “Do you mean to tell me that Lord Simon dragged you all the way from Drury Lane to St. James's Street? Why on earth would he do that?”
“And then he forgot to ‘pie' her,” Fitzclarence put in.
Eliza looked at them in confusion. “Well, 'e was looking for you, wasn't 'e?”
“You mean looking for him?” said Celia, meaning Fitzclarence.
“You mean looking for her?” said Fitzclarence, meaning Celia.
“I mean looking for you, Miss St. Lys.”
“Looking for me?” said Celia, taken aback. “Lord Simon was looking for me? Should I be flattered or terrified?” She forced out a shaky laugh.
“Terrif ied,” Fitzclarence said ominously. “Most definitely. People have been known to disappear when Lord Simon looks for them. A visit from Lord Simon is rather like a visit from the Angel of Death.”
Eliza gasped.
“Oh, he doesn't kill people,” Fitzclarence assured her. “He merely frightens them to death.”
“Don't exaggerate,” Celia said crossly. “Did he say
why
he was looking for me?” she asked Eliza.
“No, Miss St. Lys. You're not angry with me, are you?” Eliza asked anxiously, as Celia sat chewing at her bottom lip. “'E said 'e'd give me 'alf a crown if I told 'im where you'd gone. That's a lot of money.”
Again she shook the coins in her hands. She seemed to like the sound they made.
“Why should I be angry with you, child?” Celia said absently. “I'm sure it's nothing.” Impulsively she opened her reticule and gave the girl her handkerchief. “Here; tie up your money in this, if you like.”
While Eliza was thus engaged, Celia turned to Fitzclarence and whispered, “What do you suppose he wants with me?”
Fitzclarence shrugged. “How should I know?”
Celia shivered. “I didn't realize he was
hunting
me. I know he cannot resist attacking me whenever we happen to meet, but I had no reason to suppose that he was
looking
for me.”
“Have you ruined any of his men lately?”
“Certainly not. His officers have learned not to come near me anymore, and I scrupulously avoid them.”
“Perhaps you should have taken a turn about the room with him when you had the chance,” Fitzclarence drawled. “You could have asked him then.”
“That is hardly helpful, Clare,” she said, frowning at him. “He did not say
anything
to you, Miss Eliza? Nothing at all?”
Eliza shook her head. Her money, now securely tied up, was thrust down the front of her dress, between her small breasts. “I didn't know 'e was the Angel of Death. I thought 'e was a friend of yours.”
“Did he say he was my friend?”
“No, Miss St. Lys.”
“Then why did you think he
was
?” Celia demanded.
“Because 'e was looking for you,” Eliza explained.
“Did he seem friendly?”
“Well, no.”
“The monster has been drawn from his lair. I should like to know why.”
“You
did
meet his brother this evening,” Fitzclarence broke in. “Could that be it?”
Celia thought about it for a moment. “You're right, of course,” she said, beginning to smile. “That
must
be it. He thinks I am a bad woman. He would not want me anywhere
near
his precious brother. He means to frighten me off.”
“Well, in all fairness, you are a bad woman,” said Fitzclarence.
Ignoring him, Celia rested against the seat cushions. “First, he'll try to bully me,” she murmured, smiling to herself. “Then he'll offer me money, some paltry amount. I'd be a fool to let the Duke of Berkshire go for less than . . . say . . . ten thousand pounds.”
Fitzclarence snorted. “Ten thousand pounds? You're dreaming. You only just met the man. Besides, why should Lord Simon care if you become his brother's mistress?”
Celia's face was aglow with greedy excitement. “He wouldn't, of course. But if his brother wanted to marry me—! Well, that would be a very different matter.”
“Marry you! Don't be silly.”
Celia frowned at him. “You said he could not keep his eyes off of me,” she reminded him. “You said I could make him marry me. Lord Simon must think so, too.”
Fitzclarence had the grace to look ashamed. “I was only joking you, I'm afraid. The Duke of Berkshire isn't going to marry you, Celia. Men like that don't marry girls like you.”
“The Duke of Bolton married an actress,” she said stubbornly. “Lord Derby married Miss Farren. Lord Craven married Miss Brunton. For heaven's sake, Lord Berwick married that—that courtesan, Harriette Wilson's own sister. At least I am not a woman of
that
kind.”
Fitzclarence merely shook his head. “Flying mighty high, Lady Icarus.”
“I don't want him to marry me. I just want him to propose. Then his family will have to ‘pie' me,” she added, laughing.
“He may propose to you, my dear, but it won't be an offer of marriage.”
“Well, he must have said
something
to alarm his family,” she insisted. “Why else would Lord Simon want to buy me off?”
“He hasn't actually
offered
to buy you off.”
Her face was glowing with greed and excitement. “Not yet, but he will. If I play my cards right, I might get as much as
twenty
thousand. Oh, Clare!” She caught her breath. “Twenty thousand pounds! I'd never have to work another day in my life. And, best of all, I'd still be
free
. No husband. No lord and master. No horrid old dowager shooting me nasty looks down the length of the breakfast table. Just me, and all that lovely, lovely money.”
“You don't mean to say that if
the Duke of Berkshire
asked you to
marry
him, you'd say no?” cried Fitzclarence.
“Of course not. I'd say yes. Once the engagement is announced formally, I can name my price. His mother will pay anything to be rid of me. Then, when I have got my money, I shall jilt him.”
“That's wicked!” cried Eliza London, staring at her.
“No, it isn't,” said Celia. “It's business. If they want to get rid of me, they'll have to pay. It doesn't do for girls like us, Miss Eliza, to feel sorry for
them.
We live with their boots on our necks every day of our lives. I'm just getting my own back.”
“I don't live with nobody's boot on my neck,” Eliza said indignantly. “Not since I left the Temple of Venus.”
“Were you at the Temple of Venus, Miss Eliza?” Fitzclarence said in astonishment. The Temple of Venus was a brothel that catered to the very rich.

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