“Were you thinking of my brother when you were in my arms?” he asked, his face contorted with pain and rage. “Did you think of
me
when you were in his? I have heard of a woman having two strings to her bowâone for use and one for pleasureâbut you, madam! You are in a class of your own! You must have strings enough for an entire orchestra!”
Celia bowed her head as if she had been beaten by physical blows. “You won't believe me, of course,” she managed to say, “but there is nothing between Dorian and me but the most innocent friendship. He is my friend.”
“You're right,” he said flatly. “I don't believe you.”
“Then there is nothing more to say.”
“I have something more to say. When you left me this morning, I had decided to marry you. Yes!” he went on bitterly, as she lifted amazed eyes. “Yes! I, Lord Simon Ascot, had made up my mind. I would stoop to marry a girl out of the playhouse. I loved you, Celia. Oh God! When I think how I have loved you!” he went on bitterly. “With all my soul I have loved you. Against my will, I have loved you. But it was a dream I loved. I fell in love with the part you played, that is all. Now I see you for what you really are. There is not enough beauty in the world to cover such ugliness.”
“You are wrong about me,” she said.
“I wish to God I was,” he retorted. “You are a coldhearted, merciless mercenary, madam. Your parents knew what they were about when they dropped you in the gutter. Clearly it is where you belong. I could almost pity Sir Lucas!”
Her eyes flashed. “Yes, my lord, I came from the gutter,” she said. “But I won't be going back there, whatever you may have to say about it.”
“Oh, I shan't give you away,” he said. “You can marry Sir Lucas; I shan't interfere. But you will give up your hold on my brother. You will give up this ridiculous scheme of extorting money from him. In exchange, I won't say a word to Sir Lucas about your past, or indeed about your present. He can repent at leisure for having married you, and you can enjoy his money. Do we have an understanding?”
“No, my lord,” she said coldly. “We do not. I shall do exactly as I please. Your threats do not frighten me in the least.”
“Then I shall ruin you!”
“You must do what you think is best,” she said.
“I shall!” he said sharply, and left her.
Flood returned to find her mistress at her dressing table, filing her nails. “What did he want, madam?” she anxiously inquired. “Sure his face was as black as thunder.”
“Was it?” said Celia, with a faint smile. “I can't say I noticed.”
The next person to come to her door was Eliza London. When admitted into the sitting room, she asked timidly if Celia could give her any news of Fitzclarence.
“No,” Celia replied. “Not since he came to my house very early this morning. He must be married by now,” she added carelessly.
To her dismay, Eliza turned the color of ashes and slumped down into a chair. “Married? Wot? My Clare? 'E never said a word to me about it! Not a ruddy word. I've not seen 'im in two days!”
Celia bit her lip. “I'm sorry, my dear,” she murmured. “I thought you knew.”
Eliza shrugged. “I suppose I knew 'ow it would be. 'E could've told me! I 'ad a right to know.”
“Did he leave you with any money?” Celia asked gently.
Eliza shook her head wearily. “No, and the man's locked me out of the room.”
“Never mind,” said Celia quickly. “You can come home with me after the play tonight. We might go to Crockford's first, and have a little supper.”
“Lord love you, Miss St. Lys,” said Eliza, with a faint laugh. “I can't play tonight; I 'ave to work!”
“Playing
is
work,” said Celia firmly.
“I mean, I 'ave to earn a living, don't I? Playing is great fun, and I do love it, but it don't pay, if you see what I meanânot enough to keep body and soul together. There's not even a part for me in the new play.”
“No,” Celia admitted. “But there are other theatres, you know. The Haymarket will be doing
The Beggar's Opera
this summerâthat would be perfect for you. You can't just give up, you know. You're too talented. And I won't let you be swallowed up by the streets again. You can come and stay with me until you get on your feet. I'll look after you better than any man ever could. I'll arrange for you to have lessons.”
“Lessons?” Eliza said, wide-eyed. “Lessons in what?”
“In everything,” said Celia. “Singing, dancing, speaking. You've got that natural spark, you know; you just need a little polish. You're young; you'll pick it up very quickly, I promise. You
do
want to be rich and famous, don't you?”
“Sure,” said Eliza, “butâ”
“But nothing,” Celia said fiercely. “Just because some man has let you down is no reason to give up on life. It's up to you to make the life you want. Believe me, it's better if you earn it. If a man gives it to you, what's to stop him from taking it away again? I am sorry about Clare,” she added. “I do know what it's like to be . . . disappointed. But you can't let a man ruin your life. Don't give him the satisfaction, my dear. A year from now, when Clare is married to that cross-eyed cow, and you are the toast of London, he will weep bitter tears for you.”
“I don't much feel like playing tonight,” said Eliza.
“What does feeling have to do with it? You will go out there. You will make them laugh. I don't care if you're crying on the inside. You're an actress now. That's the job. You don't see me crying, do you?”
“No, Miss St. Lys.”
“No! And you never will.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. “I'm very popular today,” Celia murmured as Eliza opened the door to admit the Duke of Berkshire.
“My dear girl,” he murmured, crossing the room swiftly to take Celia's hands. “Do tell me it isn't true! It can't be!”
She smiled at him. “Well, if it can't be true, then I'm sure it isn't, Your Grace. I believe you have met my friend Miss London?”
“Oh yes, how do you do?” he murmured.
“Your Excellency,” Eliza said, giving him a sort of curtsy before banging the door shut.
Dorian hardly seemed to notice her departure. “This thing in the paper,” he began haltingly. “I don't like to call it an announcement. It can't be true. You are notâTell me at once that you are not engaged to Sir Lucas Tinsley!”
“I am not engaged to Sir Lucas Tinsley,” she said. “I am not engaged to anyone. That beastly joke will be corrected in tomorrow's edition.”
“Joke!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. What else could it be? Sir Lucas hasn't even proposed to me. Indeed, I hardly know him. We met a few times at the studio of Sir Thomas Lawrence. We have spoken perhaps five times, but that is all.”
“I am relieved! When I saw it in the paper, I went to your house, but you were already gone.”
“Yes, I had an early rehearsal.”
“From your house, I went to Sir Lucas's. He was not at home, either. I'm sorry to say, I entertained some very foolish ideas. I allowed myself to become quite frantic.”
“I can tell you exactly where Sir Lucas is,” said Celia. “Today is his daughter's wedding day. She married Captain Fitzclarence at Bushy House this morning. I daresay Sir Lucas has not yet returned to London.”
“So that's it! But . . . who would do such a thing? Who would make such a joke?”
Celia shrugged. “The world is full of jokesters,” she said. “I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't Captain Fitzclarence. Frankly, it's the sort of juvenile prank I might expect from him.”
Dorian shook his head.
“I just hope this doesn't affect attendance tonight,” said Celia. “If London thinks I am engaged to be married, they won't expect me to play. We'll have to put up an enormous sign over the front door: Yes! The Saintly One plays tonight.”
“Soon you will be free of all this,” said Dorian. “You are about to become a very rich young woman. But I never asked you: How would you like the matter to be arranged? Shall you have the money all at once? Or shall I put it in four-percents? Would you like some of it now, and the rest held in trust? However you'd like it, so it shall be arranged.”
Celia moved away from him and sat down on the sofa. “As to that . . .” she said. “Your brother is of the opinion that the will is a forgery.”
Dorian frowned. “What do you mean? Simon hasn't even seen it. By the time I made it to Berkshire House, he had been and gone. How do you know what he thinks?”
She laughed shortly. “He was good enough to tell me what he thinks. I am a coldhearted mercenary, if you please. The will is a forgery. I am a confidence trickster. I should marry Sir Lucas for his money, just as I married Sir Terence”âshe had to force the name outâ“for his. My parents were right to drop me in the gutter. Oh, he had an opinion on everything! He knows that I am Sarah Hartley, and he despises me.”
“But how? I never said a word about it to anyone.”
“Apparently your mother questioned the servants. You brought one of the footmen with you from Ashlands. I was foolish,” she added, “to think it could be kept a secret. My God, Dorian, he practically accused me ofâof seducing your fatherâand you!”
“What!”
“He said I had repaid your mother's kindness to me by stealing her husband's affections. I can hardly deny that I craved his approbation. I wanted everyone to love me.”
“But he has only heard my mother's version. I hope you told him the truth.”
She shook her head. “I could say nothing. I was struck dumb by his accusations. What could I say to him, anyway, that he would believe? He knows I went with you to Ashlands, and heâhe thinks the worst of me now. I shall never change his mind.”
“But why should you care what Simon thinks?” he asked. “I hope you will come to Ashlands with me again very soon, and stay longer. We need not care what Simon thinks about it. His opinion means nothing.”
“Oh, I wish to God that were true,” she said faintly, her eyes fixed and staring. “But it seems his is the opinion that does matter. I do care what he thinks. I care very much. I am sorry, Dorian, but if your brother truly believes that the will is a forgery and that I am a trickster, I cannot confirm that view by accepting any money from you. I cannot.”
“But, my dear, the money won't be coming from Simon; he has no share in my father's estate. You must allow me to do what I know to be right, whatever he may think.”
She shook her head. “He may have no share in your father's estate, but he has an equal share of your father's heart. If he is against it, then I'm afraid I cannot accept the bequest. I shall stay where I am and remain an actress. It's not such a bad life, you know. As a matter of fact, it's rather fabulous being me.”
Â
Â
That night, the theatre was packed to the rafters. Despite reports of St. Lys's engagement, her name was still on the marquee. The crowd was breathless with anticipation as the curtain went up, but when Miss Hardcastle made her entrance, it wasn't St. Lys.
She was a lovely blonde with an excellent figure. Her voice was pure and sweet. She had grace and talent and charm, but she was not St. Lys. The audience, at first puzzled, became unruly. “Who the 'ell are you?” someone shouted from the gallery.
Where was St. Lys? They had been promised St. Lys!
Then out came Miss Neville, a tall, shapely brunette with a saucy walk and a rich, husky voice that filled the theatre. She paused, crossing one ankle over the other and planting the toe of one shoe so that those seated in the pit could clearly see that the sole of her slipper was bright pink. “It's St. Lys!” someone called out in disbelief. And Celia gave that very clever fellow the wink he deserved.
Chapter 20
Morning was a horrible business, as it usually is when one has drunk too much champagne the night before. It is even worse when one has never drunk champagne before, as was the case with Miss Eliza London. Flood grumbled no end at having to do for two such sorry creatures, but she managed to have them both up and dressed by the appointed time. They had even eaten a little. The hackney carriage appeared at the door promptly at eight o'clock, and Flood herded them downstairs. They looked demure and ladylike in their coats and bonnets and gloves.
Tonecho opened the front door for them, and as he did so, a large, angry man was coming toward them. It was Sir Lucas Tinsley, shifting his bulk up the steps. Celia had just entered the hall, with Eliza in tow. He saw her at once and she saw him. His face was red as a cock's crown, and his left eye was dashing back and forth. As there could be no escaping the meeting, Celia fixed a smile on her face and said warmly, “Sir Lucas! How very nice of you to visit me. But, as you can see, I am on my way out.”
He stopped short of the threshold, staring at her in confusion. The warmth of her greeting, her beauty, and the charm of her smile had dampened most of his anger.
“Miss St. Lys! What, pray, is the meaning of
this
?” he implored as he held out the newspaper in his hand.
“I see you have read that silly announcement,” Celia said briskly. “How tiresome! My dear sir, it seems that you and I have been the victims of a practical joke. I know it is hard, but we must bear it as best we can.”
“P-practical joke?” Sir Lucas stammered, after a moment. “Are you sayingâ”
“What else could it be but the work of some prankster?” she said reasonably. “
I
certainly did not do it, if that is what you think. And if
you
did not do it . . .”
“No! Oh no! I hope you do not blame
me
?”
“Not at all,” Celia assured him. “I blame no one. Let us simply agree that it was a harmless prank. One looks so silly getting all lathered up about such foolishness. Don't you agree, Sir Lucas?”
Sir Lucas stood, embarrassed, uncertain how to proceed. “I . . . er . . . yes!”
Celia smiled. “Now you must excuse me, Sir Lucas. I am wanted at the theatre.”
“The theatre!” Sir Lucas exclaimed. “No, my dear! You can never go back there again.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Celia, signaling to her manservant with a glance, a slight widening of the eyes, that her visitor might require pacification.
“That life is all behind you now, my dear,” said Sir Lucas, his thick, fleshy lips curved in a grotesque smile. “I am come to take you home with me to my mansion in South Audley Street.”
“How very kind of you to invite me,” said Celia, “but I'm afraid I really must be getting to the theatre now.”
“But, my dear, if you are to be my wifeâ” cried Sir Lucas.
At that moment, Tonecho sprang, imprisoning Sir Lucas in his strong arms.
Celia held up her hand as a signal to Tonecho. As a result, the manservant did not throw Sir Lucas into the street but merely continued to hold him. “You are confused, Sir Lucas,” she told her visitor. “I am not to be your wife. The announcement of our engagement has been most firmly contradicted in this morning's paper. I'm afraid I won't be going with you to your mansion in South Audley Street or anywhere else. Do you understand?”
Sir Lucas ceased to struggle against his captor and stared at her, astounded. “What? But, my love! You said that was a practical joke!”
“Yes, certainly,” she said, becoming impatient. “The announcement of your engagement to me
must
have been a practical joke. Anything else would be unthinkable!”
“No!” he cried. “It was the announcement this morning that there was no engagementâ
that
was the practical joke.”
“No,” she insisted. “That was all right. I put that in myself. It was the original announcement that was the joke.”
“No,” he said, beginning to frown. “I made the announcement.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Celia, blinking at him. “Why should you do such a thing? Are you mad?”
“Mad?” he cried, becoming red in the face. “Do you deny that you agreed to marry me?”
“What are you talking about?” Celia gasped. “I never agreed to any such thing. As a matter of fact, you never even made me an offer of marriage. Your offer, I seem to recall, was something rather different!”
“That was a mistake,” he said. “Lord Simon is to blame for that. He told meâ”
“Never mind! I can guess what he told you! The fact remains, Sir Lucas, that you thought you could buy me.”
“No,” he protested weakly.
“Yes, you did,” she said. “I liked you so much when we first met.”
“Y-you did?” he said incredulously.
“Yes. I enjoyed our conversations,” she said. “I thought you were different from the others. You really seemed to listen to me when I talked. You made me feel clever. I thought we were friends! Then you sent me that horrid, horrid necklace, and I realized you were just like all the other rich men I have met in my life. You thought you could buy me.”
“No!” he gasped, horrified.
“Yes, you did! You thought you could buy meâwith some tawdry trinket. Well, I am not for sale, Sir Lucas.”
“But I don't want to buy you,” he protested. “I want to marry you! Indeed, I have announced to the world my intention to marry you. You shall be Lady Tinsley.”
“I shall be no such thing!” she said angrily. “You did not have my permission to make any such announcement. It was an insufferable presumption! Did you not think I would contradict you? No, of course not! You thought I would be glad to have you, I suppose.”
“But you wore the necklace,” he protested. “You wore the collar of pink diamonds I gave you.”
Celia frowned. “What does that signify?” she asked impatiently.
“That was our signal,” he told her.
“Signal?”
“I wrote in my letter,” he hurried on rather desperately, “that if you were willing, you were to wear the necklace. And you did. You wore it.”
“You proposed to me in a
letter
?” she said, incredulous. “Of all the nonsensicalâ”
Sir Lucas hung his head. “I was afraid I might lose my nerve if I saw you in person, so I dropped it in the post.”
“You dropped it in the post,” she repeated, fighting the urge to laugh. “Have you any idea, Sir Lucas, how many letters I get in a day? I could not possibly read them all.”
“Then . . . you did not get my letter?”
“I'm sure it's here somewhere,” she said. “But I have not read it, no.”
“I see. Then youâ?”
For a moment, he looked so forlorn that she almost felt sorry for him. “I just happened to wear the necklace that night. That is all. It wasn't a signal. It was very kind of you to want to marry me,” she went on gently. “I'm flattered, of course, that you think me worthy of such an honor, but I cannot possibly accept.”
Sir Lucas suddenly seemed to realize the ridiculousness of his position. His face slowly turned the color of mahogany. “Take your hands off of me, you bloody dago,” he snarled at Tonecho.
“The door, Tonecho,” Celia said quietly. “Sir Lucas is just leaving.”
“Not quite,” said Sir Lucas, thrusting out his jaw. “I am not finished with you, my dear. I will have my necklace back, if you please. I will not be made a fool by an actress.”
“I'm sorry I cannot oblige you, Sir Lucas,” she replied. “You see, I live by the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. If I were ever as stupid, cowardly, and mean as you, I would want to be taught a lesson. Show the gentleman out, Tonecho,
por favor
!
Sacarlo de aquÃ
.”
The huge Spaniard picked up Sir Lucas as if he were nothing, tossed his bulk over one shoulder, and flung him down the steps.
“Good morning, Sir Lucas,” said Celia, marching past him to step into the waiting hackney. “Come along, Miss Eliza!”
Eliza gave Sir Lucas a wide berth and jumped into the hackney.
Â
Â
For Celia, there was no champagne after the play that night. The following night was to be the first night of the new play, and she never indulged on the eve of such an important event. She went straight home. Eliza, who still had not heard anything from Captain Fitzclarence, came home with her. In silence, they ate a cold supper in the kitchen, then went to bed.
Celia's hand shook as she gave Eliza her bedroom candle.
“You're not nervous, are you, Miss St. Lys?” Eliza cried.
“I'm always nervous before a first night,” Celia confessed. “I doubt I shall sleep a wink.”
“No, nor I,” said Eliza. “I suppose 'e's off on 'is 'oney-moon with
'er
.”
“Mind your H's,” Celia told her.
“Yes, Miss St. Lys.”
Â
Â
Dorian, after setting down Celia and her protégée in Curzon Street, continued on to Berkshire House, where the butler informed him that Lord Simon was waiting to see him. Dorian went up to the library and found his brother brooding in a chair, a glass of brandy in his hand. “Good evening, Simon,” he said civilly, as he poured himself a drink.
Simon was in no mood to observe the social niceties. “Am I to understand,” he said, setting down his glass, “that you have put my mother out on the street?”
“Hardly,” said Dorian. “She checked in to the Pulteney Hotel this morning. I believe her stay there will be of some duration. Beyond that, I do not concern myself.”
“My mother cannot live at the Pulteney Hotel,” said Simon. “She is the Dowager Duchess of Berkshire. It is ridiculous.”
“She has money of her own. She is free to set up her own establishment.”
“You know damned well that this late in the season it will be difficult to find her suitable accommodation.”
“She can live with you, presumably.”
“With me?” Simon echoed, very much taken aback.
“The lady has two sons, I believe.”
“I have nothing but bachelor rooms at Carlton House.”
“You have your house in Green Park.”
“I couldn't possibly evict my tenants.”
Dorian shrugged. “There are some very nice trees in Hyde Park, I believe. She can build a nest in one of those. But she will never set foot in my house again. After what she did to Sallyâ”
“What she did to Sally!” Simon said roughly. “What did she do to the little guttersnipe? From what I hear, Sally owes her benefactress a debt of gratitude. You seem to think it is the other way around! Not only is she an ungrateful, wretched girl; she is a fraud and a liar.”
Dorian's eyes flashed with anger. “You will not speak of her like that.”
“I shall speak of her anyway I choose,” Simon replied. “I know her, Dorian, better than you ever could. I know all her tricks. You seriously cannot be thinking of giving thirty-five thousand pounds to her! Why, for God's sake? Because she is beautiful? Because she smiles at you? Because she promises you heaven? Because she gives you her body?”
“Certainly not,” Dorian said coldly. “You are despicable even to suggest such a thing. If you knew her at all, you could never say such things about her. The money is hers because my father willed it so. That is all.”
“Oh yes,” Simon said softly. “My father's famous last will and testament! Hidden away all these years. Don't be such a gull, Dorian. Obviously it's a forgery.”
“I think I know my father's handwriting,” Dorian said sharply. “But you may judge for yourself.” Setting down his glass, he went to his desk and unlocked the center drawer. From this he brought forth a piece of paper, brown with age, which he gave to his brother. “In any case,” he went on, as Simon looked at the document, “it doesn't concern you. Sally's inheritance will come out of my pocket, not yours.”
Simon stared at the paper in his hands.
“It is the last thing he ever wrote,” said Dorian. “You see there that he wasn't only concerned with Sally's portion. In the first lines, he appoints me as your guardian, instead of our mother.”
“Yes, I see that,” Simon said faintly.
“If it were a forgery, why would anyone care about you and your inheritance?”
“It is not a forgery,” said Simon. “I had letters enough from my father when I was a young man. He filled them with advice and instruction. I don't think I benefitted much from the advice and instruction, but I do know his hand. I know my father's hand as well as you, Dorian.”