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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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“I see.”
She frowned. “I am sorry I had to send for you, my lord, but I—I did not know what else to do. Is—is your brother
prone
to such strange fits?”
“Certainly not,” Simon told her curtly. “What had he to eat and drink?”
“We all ate the same supper, my lord.”
“Yes, but where did it come from? Your kitchen?”
She scowled. “I'm not sure where it all came from. No, not my kitchen, certainly,” she added sourly. “There wasn't a thing in the house when I got home. Suddenly there were hampers of food, and bottles. I suppose they must have come from some coffee house or hotel. I don't really know. But you cannot think he was
poisoned
, surely?”
“No,” he said. “Merely drunk.”
She looked astonished. “Drunk!”
“Very drunk. I shall take him home and put him to bed. He'll have a bad head when he wakes tomorrow, but he'll survive.”
“But he can't be drunk,” Celia protested. “I tell you, he drank nothing but punch!”
“Oh yes? Tell me about this punch of yours. Who made it?”
“Tom West made it,” she said. “But you can't blame him. He's the younger son of Lord Ambersey.”
“What has
that
to say to anything?”
“Only that it wasn't anyone from the theatre, if that was what you were thinking. Anyway, there was nothing at all in the punch but brandy, whiskey, scotch, and gin. Oh! and lemon, of course. Could it have been the lemons, do you suppose?”
Simon looked at her incredulously. “It's a bloody wonder he's not dead!”
“Nobody else got sick.”
“Did
you
drink any of that unholy muck?” he demanded.
“Well, no,” she admitted. “I only drink champagne.”
“I remember. Where are the rest of your guests? Scattered to the four winds, I daresay?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you invited
everyone
,” he reminded her. “Where is
everyone
? Where did they all go?”
Celia blushed with embarrassment. “I suppose they all went home when—when—”
“When the Duke of Berkshire keeled over?” he suggested. “I'll just bet they did! Poor Celia! Did no one stand by you in your time of need?”
“Tom stayed with me,” she said. “I sent him to fetch you.”
“He's braver than I thought.”
“Where
is
Tom?” she demanded. “Did you eat him?”
“No,” he answered. “I had already dined. I asked him to escort Mrs. Archer and her daughter home.”
Her brows rose. “Mrs. Archer
and
her daughter? How cozy for you! I didn't know you liked that sort of thing.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me.”
“Clearly! Which did you enjoy more, the mutton or the lamb?”
“Neither. We had the squab.”
“So it was a foursome, then?” She sniffed. “How cozy!”
“Did you summon a physician?” he inquired.
“No. Should I have done?” she asked, frowning. “I thought
you
would know best what to do.”
“Sending for me is the only thing you did right, my girl,” he told her. “Where are his footmen? Did they run away, too?”
“No. Your brother dismissed them when he got here, along with his carriage,” she replied. “Shall I—shall I send for my manservant to help you carry him down the stairs?”
Simon smiled thinly. “If it isn't too much trouble,” he said coldly.
Chapter 12
In the hackney coach, Dorian roused himself briefly, but only, as it turned out, to vomit, spattering Simon's boots and narrowly missing Simon's lap. Fortunately, Berkshire House stood at no great distance from Celia's house. Dorian's mother, roused from her bed by the servants, came down the stairs behind the butler, who had armed himself with an ancient blunderbuss.
Dorian had never been carried home drunk before, and at first Her Grace refused to believe that her son was intoxicated. She insisted on sending for the family physician.
While the doctor was with the patient, she paced up and down the hall outside the duke's bedroom. Her iron-gray hair, though as tightly curled as ever, was mostly hidden under an enormous lace cap, and her small body seemed almost lost in the voluminous shawl in which her maid had wrapped it.
“Well?” she cried, when at last the doctor emerged from the room.
“His Grace is perfectly well, madam,” the physician assured her. “A little foxed, perhaps.”
“Foxed? What do you mean, foxed?”
“Your son is a trifle disguised, Your Grace.”
“A trifle
disguised
? I don't understand.”
“The Duke of Berkshire is drunk, madam,” Simon explained, and, with a gentle cough, the doctor confirmed it.
“How could this have happened?” demanded the duchess. “My son never touches strong drink.”
“He never touches it, perhaps,” Simon murmured, “but it would seem that he drinks it.”
She turned on him furiously. “You did this to him,” she accused. “You plied him with drink! You got him drunk as a—as a—”
“Lord?” Simon suggested lightly. “No indeed, madam. It was not I. I was only called to the scene
after
the damage was done.”
“What scene?” she demanded, furious. “Where
was
he tonight? Who called you? Who did this to him? I am his mother; I have a right to know.”
“I rather think he did it to himself,” Simon replied.
“Nonsense!”
Simon shrugged. “If you want to know more, you must ask Dorian, I'm afraid. I am certainly not going to tell you. But if you are wise, madam, you won't say a word to him about it. You must trust, as I do, that he has learned his lesson. I, of course, plan to tease him mercilessly, but
you
should not. You should remain silent on the subject forever.”
“I must go to him,” she said resolutely. “He needs me now.”
“I fear His Grace seems a little agitated at present,” said the physician, with an apologetic look. “It would perhaps be best not to upset him, Your Grace. What he needs most now is sleep. ‘Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,'” he added, a touch whimsically.
But the duchess was not at all the whimsical sort. “You dare to imply that
I
would upset my own son?” she trilled. “Upset him how? Stand aside, you fool!”
She would have darted past the man if Simon had not restrained her. “The doctor has given his best advice, madam.
You
would be a fool not to heed him.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the physician. “His Grace has been asking to see you . . . alone.”
“But I am his mother!” the duchess protested.
“And he wouldn't want to worry you,” said Simon. “You will see him in the morning, when he is feeling better. He won't want you to see him like this.”
“That is like him,” she said, smiling tremulously. “Dorian is always thinking of other people. Well, don't just stand there, Simon—go to him. He calls you. Tell him . . . tell him that I forgive him. Tell him Mama loves him.”
Simon slipped into the room. Dorian was actually sitting up in the huge four-poster bed, looking pale and quite cross. His lips were gray, his eyes were far from clear, and his chestnut hair was sticking up in all directions. “Why did you bring me
here
?” he asked irritably as Simon stood at the bedside.
“It is your home,” Simon pointed out mildly. “It seemed best.”
“You should have taken me to Brooks's,” Dorian grumbled, “not here. I told you I was staying at my club, did I not?”
Suddenly, he was not so certain. “I'm sorry,” said Simon. “I forgot you told me you were staying at your club.”
“Help me out of bed!” Dorian commanded weakly. “I refuse to sleep under the same roof with that woman.”
“I think you'd better stay where you are, old man—at least until the effects of the punch have worn off,” Simon replied. “You've already cast up all your accounts in a carriage once tonight. Are you so eager to do it again?”
Dorian sank back against the pillows, his energy expended.
Simon chuckled. “You'll have a bloody head in the morning, I daresay.”
“I've got a bloody head now,” Dorian moaned. “Sally!” he called out suddenly. “What must she be thinking of me!”
“Sally? You mean St. Lys, I suppose? She did seem rather anxious to be rid of you, and I'm sure I don't blame her. You frightened away all her lovers.”
“I am glad to hear that, at least,” Dorian murmured. “I couldn't let her go home with all the officers—not by herself. I say!” He suddenly opened his eyes wide. “You didn't tell your mother where I was tonight, did you?”
“Of course not,” said Simon. “What do you take me for—a spy?”
“That's all right, then,” said Dorian, sighing as he closed his eyes. “Oh, but you should have seen me juggling those oranges, Simon.”
“You should have stuck to your juggling,” Simon told him. “The punch sounded positively lethal.”
Dorian shuddered. “It was. But they were all drinking it, and I didn't want to be rude. Mr. West said it was nothing to the punch he used to make in Buckinghamshire. He said a baby could drink it! They must have stomachs lined in copper, is all I can say. Sally must have been so frightened. How is it you were there, Simon? I thought you were dining with that girl—what's-her-name? The one who can't act?”
“St. Lys sent for me,” Simon explained, “when you fell ill.”
“Was she very frightened?”
“She was concerned, certainly.”
“She must think me a damned bloody fool.”
“Very likely.”
“She may be worried still. I must go to her at once.” Dorian actually started up as if he meant to leave his bed, but before he could do so, nausea overwhelmed him, and he fell back, moaning. “Simon, you must go to her at once.”
Simon lifted his brows. “I don't think that is a good idea.”
“She may be worried. I'm sure she is worried. I would go to her myself, if I could, but as it is . . . you must go in my place. Tell her I shall call on her tomorrow—though not—not too early, perhaps. Tell her I am very sorry for ruining her party. It was great, good fun, and she mustn't blame herself for my foolishness. I ought to have conducted myself better.”
“Write her a bloody letter, why don't you,” Simon muttered. “I'm not telling her all
that
. All right, I'll go. But only because her house is convenient to my club in Charles Street. Otherwise I shouldn't bother.”
“Thanks, old man,” said a faint voice, followed by a loud snore.
The dowager duchess pounced on her younger son the moment he came out of the room. “Your brother was with St. Lys tonight?” she hissed. “Why did you not tell me?”
“For God's sake, woman,” Simon said angrily. “Were you
listening
at the door?”
“Yes, of course I was,” she returned without remorse. “I couldn't hear everything, but I heard enough to know that that woman is responsible for his present condition.”
“No wonder he prefers to stay at Brooks's!” Simon remarked. “He has no privacy here! Do you have the servants spy on him as well, madam? Or do you do it all yourself?”
“If you were his mother, you would understand. But never mind all that,” she said impatiently. “What are we going to do about St. Lys?”
“We are not going to do anything about St. Lys,” Simon said firmly.
“Well, we must do something. She obviously is a bad influence. And she seemed so charming when I met her. A little mischievous, perhaps, but I did not think she would hurt him.”
“What did you think she would do?”
“We mustn't let this get out of hand, Simon. I knew he was with her
last
night, but tonight, too? He should have been at the palace with me tonight.”
“Her Majesty, though an excellent woman in her way, is not as charming as St. Lys,” Simon said dryly. “Wait a minute! You
knew
Dorian was with her last night? How? Do you have him followed?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “Why should I have my own son followed?”
“Then how do you know he dined with her last night?”
“It was my idea,” she told him. “I thought an evening of pleasure would be good for your brother. She seemed absolutely perfect for the position.”
“What position?”
“Well, I thought she would make him an excellent mistress,” said his mother. “It seems I was mistaken.”
“You thought St. Lys would make Dorian an excellent mistress?” Simon repeated sharply. “St. Lys? You were indeed mistaken, madam.”
“I admit it,” she said. “She is beautiful and charming, but much too wild for my dear boy. Hopefully, Dorian will realize that before it is too late. Perhaps he has realized it already?”
“Perhaps,” Simon replied. “I wouldn't count on it, however.”
“What do you mean?” she anxiously inquired.
“St. Lys can be very charming indeed,” Simon told her. “For example, did you know she was responsible for our victory at Waterloo?”
 
 
Celia was not alone when Simon reached her house. He had not expected her to be. Her choice of companion, however, did strike him as rather strange. His clothes proclaimed him to be a tradesman of some sort, and he and the actress were engaged in a heated argument.
“My good fellow,” St. Lys was saying as Simon entered her drawing room. “Do you know who I am? Have you any idea whom you are addressing?”
“I know you owes me money, missus!”
“Missus!” she cried, outraged. “How dare you! I do not owe a penny! I did not order the food. I did not order the drink.”
“This is the direction. Eighty-four Curzon Street,” he shouted, red in the face, waving a piece of paper in her face. “Plain as the day is long, missus.”
“I don't care what you have there, my good man.”
Simon coughed gently. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
Celia whirled around to face him. “Who the devil let you in?” she demanded angrily.
“No one. Your door was standing open,” he replied. “I closed it for you. What seems to be the trouble?”
They both began talking at once, but Celia subsided first, throwing up her hands.
Simon chuckled. “Suddenly there were hampers,” he murmured. “Where did you think they had come from—heaven?”
“I didn't order the food. I don't know who did.”
“Someone has to pay for it, Celia. You do realize that?”
She glowered at him. “Naturally. But why should I pay for something I did not order?”
“You may send the bill to me at Carlton House,” Simon told the tradesman curtly. “I am Lord Simon.” To Celia's annoyance, the man bowed at once and scurried out of the room.
“He must be the only man in London who doesn't know my face,” she said, looking at him resentfully.
“My dear, have you seen your face recently? You are not looking your best.”
“What?” Snatching up the candlestick, she ran into the hall and looked in the glass hanging there. “Why did no one tell me?” she cried. Moistening her fingertips with her tongue, she rubbed at the smudges under her eyes.
“Dorian asked me to call on you,” Simon replied.
“He is awake, then? That is a good sign.”
“He thought you might be worried,” Simon said.
She frowned at him. “You told me he was only drunk. Naturally, I believed you. Were you wrong?”
“No. I was not wrong.”
“No, of course not. You're never wrong, are you?” she murmured. “Wait here for a moment, if you please.”
Leaving him, she went up the stairs to her bedroom. A few minutes later she returned, having washed her face properly and tidied her hair. She gave him a ten-pound note. “That should cover the man's bill, I should think. If it doesn't, you know where to find me, I think.”
BOOK: When You're Desired
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