acquired tortoiseshell fan.
Celia and Fitzclarence went out of the room together, leaving Flood to finish her work and lock up. âWe shall have to cancel our excursion to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night, Iâm afraid,â Celia apologized as they moved through the corridor. âPeg Copeland is breeding, and Lord Torcaster most kindly has sent her down to the country to convalesce. I am to take her place in Mr. Palmerâs benefit. I must go straight home and study my lines like a good girl.â
âWhen is the last time you did anything like a good girl?â
âYouâd be surprised, Captain Fitzclarence!â
âI donât care what you say,â he said, leading her to the stage door with his hand firmly under her elbow. âI am taking you to Crockfordâs for supper.â
Crockfordâs was a fashionable club much frequented by the aristocracy. One could eat and drink there, to be sure, but that was not its main function. It was first and foremost a gaming hell. Though an indifferent gamester, Celia often found herself in such places, being plied with free food and drink, as well as complimentary gaming chips. The proprietors were always glad to see the famous actress. St. Lys was good for business, and her friends were welcome, too.
âAbsolutely not,â Celia said firmly as he pulled her through the door into the cold night. âI must go straight home, Clare. Itâs been three years since I played Juliet. I must study or I shall be laughed off the stage.â
âNonsense. You could stand there drooling for three hours and theyâd still pay to look at you.â
âThen Iâd better brush up on my drooling!â
âYou must eat, Celia,â he said persuasively. âYouâre naught but skin and bones. And you know Crockford always lays on a good supper.â
Celiaâs belly rumbled. She could never eat before a performance, and she was always starving afterward. And Mr. Crockford did lay on a good supper. âAll right,â she agreed weakly. âBut we mustnât stay long.â
âNo indeed,â he agreed easily.
Celia frowned suspiciously. âI mean it, Clare. Weâll have a light supper at Crockfordâs. One glass of champagne. But then you must take me straight home.â
âOf course,â he assured her, patting her hand as he drew it through the crook of his arm.
âPromise?â
âI promise.â
A hackney awaited them at the end of Drury Lane. Fitzclarence handed Celia in, climbing up beside her and closing the door. Celia caught her breath in surprise as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the carriage lamps. On the opposite seat sat two of Clareâs fellow officers. She knew them. Between them sat a third male, also in regimentals. His hands were tied and his head encased in a black silk hood.
âWhat on earthââ Celia began angrily, as the hackney carriage lurched forward. âClare! I demand to know the meaning of this.â
âHush,â Fitzclarence murmured at her side. âAll will be revealed.â
At a sign from him, the black silk hood was removed. The rosy face of a good-looking, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, even younger than Fitzclarence, came into view. He blinked at them like a newborn kitten.
âYou said you wanted a greenhorn,â Fitzclarence murmured.
âGreenhorn? Heâs an infant,â Celia protested. âHe ought to be wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger!â
âIâll leave that to you, then, shall I?â
The boy was staring at the actress with his mouth open. âBloody hell!â he breathed. âYouâre Celia St. Lys!â
âYes, I know,â Celia said dryly. âAnd you are?â
âWest,â he said eagerly. âTom West.â
Celia smiled a little doubtfully, then shrugged her shoulders.
âWelcome to the regiment, Mr. West,â she
Mina Carter, J.William Mitchell