âYou will have heard of him, of course. He is one of the richest men in England.â
âIs he?â Celia said politely. âIn that case, we must send him one of our letters begging for a donation. Is he a charitable man, your father?â
âOf course. But he only gives to the deserving poor,â Lucasta replied haughtily. âI hardly think you qualify, Miss St. Lys.â
âBut it is not for me , Miss Tinsley,â Celia protested. âI am neither poor nor deserving. It is for the children of the London Foundling Hospital; they are poor and deserving. Indeed, it is a cause near and dear to my heart. Every summer, we hold a benefit for the children.â
âOne does like to give back, doesnât one?â said the duchess, smiling complacently.
Lucasta sneered. âFoundlings! You mean those horrid little creatures that are dropped in the streets by their parents to be fed and clothed at the expense of the public? My father says it is a mistake to encourage such practices by feeding the wretches.â
âGood Lord, Miss Tinsley!â said Celia, prettily taken aback. âMay I ask who, if anyone, is included in your fatherâs idea of the deserving poor?â
âMy father believes that the good Lord helps those who help themselves.â
âThe good Lord may indeed help those who help themselves,â Celia agreed, âbut I think that we have a duty to help those who cannot help themselves.â
âI agree,â said Dorian.
âAre we going to settle our bet or not?â Lucasta said impatiently.
âHave you a bet?â Celia asked, smiling.
âNot I,â Dorian said quickly. âMiss Tinsley and my mother have.â
âAnd we need you to settle it for us,â said Lucasta.
âYou will help us, wonât you, Miss St. Lys?â said the duchess.
âCertainly, maâam, if it lies within my power.â
âThe fact is, this young lady bet me ten pounds that your golden hair is not your own, my dear,â said the duchess. âI do not often take bets, but in this case, I felt I could not refuse.â
âYou are not offended, I hope, Miss St. Lys?â Dorian asked anxiously.
âNot at all, Your Grace,â she assured him. âI myself like a good wager now and then.â
âI should be very glad to give my winnings to the New-foundlanders,â put in the duchess.
âFoundlings, Your Grace. Thank you.â
âYou have not won yet ,â said Lucasta. âI still say it is a wig.â
Celia smiled at her. âWhy donât you give it a tug?â she said.
Miss Tinsley accepted the invitation with alacrity. Marching up to Celia, she yanked her hair hard enough to make the actress wince in pain.
âAre you all right, Miss St. Lys?â Dorian asked.
âSheâs fine,â said Fitzclarence. âArenât you, Celia?â
âI trust this settles your bet for you, Miss Tinsley,â said Celia.
âYes, of course it does,â said the duchess. âYou may give Miss St. Lys ten pounds for the founderlings.â
âI do not have it with me,â Lucasta said crossly.
âNo matter,â said the duchess. âDorian can take it to Miss St. Lys tomorrow. What is your address, my dear?â
âEighty-four Curzon Street,â Celia replied.
âCurzon Street,â the duchess repeated, impressed. âHow delightfully convenient. Why, Dorian, she is practically on our doorstep.â
Lucasta scowled.
âI think now we must leave Miss St. Lys in peace,â said Dorian.
The duchess dismissed him with a wave of her hand. âCome here, my dear,â she said to Celia. âTake my fan.â She held it out. âI want to make you a present of it. Come, child. You are not afraid of me, are you?â
Celia went forward and took the fan. âYou are very beautiful, my dear,â the duchess said softly. âI wish