MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS (15 page)

There was only one way Razeby was going to let her go. One tack she knew would work for certain. And her heart shivered to take it, and her skin grew cold and clammy at the thought and she was so afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life, but she knew it was what she was going to have to do.

She closed her eyes and remembered the way he had loved her, the tenderness in his eyes. He would never look at her like that again. Never. She pushed the thought away and rose from the bed. She had to be strong enough for the both of them.

* * *

Razeby arrived at Alice’s rented rooms at four o’clock the next afternoon, exactly when he had said he would—twenty-four hours after he had asked her to be his wife. She was dressed in the same yellow walking dress she had worn that day in Hyde Park and had wrapped a fawn cashmere shawl around her shoulders. There was a small fire burning on the hearth and the sun shone in through the windows, adding to the warmth of the room. But it did not matter how much coal she burned or how many layers of clothing she wore, she was frozen to the marrow and did not think she would ever feel warm again.

He was smartly dressed, wearing a black Weston riding coat and a pair of fitted buckskin breeches. The leather on his riding boots gleamed in the sunlight, as did the mahogany of his hair. He bore himself well, a slight arrogance in his walk, a confidence in the way he held himself that stemmed from being raised to lead. Everything about him spoke so loudly that he was born to be a marquis that she knew she was doing the right thing.

‘So, Alice,’ he said softly. ‘I have come for your answer.’

Her stomach was balled so tightly she felt sick and her throat was sticking together so badly that she could not swallow.

‘Will you marry me?’

Her heart was thudding hard and fast in the base of her throat. She forced her chin up, clutched the shawl so tight that her hands went numb. ‘I’m afraid not. My answer is no.’

He gave a small surprised laugh, as if he did not really believe her. ‘Do you think to save me from myself, Alice? Because if that is your game, I will brook no refusal.’ He stepped closer.

Her heart missed a beat. ‘This is no game.’ She swallowed and took a step in retreat. ‘I’ll not marry you, Razeby.’

‘Why not?’ He cocked an eyebrow and his gaze bored into hers. ‘I know that you love me.’

‘No. You’re mistaken. I don’t love you. I’ve never loved you.’ She looked away to tell the lie.

‘I do not believe you. You cannot even look me in the eye to say it.’

She curled her hands so that her nails dug into her palms, forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I don’t love you, Razeby.’

‘And what happened between us yesterday?’

‘Was sex.’

‘It was a damn sight more than sex.’

‘I made you think that. It’s what whores are paid to do and I’m good at my job.’

He grabbed hold of her arm, hauled her to him, staring mercilessly down into her face. ‘Never call yourself that word again. Do you understand?’

She nodded, afraid of the power and strength of what she saw in his face.

Something of the tension in his grip relaxed. ‘Besides,’ he said softly, ‘I did not pay for yesterday, or the time in the theatre.’

‘Consider it a couple of goodbye liaisons, for the sake of our previous arrangement.’

‘I am prepared to give it all up for you and you tell me you will not have me?’ He gave a laugh of incredulity and stared at her as if he did not believe her.

‘Well, you see, that’s the problem, Razeby.’ She had thought so carefully all through the night of the words she must say—the words that would convince him. Rehearsed them in her head again and again. But now that it came to saying them they stuck sharp as fish bones in her throat. ‘I’m...’ She took a breath and forced them to her tongue. ‘I’m not interested in a man without money or title. A man who cannot keep me in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. I don’t want to be a poor man’s wife. I don’t want to flee to another country. Or spend the rest of my life in a hovel, cooking and cleaning, with laundrymaid hands and scrabbling to make do and mend and put food on the table. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I came to London to escape poverty and I’ll not go back to it to be your wife.’

He stared at her in silence as if it took some time for the words to sink in. ‘So it is not me you want at all,’ he said slowly, ‘but my wealth, my title, my power?’

She nodded, making sure she did not look away. Delivering every last piece of the lie while meeting his eyes.

‘If it was not about love, but only gain, why did you not take the dresses, the bracelet, the money?’

‘To pique your interest. It was all just a game to get you back.’

‘You made me believe that you loved me.’

She swallowed and the air in her nostrils seemed chilled as ice and that in her lungs sharp as the prickle of pins. What was it he had said that day in the Exhibition Room?
Clean and quick is the best way of severing something that one has no wish to let go.
‘I never said those words, Razeby.’ Her voice was quiet as she delivered the blow that would sever them for ever. ‘Not once.’

She saw the words hit home. Saw the realisation in his eyes. It had worked, just as she had known it would.

‘Neither you did,’ he said softly. ‘How remiss of me not to notice.’

The tension was stretched tight between them. She had not known that she could be so strong or so callous. To stand there second by second, minute by minute, and coldly, deliberately break his heart...and her own.

She forced her lips to curve in the echo of a smile. ‘You’re a nice man, Razeby—kind-hearted, generous. Great in bed.’ She swallowed and the smile wavered before she forced it harder. It felt like there was something wrapped tight around her throat. ‘But you see, the reason I was attracted to you was because you were a marquis and rich and high up, and good-looking, too. I know what that makes me, but then I’ve never pretended to be anything else.’

Razeby said nothing. He stared into her eyes, his face a mask of anger and darkness and disgust that she did not recognise. But better his contempt and loathing a hundred times over than let him destroy himself. If he thought her a selfish whore over whom he had made a mistake and had a lucky escape, then he would be glad to walk away and leave her. His wounds would heal in time. She did not think of her own. He would marry some rich, suitable woman. Breed his heirs upon her. Care for his people and his lands. Be the great man he had always been destined to be.

She could feel the intensity of his anger, the barely leashed rage, the darkness of emotion. And against her face was the warmth of his breath—but not from passion, not from loving. The intensity in his eyes was searing. She did not know how much longer she could endure it. Part of her was so close to falling to her knees, to blurting all of the truth, to wrapping her arms around him and cradling him to her, and telling him that she loved him. And another part, the strong part that knew she would move heaven and earth to save him, stood there quiet and resolute.

He did not say a word, not one word. Just took some coins from his purse. He put the purse away again and held out his hand, palm flat, offering her the two gold sovereigns that lay glinting upon it.

She knew what they were. She understood what he was paying for—their loving of yesterday and in the theatre. She stared at the coins and could not move.

‘Take them,’ he said in a deadly quiet voice.

The final test. The final sacrifice that must be made.

She reached out her hand and took both sovereigns from where they lay.

He curled his lip with disgust and gave a tiny disbelieving shake of his head. Then he turned, and without a glance back strode out of the bedchamber. She could hear the hurried, purposeful tread of his boots on the stairs, and across the hallway, the almighty slam of the front door that reverberated throughout and made the whole house tremble. And she did not move, just stood there, frozen in horror and shock and pain at what she had just done. Stood there, and stood there, while time ceased to be and somewhere around her was a whole world moving on.

She did not know how much time had passed before she heard the girl’s voice. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ The youngest maid, Rosie, stood wide-eyed and timid outside the open bedchamber door.

She nodded. ‘Go,’ she managed to whisper.

But the maid just stared at her with horrified fascination and concern.

‘I said, leave me.’ Stronger this time.

The girl bobbed a curtsy, shut the bedchamber door and the light footsteps hurried away.

And still Alice stood there. Unmoving. Frozen. Staring at the floor, blind to the pale Turkish rug and the dark polished floor boards. Blind and deaf and dumb. Slowly she turned and walked to the bed, sat down on the edge of it. It felt like there was a great band of iron wrapped around her chest, crushing her, making it hard to breathe. She felt hollow where she had placed her hand within her chest and ripped out her own heart.

Razeby was safe. But the cost had been herself. All of herself. All of her heart. Everything she was. Every one of those words of deceit had been a cut to her own soul. In hurting him she hurt herself a hundred times over. In freeing him she sentenced herself to a living death. She felt numb, shattered, disconnected. There was nothing she could do or say or think.

She sat there, and the seconds stretched to minutes and the minutes to hours. She sat there and the sun moved away to set in the west and the daylight faded and the darkness came. And all the while her right hand was curled tight and hard.

A knocking sounded. The older maid, Meg, opened the door a crack and peeped in. ‘Shall I bring you up a tray of dinner, ma’am?’

‘Go away,’ she said and her voice sounded like someone else’s.

The door closed again.

She leaned to the side. Lay down on the bed, her feet and legs still dangling over the edge. She lay there, eyes open, staring into the darkness. Until the sounds of the carriages and the passers-by faded to nothing and there was only silence. Until, eventually, the silver of the moon crept in through the window and moved its way, inch by inch, across the room to light the curled tight fist of her right hand lying on the counterpane, white and bloodless as a dead thing. She looked at it as if it were not a part of herself. Slowly, she loosened the fist, uncurling her fingers inch by tiny inch until they lay flat and stretched, her palm exposed in full. She stared at the two large coins that lay upon it. Gold painted Judas silver by the light of the moon.

The pain hit her then, savage and merciless, and black beyond all despair. And all of the barriers crumbled, and the breaking was so sudden and swift and complete that there was nothing she could do to stop them. She wept, as she had not wept in all these weeks. She wept for the loss of the man that she loved and the loss of the woman she had been. She wept and she did not think that she would ever be able to stop.

* * *

Three days later Alice packed her travelling bag, and left her rooms in Mercer Street. She caught the mail to Southampton, boarded the first boat she could find and went home to Dublin.

Chapter Seventeen

T
here was silence in the drawing room of the Darrington town house in fashionable Upper Grosvenor Street.

Miss Darrington took a tiny sip of her tea. Her golden hair was perfectly coiffured, her body robed in an expensive pink silk.

‘So what is your preference for the colours of flowers for the wedding breakfast table?’ Mrs Darrington enquired of him.

‘I am content to leave the decisions on such matters to yourself and Miss Darrington.’ Razeby said. ‘I am sure you will make an admirable selection.’

Mrs Darrington smiled and nodded.

‘Such a pleasure that you have decided to ally yourself with our family. And with such eagerness for the nuptials.’

‘There is no point in delaying when the decision has been made,’ he said.

‘A man after my own heart, Lord Razeby,’ agreed Mr Darrington. ‘Seven weeks should be more than long enough. Although Mrs Darrington is already getting herself in quite the flutter over arranging so speedy a wedding.’

Razeby forced a smile that could not touch his eyes. ‘Such is the prerogative of ladies.’

Mrs Darrington gave a nervous giggle. ‘La, there is so much to be done!’

‘So much indeed,’ said Miss Darrington. ‘Perhaps seven weeks is not long enough. There is lace for my dress, the silk... Perhaps it would be better to defer the wedding until—’

‘Seven weeks will be more than enough time,’ Mr Darrington interrupted, fixing his daughter with a warning eye.

‘If Miss Darrington is in agreement?’ Razeby looked at her.

Miss Darrington gave a nod.

Seven weeks and he would stand before an altar and make Miss Darrington his wife. It would be done.

‘More tea, Lord Razeby?’ Mrs Darrington asked.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured and allowed her to fill his cup.

The clock on the mantel ticked its slow steady rhythm in the background. The large bouquet of flowers that Razeby had brought sat beside it in a cream-and-blue glazed vase.

‘To marriage, Lord Razeby.’ Mr Darrington raised his teacup as if making a toast.

Razeby raised his teacup in return. ‘And duty,’ he returned and smiled a cold hard smile that did not touch his eyes.

* * *

Alice climbed down from the cart’s seat and walked up the garden path of the small cottage that lay on the outskirts of Dublin. The surrounding trees were all in bud, the first signs of green touching their winter-stripped branches. In the garden the heads of the daffodils had withered, but their leaves still grew thick and lush amongst the long untended grass through which a carpet of early bluebells was woven in vibrant splendour.

She felt a sense of relief and of home coming to be here. The air was cleaner than in London, and sweeter. Just a breath of it felt like it cleansed all of London’s filth from her lungs.

Mr MacCormack lifted her travelling bag down from the back of the cart and set it down by the doorstep. ‘Your mammy will be glad to have you back home for the visit, Miss Flannigan.’

The doxy, Miss Rouge, and the actress, Miss Sweetly, had been left behind in London. Here, she was plain Alice Flannigan, the same as she had been born, on the outside. But inside...that was a different story all together. She smiled at the old man and gave him a few extra coins as a tip and he ambled away, tugging the peak of his soft cloth cap as he did.

The front door still had not opened. And from the cool grey sky overhead came the first smir of rain. From inside the cottage she could hear squabbling voices and the running patter of small feet.

She raised a gloved hand and banged all the harder on the door. ‘Mammy, are you going to open this door, or leave me standing here on the doorstep for the rest of the day? Anyone would think you’re not wanting to see me.’

The door opened. Her mother stood there, staring in disbelief. ‘It’s yourself, Alice. All the saints in heaven be blessed. I didn’t know you were coming for a visit.’

Visit.
Alice smiled again and did not correct her mother’s misconception, just as she had not corrected that of the old carter.

Her mother took her face between her work-worn hands, her eyes raking her face, filled with welcome and with the sheer joy of reunion. ‘Oh, but it’s good to see you again, Alice, truly it is.’ And something inside her suddenly welled up so that she felt like weeping and she could only be glad when her mother pulled her against the familiar old pinny and hugged her. Alice embraced her mother just as if she were a small girl again, squeezing her eyes shut, struggling to stopper the tears.

‘It’s good to be back, Mammy!’

‘Look at us out here on the doorstep. Come in. Come in.’ Her mother took hold of her arm and drew her inside.

The cottage interior was darker than Alice remembered and much of the furniture was missing.

Six-year-old Annie sat on her older sister Jessie’s knee, having her hair combed. Molly was sitting in the only armchair in the room, weaving strips of rags to make a rug. They all looked at her, smiling but shy as if she were some stranger come to visit. She went to each one in turn, chucking their chins and teasing their hair just as she had done when they were small, and kissed their cheeks. From outside came the sound of wood being chopped and shrieks of laughter of girls playing in the background.

‘Christie! Maggie, Cathy! Our Alice is back!’ Her mother wrenched open the window and shouted out at them to come in. Alice’s eyes moved to the small three-legged stool which was the only place that her mother could be sitting. There were two iron buckets set before it. One held dirty water, the other glistening newly washed potatoes. By her feet sat a small scrubbing brush and an old cloth potato sack.

‘You’ll be wanting a drink of water, Alice. Or I’ve nettle tea in the pot.’

‘Water would be grand, Mammy. But you sit yourself down. I’ll fetch it myself.’

‘Indeed, you will not.’ Her mother was already bustling through to the kitchen to fetch the water.

Thirteen-year-old Christie came in, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, looking more grown up than she remembered.

Alice dropped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Look at you, Christie! You’ve taken a stretch and no mistake. You’re taller than me now.’ And thin as a bean pole.

He blushed a vivid red, grumbled a protest and pulled away, but he was smiling all the same.

‘He’s the man of the house now,’ her mother said as she came back through from the kitchen carrying a cup of water and a slice of bread.

‘Where’s our David away to?’

‘Took the King’s shilling at the beginning of last year and has been away fighting in King George’s army ever since,’ her mother explained. ‘He sends money when he can.’

Maggie and Cathy were red-cheeked from the fresh air, their clothes ragged and worn from being passed down through so many older sisters before becoming their own.

‘You look like a grand lady, Alice.’ Cathy smiled and touched a hand to the dark-blue skirt of Alice’s travelling dress.

Alice smiled and hugged each of her little sisters, glad in heart to see them, but shocked at the level of poverty she saw around her.

‘Christie, bring your sister’s bag in from the front step. The rain’s coming on.’

Her brother went to do as he was bid.

‘And where’s all the rest of them?’ Alice asked looking round for the rest of her sisters.

‘Our Martha’s away married to a fella in Kilteel.’

‘Married?’ Alice’s eyes widened.

‘He’s a shepherd and got his own cottage. They got married last summer just in time for the arrival of the baby, thank the Lord.’

‘That’s good news.’ Alice smiled and felt something shift inside her.

‘And our Mary and Bernadette both managed to find positions in the same big house in Dublin.’

‘That’s grand.’

‘It is,’ her mother said, but Alice looked in her mother’s face and saw the lines of worry that had not been there two years ago when last she had seen her.

What are you not telling me?
she wanted to ask. Where had all the money she had sent gone? Her eyes moved over the bare poverty-stricken room and those she loved. But there would be time enough for such questions later. For now she was just glad to be away from London and the terribleness of what she had left behind there. Glad to be home with the secrets of which she tried so hard not to think.

* * *

It was the afternoon of the next day before Alice learned the truth of what she had come home to.

The cottage was empty save for Alice and her mother. Molly and Jessie were out in the back garden, pegging clean washing on a line.

‘So this Mr Feeney that you married—’ Alice said carefully.

‘It turns out we never were married after all. The dirty lying scoundrel already had a wife and six wee ones in Dublin!’ Her mother interrupted. ‘They say there’s no fool like an old fool, and he had me reeled in all right, hook, line and sinker.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

‘Maybe not,’ her mother muttered. ‘He was a charmer right up to the moment on Christmas Eve when he told me he was going back to his wife. I only discovered once he’d gone that he’d run up debts all over the place and relieved me of my savings before leaving. The bastard!’

‘And you’ve been struggling to get by ever since.’ She knew now where the new clothes and furniture had gone, bit by bit.

‘We’ve managed up to now.’

‘Thank God the cottage is bought and paid for.’
With the money that Razeby had given her.
‘At least he couldn’t touch that.’

Her mother looked away, an uncomfortable expression on her face. ‘It’s not quite so simple, Alice.’

‘I had the lawyer put the deeds in your name.’

‘Everyone thought we were married. Even I thought we were man and wife. My property became his.’

There was a sense of dread in Alice’s stomach. ‘What did he do?’

‘He mortgaged it behind my back. Gambled away the money on the horses. The first I knew of it was some gentleman at the door telling me he’s the new owner and that he’s putting the rent up. He’s charging a fortune.’

‘But I’ve been sending money.’

‘Not enough. He’s asking such a lot. And we can’t go without food or coal. And he’s putting the rent up again. Where on earth can I find more money? He says we owe months in arrears and that he’ll turn us out in the street if I don’t pay.’

‘Don’t worry, Mammy. I’ll sort it out.’ She thought of her savings at the bottom of her travelling bag.

‘And that’s not the worst of it.’ Her mother looked at her.

How much worse could it get?

‘It’s our Molly.’

Alice hid the worry from her face and waited.

‘Some lad from the village has got her pregnant. She’s four months gone and he won’t marry her. What am I going to do, Alice?’

Alice thought of Razeby and all the pain of that last scene between them, all because she refused to yield to her heart and marry him. Irony could be very cruel. Taking her mother’s hand in her own, she patted the work-roughened skin. ‘I’ve some money put by. There’s enough for the cottage and for the baby when it comes. And to see you all right for a while.’

‘You’ve still got your fine acting job at the proper theatre?’

Alice nodded. ‘I’ve still got my fine acting job.’ But she’d walked out on Kemble and the theatre season was coming to an end.

‘Oh, thank God!’ Her mother’s face crumpled with relief and she squeezed her eyes shut. ‘What on earth would we do without you, Alice?’

* * *

Within the ballroom of the Earl of Misbourne’s town house situated only a few houses along the street in Leicester Square from Razeby’s own, the first ball that Venetia and Linwood were hosting was in full swing. Most of the
ton
were present, with only a few small exceptions who refused to accept Venetia into polite society. Not that their absence would have any effect on the ball’s outcome. Linwood and his father, Misbourne, had used their contacts to land the Prince of Wales himself as a guest. And as the Prince was now on the floor dancing with Venetia, her acceptance by the
ton
was guaranteed. Miss Darrington had excused herself to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room and showed no sign of hurrying back, much to Razeby’s relief. He stood alone with Linwood in a corner of the room, both of them sipping champagne as if they were enjoying themselves, when in truth neither of them were; Razeby knew that Linwood felt the evening as much a strain as himself.

‘I have seen the change in you, Razeby.’

Razeby ignored the comment. He kept his mind focused on his marriage ahead, of his duty, steering his mind coldly, ruthlessly from dwelling on anything else.

‘I am telling you this as your friend because it has not gone unnoticed by the rest of London. Indeed, I wonder that Miss Darrington has agreed to marry you.’

Razeby thought of the woman who had not. The one woman to whom he had offered everything that he was, only to have it thrown back in his face as not enough.

‘It is hardly surprising that she has spent so much time in the withdrawing room thus far this evening,’ added Linwood.

‘It is a marriage of convenience for us both. She understands how these things work.’

‘Maybe,’ said Linwood. ‘But are you going to tell me what is going on, Razeby?’

‘I am marrying Miss Darrington is what is going on.’

‘And Miss Sweetly?’

‘Alice and I are no longer together.’

‘I had worked that one out,’ Linwood said. ‘She is gone from London. Walked out on Kemble and the theatre. Venetia went looking for her. She thinks Alice might have gone home to Ireland.’

‘I do not give a damn where she is.’ He felt the simmer of red rage at the edges of his mind and in his chest was that familiar lance of pain that cut deep whenever he thought of her.

Linwood’s dark eyes seemed to see too much. ‘The last I saw you, you were harbouring feelings of a more tender nature towards Miss Sweetly.’

‘I have changed my mind.’

‘So easily?’

He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, but Linwood was not dissuaded.

‘Damn it, Razeby. You were talking of marrying her!’

Razeby glared at his friend.