MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS (3 page)

Chapter Four

W
ithin the hallowed grounds of Almack’s ballroom, the chandeliers sparkled beneath the flames of a thousand candles. The walls were painted a soft cream and outlined in antique gold. The ceiling had recently been reworked in an array of white plasterwork. In its centre was a line of three elaborate roses, from each of which hung an enormous crystal chandelier. There was a three-piece matching peering glass set above the fireplace, with candles fitted to the fronts and a series of matching mirrored wall sconces positioned at regular intervals around the room. Small chairs and tables were seeded around the periphery. The musicians played from the balcony above, the music floating sweet and melodic to fill the ballroom and haunt Razeby.

‘I was not sure they were going to let you in,’ he said to Linwood standing by his side.

‘I did have to call in a few favours.’

‘I am glad you did,’ he admitted.

There was a small silence as the two men let their eyes wander to the other side of the dance floor and the crowd of white-dressed débutantes there that posed and giggled and chattered amongst themselves while their stern-faced turban-wearing chaperones looked on.

‘Does Alice know you are here?’ Linwood asked.

‘It is over between me and Alice.’ Razeby felt the weight of Linwood’s gaze, but he did not shift his own, just kept his face impassive and remained staring straight ahead so that nothing of his feelings showed.

‘I am sorry about that.’

‘So am I.’

There was the music and the droning hum of surrounding conversations and the tinkle of women’s laughter.

‘You could have kept her on at least until you found—’

‘No.’ Razeby did not let him finish. ‘A clean severance is for the best.’ He met his friend’s eyes.

Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘I was under the impression that you and she dealt very well together.’

‘We do.’ He glanced away and corrected himself. ‘We did.’ He swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. ‘But she was my mistress, Linwood. And now it is time to find myself a wife.’

Linwood looked at him with that too-perceptive gaze of his, as if he could see the way that Razeby’s stomach clenched at just the mention of her name. He was doing the right thing, the thing that had to be done. The thing he should have been doing six months ago, before Alice Sweetly came into his life and changed his best-laid plan. Six months and he could regret not one day of it. Six months and... He changed the subject, pretending something of his usual lightness of spirit when what he felt was anything but.

‘See what you missed out on by not playing the marriage mart?’

Linwood smiled, which was a sight that was a deal more common since his recent marriage. ‘I would rather be tried for murder and catch a wife in the process,’ he said, referring to exactly what he had done just a few months ago. ‘Scandalous and dangerous—but more than satisfying in its end result.’ He smiled again and there was a softening of his expression so that Razeby could tell he was thinking of his wife, the former star of the Covent Garden stage, Venetia Fox. Venetia, who was Alice’s best friend.

A vision of Alice swam in his mind. Alice, with her mischief and her heart and her laughter. Alice standing in their bedchamber looking at him with that expression of shock in her eyes as he told her it was over. Something churned in Razeby’s stomach. He forced that last image away and turned his gaze to the hordes of white-frocked débutantes across the floor, one of whom by the end of the Season would be his wife, in his bed and carrying his child. He felt numb at the thought, but it had to be this way. He had had his fun and Alice had been more than he had ever anticipated, but now it was time to bite the bullet and do his duty...before it was too late. He turned his mind from all other distractions and summoned a cold determination.

‘So which lucky débutante are you going to ask to dance?’ asked Linwood.

‘The first one I come to,’ replied Razeby with a smile that did not touch his eyes and, setting his champagne glass down on the silver salver of a passing footman, he made his way across the room.

* * *

The day had been a long one, following a night in which she had not slept, but Alice was not tired.

It had been a mammoth effort and one which had seen her travel round half of London. But it had been worth it.

The large travelling bag lay open at her feet.

‘Shall I help you, ma’am?’ The maid hovered awkwardly in the doorway as if afraid to enter the bedchamber. The girl’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, her manner awkward. Alice saw the way her eyes dropped to take in the travelling bag before meeting her face.

All of the servants knew, even though she was sure that Razeby would have told them nothing of it. Alice had two sisters in service in Dublin. She knew that servants always knew these things.

‘No, thank you, Mary. I’ll see to myself. But if you could have Heston see that a hackney carriage is summoned for me.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to update the rest of the staff.

Alice went through the wardrobe, pulling out a minimal selection of clothes, all of which she had brought with her when she had come to this house, and ignoring the expensive silk dresses and accessories that Razeby had paid for.

She made short work of gathering up the rest of her possessions. There were not many. Alice travelled light. She preferred it that way.

It was when she moved to close the wardrobe doors that she stopped, her eyes drawn, as if not of their own volition, to the dress hanging on its own at the very end of the row. She hesitated, bit her lip, knowing that she should shut the door upon it just like all the rest, but unable to do so. Before she could think better of it, she slipped the emerald-silk evening dress from the hanger and folded it into her bag.

Of all the gifts that Razeby had given her, she took only one, opening the lid of the long thin cherrywood box just long enough to check that the engraved silver pen was inside. But she did not look at it. She did not touch it, just snapped the lid shut and stuffed it into the travelling bag with a tortoiseshell comb and the rest of her toiletries before buckling the bag closed. Then she swept the black-velvet cloak over her shoulders and lifted the travelling bag.

One final glance around the bedchamber, at the dressing table and its peering glass, at the wardrobe and the armchairs and the pretty little table with its ivory vase of deep-pink roses that had had their day. The heads were blown, the petals starting to fall. But their perfume was still sweet and lingering in the room. She moved her gaze to the bed, which she and Razeby had shared, let her eyes rest there for only a moment. Then, with her bag in hand, she walked away, down the stairs and out into the waiting hackney carriage.

The driver flicked the reins and the carriage drove off into the sunset. Alice kept her focus on the glorious rosy-streaked sky. She clutched her hands tight around the travelling bag and kept her mouth set firm with determination.

And not once did she look back at the house.

* * *

Razeby lost track of the number of women he danced with. They all seemed much the same. He made conversation. He went through the motions. But all the while he could not get last night’s scene with Alice out of his head.

She knew more than most how the games between men and women played out. She had been under no illusions. Neither of them had. And yet...

I don’t want your money, Razeby.

The words whispered again in his ear. It was that one phrase more than any other that worried him.

Last night had been about a clean, quick break. It was the only way. The best way for them both. Just as he had told Linwood. The theory of it had been easy, the practice anything but. He had handled it badly. More than badly. He wondered if he could have handled it worse.

Alice had been good to him, good for him. She was like no one he had ever known. It explained the gnawing feeling he had felt since telling her. Guilt. He should make sure she was all right, now and for the future. He should up the sum of her severance payment from that which his lawyer had specified in the contract, regardless of what she said.

He delivered Miss Thomson back to her mother. And bowed.

Hurt me? Don’t flatter yourself, Razeby.
He was not sure he believed her. The thought niggled him. He felt the guilt gnaw harder, even though he had spoken the truth to her. Arrangements like theirs were not meant to last. But he could not stop wondering how she was.

‘Leaving so early?’ Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘The night is still young, Razeby.’

‘Breaking myself in gently, Linwood,’ he lied. ‘There are only so many débutantes a man can endure in one evening.’

‘Do you want to go to White’s to recover?’

‘Another night,’ said Razeby.

* * *

The lights glowed through the blind-shuttered windows. The house in Hart Street looked as welcoming as ever it had done. He wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here. But he needed to reassure himself that she was all right.

‘What do you mean she is gone?’ It had been the early hours of this morning when he had left her here alone. Not even twenty-four hours had elapsed since that botched confrontation.

He saw the awkwardness of the butler’s expression before the man remembered his professional decorum and schooled his face to the usual attentive impassivity.

‘Miss Sweetly was out all day, my lord, returning earlier this evening to pack a travelling bag.’

Something twisted in his chest. ‘Did she leave a note?’

‘There is no note, my lord.’ There was something in the way the old man’s eyes looked at him that made him feel even more of a bastard. He paused before adding, ‘She gave instructions that she would not be returning.’

‘And did Miss Sweetly say where she was going? Or leave a forwarding direction?’ Razeby knew in his heart what the answer to those questions would be, but he asked them in the hope that he was wrong.

‘No, my lord, she did not.’

‘But she must have given a direction to John Coachman?’

‘Miss Sweetly did not travel by your lordship’s coach when she left.’

He understood the significance of that very clearly. She did not want him to find her, and, in truth, he could not blame her.

Razeby dismissed the butler and climbed the stairs to the bedchamber they had shared. Everything looked just the same as it always did, as if last night had been just some bad dream. The wall sconces on either side of the fireplace were lit, the flames of their candles reflecting soft and subdued in their adjoining looking glasses. The roses he had brought her not a week ago were still in their vase. A small fire burned on the hearth, making the room cosy and warm. The scent of her was in the air, the sense of her entwined in the very fibres of the place.

Her jewel casket still sat upon her dressing table, beneath the lid all of what he had given her lying neat in their own little compartments.

He walked to her wardrobe, opened up the door. There were only a few spaces where garments no longer hung. The myriad of coloured dresses that he had paid for from Madame Boisseron’s were still there. Their matching slippers and shoes sat in neat pairs at the bottom of the wardrobe. On an impulse he opened his own matching wardrobe and saw all of his clothes just as he had left them.

He closed the doors over, letting his eyes survey the rest of the room. Nothing was out of place...except... His gaze stilled when it came to the ivory bedcovers, neat and smooth upon the mattress, for laid carefully upon them, in their very centre, was the brown-velvet box opened to reveal the cream-velvet cushion and the diamond bracelet that lay sparkling upon it.

He felt his jaw clamp tight and a cold realisation seep through his blood. Alice had gone. He did not know where. Without her severance payment. Without a single thing he had bought for her. And there could be nothing for the best about that.

* * *

‘I came as soon as I got your message.’ Alice’s best friend and mentor, the woman who had saved her from her life in Mrs Silver’s bawdy house and set her up as an actress, Venetia Fox, or Viscountess Linwood as she was now, handed her cloak to Alice’s new maid and followed Alice through to the drawing room of her new home in Mercer Street.

‘You must have dropped what you were doing and come straight away. I only sent the boy half an hour ago.’

‘You are my friend, Alice. What else did you expect I would do?’ There was a concern in Venetia’s face that made Alice feel guilty.

‘I didn’t mean to worry you, Venetia. I was just letting you know where I was.’

‘I am glad that you did. I really have been worried.’ Venetia sat down next to her on the sofa and took her hands in hers. ‘What happened?’

Alice smiled as if the words were easy to say. ‘He gave me my
congé.
Said it’s time he found himself a bride.’

‘Oh, Alice, I am so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It had to happen one day. I’m an actress. He’s a marquis. How else was it going to end?’ She shrugged and gave a little laugh. ‘Besides, I was tired of him. I fancied a bit of a change, myself.’ The joking words tripped easily from her lips.

Venetia did not look convinced. ‘Neither of you could have anticipated what happened to Atholl. I suppose it made Razeby see things differently.’

‘Atholl was a grand excuse for the both of us.’ An excuse for Razeby, more like. She knew now what had been bothering him all those weeks and months leading up to it and she was more fool for being worried over him. ‘Our time was on the wane.’

‘You left Hart Street very quickly.’

‘Striking while the iron’s hot.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve got myself sorted out. What do you think of the new rooms? I’ve had my eye on them for a little while.’ The smile broadened to become a grin. ‘Nice and handy for the theatre. And not too high a rent.’

‘They are very nice. But I did not come to see the rooms, Alice,’ Venetia said carefully.

‘You did warn me not to become his mistress. Do you remember?’

Venetia gave no reply, only held her gaze with eyes that were filled with compassion.