MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS (9 page)

It meant nothing, she told herself, but her heart quickened all the same. He had just come for an evening at the theatre. But following on from Dryden’s and White’s and the benefit ball, she knew that was not the case, that really his presence here did mean something. Alice just did not want to think precisely what.

* * *

He would not be in the Green Room. He would not dare. She knew it, yet the first thing she did when she walked in there was to look for him.

But Razeby dared.

‘Miss Sweetly.’ He bowed.

‘Lord Razeby.’ She curtsied. Her heart leapt at the sight at the sight of him, her nerves shimmered in delight. She could not stop herself from smiling.

All attention in the room was upon them for all it feigned otherwise. Every conversation was conducted with half an ear on theirs.

She could not avoid him. Could do nothing other than treat him as if he were any other man.

‘I trust you enjoyed the play, my lord.’

‘More than I could have imagined,’ he replied.

‘Then perhaps your imagination is a little lacking.’

‘On the contrary, Miss Sweetly, my imagination is most excellent. I have often been complimented upon it.’ She saw the message in his eyes.

She was the one who had complimented him on it...when they were making love.

Something exciting and bold and deliciously dangerous whispered between them.

‘Your acting talent has blossomed and taken on a new and vibrant dimension.’ He smiled.

‘Mmm,’ she said, sharing the smile. ‘I think I’ve heard that somewhere else. And there’s you laying claim to a most excellent imagination.’

‘You wish for originality in the compliments to be paid you?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘I’d settle for truth,’ she returned.

He leaned closer, lowered his voice slightly. ‘Then the truth is, Miss Sweetly, that you were wonderful.’

The same words he used in this same Green Room a lifetime ago. The same words he had whispered in their bedchamber every time he had come to take her home after those occasional stage appearances. The world seemed to shift and detach around them.

‘And you’re as much a flatterer as ever,’ she said softly, her eyes tracing his.

‘Never that, Alice,’ more softly still. He was smiling that smile of old, making everything seem so right.

Their eyes held, stretching time, making the Green Room and its people disappear. She could feel the beat of her heart and sense his beat in time. Between them was that same connection there had always been.

‘Ah, Razeby.’ Hawick’s voice interrupted. ‘How goes the bride search?’

The words crushed the moment, dragging them both back to the reality of what could not be.

‘Well enough, thank you,’ said Razeby. He smiled politely at Hawick, but there was nothing of a smile in his eyes when he looked at the duke.

‘You were supreme as ever, Miss Sweetly,’ said Hawick, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

‘You’re too kind, Your Grace,’ she replied, easily enough, but she was acting. And beneath that bright surface it felt like the dark hidden depths of a pool had been disturbed.

‘If you will excuse me. Your servant, Miss Sweetly.’ Razeby bowed and walked away.

* * *

Such perilous, glittering allure. Alice knew she was playing with fire. But she could not turn away from the path she had chosen to walk, as if there had ever really been anything of choice in it. She could not turn away from Razeby, for the sake of her pride and her livelihood. And more than that she could not turn away from Razeby because, even knowing what she did, she wanted to see him. It was a disquieting realisation. And one which she sought to distract herself from with a shopping expedition in the company of her friends the next day.

The four of them sauntered along Bond Street laden with parcels and boxes. Alice had allowed herself to be persuaded into buying too many fripperies, but she had to admit, it did make her feel good, even if the parcels were cumbersome to carry and her feet were aching from too much walking in shoes that were stylish and new, but less than comfortable.

They had just left the milliners when Sara asked the question.

‘You did say you cleared out everything you could from Hart Street, didn’t you, Alice?’

‘What do you mean?’ Alice glanced across at her, a sudden panic drumming in her breast that Razeby might have revealed something of just how much she had walked away from.

Ellen drew Sara a look of daggers.

‘I saw that look, Ellen Devizes,’ Alice chided.

‘Lord, Sara, but you have some size of mouth on you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sara looked hurt. ‘She’s fine about Razeby.’

‘Even so,’ countered Ellen.

‘What aren’t you telling me?’ Alice asked.

There was a resounding silence.

‘Out with it,’ she said.

‘Razeby’s kept the house on,’ said Ellen at last.

‘That can’t be right,’ Alice murmured before she could stop herself.

‘It is,’ insisted Sara. ‘He’s been seen there.’

‘Why on earth would Razeby do that?’ Alice asked, her pace subconsciously slowing.

Sara raised her brows, widened her eyes and gave her that look that brought a blush of embarrassment to Alice’s cheeks.

It was Tilly who finally told her. ‘The rumour is it ain’t just a bride he’s looking for, Alice, but a new mistress. We thought you knew.’

Alice felt the words hit her hard. She glanced away to hide her shock. ‘Rumours aren’t always true.’

They all looked at her in a way that made her regret saying the words aloud.

‘Going in there late at night. Leaving early in the morning. A girl doesn’t have to be a bluestocking to work it out,’ said Sara.

‘You know what men are like.’ Tilly patted her arm as if to console her.

‘I do.’ And yet she thought Razeby different. Even now. Even after all that had happened. It could not be true. She knew Razeby. And what he was doing was about duty, no matter how much she disliked the way he had gone about doing it.

‘It’s always about what’s in their breeches,’ said Ellen.

‘It is,’ agreed Alice with a smile to mask how much she was still reeling from the revelation.

‘But you didn’t leave anything behind, did you?’ Sara persisted.

Alice’s smile broadened. ‘I didn’t leave one thing.’ But, in truth, she had left a lot more than a diamond bracelet and some expensive dresses.

‘You don’t want some other woman getting her hands on anything that’s rightfully yours.’

Tilly and Ellen nodded in agreement with Sara’s words.

Alice laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that.’

‘Glad to hear it, girl.’ Tilly slipped her arm through hers.

‘Come on—’ Ellen gave a smile ‘—I need some new stockings and Benjamin Preece has been advertising ladies’ white silk hose made of real China silk for only 7s 6d a pair.’

‘I could do with some stockings myself,’ said Alice, denying the disquiet she was feeling. ‘And then we’ll go and have tea.’

‘Like ladies.’ Ellen raised her eyebrows and affected a posh accent.

They giggled like girls.

‘Preece’s it is,’ said Alice and, with her arm still linked in Tilly’s, the group made their way towards Preece’s warehouse.

* * *

In all of the days that followed the shopping trip Alice could not stop thinking about Razeby keeping on the house in Hart Street. It worried at her, like a dog at a bone. She tried to push the thought out of her head, throwing herself all the more into her parts on the stage over those next few nights, and afterwards, in the Green Room, working the room with a charm and a control that would have done all of Venetia’s best teachings proud. But none of it stopped her thinking. At night, in bed, the thought was there just the same.

She looked at herself in the peering glass. There were much prettier women out there. Women who put her ordinary looks in the shade. She sucked in her tummy, examined her teeth and scrubbed a finger against the faint freckles that marred the bridge of her nose. Maybe he really had just grown tired of her. Maybe he had lied and misled her because he did not have the courage to tell her the truth.

She shook her head, unable to believe it. Razeby had more integrity in his little finger than the whole of any other man she had known. And rumours were just that, she told herself. A fire of gossip over nothing.

But all rumours started with a grain of truth,
the little sharp thought countered.

And then pricked away at her relentlessly. Even if it was true, what difference did it make? she demanded.

But it did make a difference. Alice knew that, no matter how hard she tried to pretend otherwise. And because of that she knew she was going to have to discover the truth for herself.

* * *

She rose much earlier than normal the next day.

‘Shall I fetch you a hackney carriage, Miss Sweetly?’ the youngest maid, Rosie, asked.

Alice shook her head. ‘It’s a fine morning. I’ve a mind to walk and take the air.’

‘I’ll just fetch my cloak, ma’am. At this hour of the day it’s still a bit chilly out there.’

‘Don’t bother yourself, Rosie. I’ve some lines to think through, it’s best if I walk alone.’

‘Very good, ma’am.’ The maid bobbed a curtsy and opened the door for her.

The hour was still early enough that the streets were quiet. The ground was damp with rain that no longer fell, and, as the maid had warned, the morning was still cool with the night’s chill. But the sun was out and the air was bright and clear, just the way she liked.

She walked slowly, breathing in the damp freshness of the air, while all around her London stirred. Carts with animals and vegetables come up from the country for the market rolled by. Milk maids leading cows by a rope, a gaggle of geese still wearing the little shoes to save their feet from all the miles they had walked. Alice walked, too, down Mercer Street and along Long Acre, crossing over to walk down Banbury Court. And, finally, onto Hart Street.

She strolled as if it were just a street like any other. Pretended not to even look at the house in which she had lived with Razeby. She deliberately stayed on the other side of the road. But her feet trod slower and her heart beat faster, and as she came closer her eyes fixed upon the building that had been her home for half a year.

It looked just the same as when she had left it. As if she could walk back in there right now and turn back time to be what it had been not so long ago. But then the fittings and furniture came with the house when Razeby had rented it, just as hers had come with the new rooms in Mercer Street. It did not mean that the house was not in other hands. It was just a damn rumour and she was a fool for even being here.

But at the very moment she chided herself with that thought, the black glossy front door opened. And Alice’s heart jumped at the prospect of being caught here spying. She ducked out of sight behind a tree. Her fingers held hard on to the wide gnarled trunk as she watched while a tall, dark-haired handsome man she recognised too well emerged.

The breath caught in her throat. Her stomach gave a somersault before her heart stampeded off at full tilt.

The expression on his face was serious. He was not smiling. Indeed, there was nothing of his usual good-natured manner with which she always thought of him. He walked off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction, not glancing back at the house once.

Her heart was thundering and she felt shocked, and all she could hear in her head were Tilly’s words:
The rumour is it ain’t just a bride he’s looking for, Alice, but a new mistress.

And he must have himself a new girl, or why else would he have spent the night there? She stared at the windows. All the blinds and curtains were opened, but there was no movement, no hint of a woman’s face watching him leave.

She waited until he was almost out of sight before stepping out from behind the tree and making her way back to Mercer Street.

Chapter Eleven

R
azeby was at Almack’s again. So many times, going through the same motions. All with one purpose that was contrary to that which he desired. It was bad enough being here without his friends turning up to witness it. Linwood was different, because, despite all of Razeby’s denials, Linwood knew something of the truth and he understood, in part.

‘Came to give you a bit of support, old chap, in the old bride hunt.’ Bullford beamed.

‘How considerate of you all,’ said Razeby with an irony that sailed right over Bullford’s head.

‘Well, we couldn’t abandon a brother in need. You seem to be struggling, so we thought we’d better step in and help.’ Fallingham sipped at his champagne.

‘Struggling?’ Razeby raised an eyebrow.

‘Dragging it out,’ Devlin explained.

Razeby smiled because the barb was dangerously close to the truth. ‘I am merely being selective in my choice.’

‘Selective? That’s a good one,’ quipped Monteith. ‘I must remember “selective” when it comes to deferring putting my head in parson’s trap.’

‘What’s to select?’ asked Fallingham. ‘There’s only three criteria to be considered: how well connected they are, how much money they bring to the deal, and how far they can open their legs.’

The men laughed at Fallingham’s crudity. All except Razeby and Linwood.

Razeby glanced round at his friends—the group of society’s most disreputable gentlemen. ‘One glance at the company I’m keeping and the duennas won’t let me near their charges.’

‘We could always take care of the duennas for you, Razeby,’ Monteith said. ‘There’s much to be said for the older, more experienced lady.’

‘There’s a truth in that and no mistake,’ agreed Devlin. ‘I heard a story about the widowed Mrs Alcock—’

‘We’ve all heard the story of Mrs Alcock and if you repeat it in here you’ll have us all thrown out, and then where will Razeby be?’ said Bullford.

‘Push off, the lot of you,’ said Razeby as if in jest, but meaning it. ‘Before Lady Jersey sees you.’

‘There’s gratitude for you,’ drawled Monteith.

Razeby gave an ironic smile.

‘You know where we’ll be.’ Fallingham finished the contents of his glass in one gulp and waved a farewell.

His friends moved off, all except Devlin and Linwood.

Razeby met Devlin’s eye. ‘I really have heard the story of Mrs Alcock, Devlin.’

‘Wanted to speak to you,’ said Devlin. ‘Slightly sensitive subject.’

Razeby felt a sudden uncomfortable premonition of just what that ‘slightly sensitive subject’ might be.

‘Not like you to be bashful,’ he said and waited to see what Devlin would say.

‘I just wanted to ascertain the situation. Regarding you and Miss Sweetly.’

Razeby’s heart beat harder. ‘I am looking for a bride, Devlin. Does not that say it all?’ He forced his muscles to stay relaxed.

‘I thought perhaps you and Miss Sweetly might still have something going.’

‘We do not.’ The words were curt. He kept control.

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Razeby’s gaze sharpened on Devlin. But Devlin did not seem to notice.

‘The thing is, Razeby...’ Devlin cleared his throat. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Now that you and Alice are no longer together I thought I might ask her out. You wouldn’t have any objection to that, would you?’

‘Why would I possibly object?’ he said drily. But inside he could feel the thud of his heart too loud and hard in his chest and the cold prickle of his skin, and something primitive and menacing snake through his blood.

‘Thank you, Razeby.’ Devlin gave him a nod. ‘I had better catch up with the others.’

‘You had better,’ said Razeby in a voice that barely concealed the warning. He stood there and watched Devlin leave with a jaw clenched so tight it was painful, only shifting his gaze to Linwood once Devlin had disappeared through the door.

The two friends exchanged a glance.

‘You are over her, remember,’ Linwood said quietly.

‘I remember,’ Razeby replied grimly. ‘Remembering is all I do.’

* * *

Alice slipped the cloak hood from her head as the Linwood butler ushered her into the hallway of Venetia’s rooms.

‘Alice.’ Venetia came hurrying out of the drawing room to see her.

‘You don’t have anyone in, do you?’ Alice asked, darting a cautious look over at the drawing room.

‘No one. I am just writing some letters while Linwood is out this evening.’ She made no mention of exactly where Linwood had gone. She did not need to. Both women knew that there was a matchmaking ball at Almack’s tonight and that Linwood would be there with Razeby.

‘Is something wrong?’ There was a look of concern on Venetia’s face that made Alice feel guilty.

‘Nothing,’ Alice lied. ‘I just fancied a chat, that’s all.’

‘Come on through. A chat sounds much more inviting than dealing with a pile of business letters.’ Venetia ordered a tray of tea with crumpets and jam.

The drawing room was cosy, the curtains drawn against the darkness outside. They drank the tea and ate the crumpets, even though Alice was not one bit hungry. The scene reminded her too much of the dark winter nights when she and Razeby had toasted crumpets by the fire and spread thick butter on them to melt and drip down their chins and all over their fingers as they snuggled together beneath a blanket. She pushed the memory away.

They talked of the theatre, of how much Venetia missed it, of the current plays, of Kemble and people they knew in common—indulging in a little gossip and laughing together.

‘Talking of gossip,’ Alice said and it sounded a little contrived even to her own ears, ‘I was wondering...’ She hesitated, then, taking a breath, asked the question that she had come here to ask. ‘Have you heard any rumours concerning Razeby?’

‘What kind of rumours?’

‘About Hart Street.’ Alice swallowed. ‘It seems he’s kept the house on.’

‘I had not heard.’

Alice looked at her friend, wondering if she was telling the truth, or just sparing her feelings.

‘I am sure if it is true there is a perfectly good explanation behind it.’

‘It’s true all right,’ Alice muttered and then blushed when she realised just how much that reply revealed.

Venetia did not question her on it. ‘Whatever Razeby’s reasons, I doubt very much they stretch to what the gossipmongers are saying.’

‘I thought you hadn’t heard the gossipmongers saying anything about him.’

‘And neither I have, Alice. But I can well imagine.’ Venetia raised an eyebrow. ‘I know what you are thinking.’

‘Do you?’ Alice looked into her eyes.

‘Do you really think he is interested in another woman as his mistress?’ Venetia asked quietly.

‘No. Maybe.’ Alice closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to think any more, Venetia.’

‘Whatever is going on with Razeby, I think you may rest assured it is not that.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Alice gave a sigh. ‘It shouldn’t matter a toss, even if he’s taking a different woman back there every night of the week. But a woman has her pride.’ But pride was only part of Alice’s problem.

Venetia gave a nod of understanding.

‘I best be away.’

‘You will not stay for some more tea?’

Alice shook her head. ‘Thank you, Venetia.’

They both knew it was not the tea Alice was thanking her for.

* * *

Alice tried to put Razeby out of her mind and get on with her life. The prospect of seeing him worried her, because she felt like something had changed in her and she knew it was more important than ever that she maintain a façade of normality. But she had to see him again, and she did, only two days after speaking to Venetia.

The musicale in Mr Forbes’s drawing room was in full swing, the formally arranged rows of chairs filled completely. Some gentlemen were standing against the walls at the back of the room and some at the sides. Forbes was a personal friend of Kemble’s. He was a wealthy man, but not exceptionally so. Precisely how he had managed to secure the talent of Angelica Catalani to sing for them tonight was a coup that had everyone asking the question. The soprano was famously difficult in temperament and her fee was reputed to be beyond the reach of all but the richest in the land. But when she opened her mouth and sang, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. She had a voice with true clear clarity, a voice that made Alice think of crystal and purity and perfection.

Alice was here with Kemble and his sister, the famous tragedy actress Sarah Siddons. Their seats in the middle row meant they had a good view of Madame Catalani, and were the optimal distance to appreciate the music. Alice was trying very hard to focus herself entirely on the singer. Trying to block out the knowledge that Razeby was sitting at the back of the room with Miss Althrope, who accompanied him this night.

The programme for the evening, neat and nicely printed, was lying open on her lap. Before the music had started she had pretended to read it, and chatted with Kemble and Mrs Siddons. As she had suspected, Kemble could not help himself running through the scheduled music and discussing each one. Alice had smiled and listened and added in her tuppence, conscious that Razeby could see her and her every reaction. It was important that she look as if she were having the best time in the world. Without him.

It should have been easier once Madame Catalani started singing. All Alice had to do was sit there, looking serenely engrossed in the music. But it grew strangely more difficult.

Madame Catalani’s voice was so haunting and melodic that it made Alice feel emotional. Emotions were dangerous. Especially emotions of the sort that were seeping into her chest. She glanced away from the soprano, seeking to distract herself, but all she could see were the fashionable red-painted walls around her. Red—pray God that they had been any other colour!

The applause sounded. Kemble glanced at her, applauding for all he was worth, nodding at her and smiling his enjoyment. She made herself smile back and clap all the harder. But then Madame Catalani began to sing again, a piece so devastatingly haunting that it had the power to pierce through all the armour Alice had donned. It moved her. It made her think of things of which she did not want to think. The truth of feelings and pretences.

It made her think of Razeby.

She dropped her gaze to rest on the programme lying on her lap. But the beautiful voice sang on and inside of Alice all of her emotions seemed to be twisting and turning and welling dangerously high. And there, ever present, was that burning awareness of Razeby sitting behind her with another woman. It was like a burr, cutting into her. Or maybe it was just the haunting voice and that music, and those red, red walls. All of it pressing in on her. Suffocating her, until she did not think she could bear it for another minute.

She leaned closer to Kemble, whispered near his ear, ‘If you’d excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Kemble. I’ll be right back.’

Kemble gave a nod, barely taking his eyes from Madame Catalani.

Alice made her way from the row as inconspicuously as she could.

* * *

Razeby was not focused upon Madame Catalani like everybody else in the room. Rather, he was watching Alice leave alone, and a few moments later the sleazy figure of Quigley slip out after her. No one noticed. Madame Catalani sang on. The whole audience was transfixed.

Razeby whispered his excuse to Miss Althrope. And went out after them.

The hallway was empty. Not a footman or a maid was in sight. Madame Catalani’s voice was softer, more muted in volume out here. Beneath it Razeby heard the quiet footsteps on the staircase. He moved silently to follow, reaching the top of the stairs just in time to see Quigley’s black-jacketed back at the end of the passageway disappear through a door signed as the ladies’ withdrawing room. Razeby’s eyes narrowed.

He made his way along the passageway.

* * *

Alice had no need to avail herself of the withdrawing room’s facilities behind the modesty screens. She could still hear Madame Catalani’s voice, even up here, but at least she was alone. And the walls were a cool pale grey rather than red. She could breathe. The sky was a clear blue through the windows, the afternoon sunshine lighting it brightly, but the sun was at the front of the house, and this room at the rear. It was cool in here, the fire unlit. And Alice was glad of it. It was just that aria, she told herself, and those red walls and the heat of the room downstairs. A few moments in here and she would be in command of herself once more. She took another breath just as the footsteps sounded outside the door.

Alice pretended to be smoothing down the skirt of her dress as the door opened behind her. She did not look at the reflection in the full-length looking glass, just lowered her eyes and turned to leave.

‘Why, Miss Sweetly. There is no need to rush off, my dear.’

She stopped dead in her tracks, the sight of the lecherous Mr Quigley standing there making her stomach tighten in shock. ‘Mr Quigley! What on earth do you think you’re doing in here? This is the ladies’ withdrawing room!’

‘Yes. I am well aware of what room this is. But I wanted to have a little word with you, in private. And it is so very difficult to get you alone.’

‘You’ll understand if I don’t oblige. Mr Kemble and Mrs Siddons are waiting down the stairs for me.’

‘Now, you cannot expect me to believe that Mr Kemble and Mrs Siddons, or indeed any person in that drawing room, are not so engrossed in Madame Catalani’s singing that they will miss you for a little while. And with you, I do only need a little while.’ He licked a tongue against his lips as if he could taste her upon them and she could not suppress the shudder of revulsion that went through her.

She made to pass him by, but he caught hold of her wrist lightly with his little claw-like fingers.

‘Now, my dear Miss Sweetly,’ he began. He smiled in a leering sort of way, leaning in close so that she could smell the stench of stale wine upon his breath. ‘I have had my eye on you for a long time. And now that Razeby is off the scene and you are left alone, without a protector, I thought I would do the chivalric thing and take you under my wing.’