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.
Alice hated to see it. It made her feel angry and even more determined. She did not want anyone’s pity, not even Venetia’s. ‘You told me it was better to earn your own money than put yourself in any man’s power.’
‘And did you put yourself in his power, Alice?’ Venetia asked softly.
‘Of course not! I’m not that daft. I knew the score with him. Just as he did with me. With my background, how could I not?’ The secret of her scandalous past whispered between them. She smiled again as if it meant nothing. ‘I kept my hand in at the theatre, didn’t I? Doing the odd appearance. Which is why Kemble’s agreed to take me back full time.’
‘I am glad of that.’ But whether Venetia’s gladness was due to Kemble taking her back full time or her attitude over Razeby was not clear. ‘But there is more to power than money, Alice.’ Venetia looked at her. ‘I do understand something of how it has been between you and Razeby. How it was even in the very beginning.’
‘You’re imagining things, Venetia.’ Alice gave a dismissive laugh. ‘What was between Razeby and me was a kind of mutually beneficial business arrangement, nothing more. Great sex and a good time, and money, of course, lots of money.’
‘It seemed as if there was a lot more than that.’
‘I’m a good actress. What can I say? You trained me well.’ She smiled again.
‘You are,’ said Venetia, ‘a very good actress.’ There was no edge to the words. Alice did not know why they brought a blush to heat her cheeks.
The little clock on the mantel ticked, reassuring and steady.
Alice busied herself in pouring tea into the pretty bone-china cups that came with the fine furniture and everything else in these rented rooms. She added a lump of sugar to each and a few drops of cream before passing one small cup and saucer to Venetia.
‘You seem as if you have everything in hand, Alice.’
‘I have, indeed.’
‘If there is anything I can do to help...’
Alice glanced across the room to the side table, where the folded cream paper lay with its red ribbon tied around it. ‘Actually, there is one thing you could do for me, Venetia, as you’re here. Kemble’s given me the contract for the theatre. I was going to come and see you. But I was waiting for a quiet time.’ She fetched the document over and set it down next to the coffee tray.
‘You can come round any time, you know that.’ But that was not true. They both knew it.
‘We move in different worlds now, Venetia. You’re no longer an actress, but a viscountess. If I’m seen visiting, it wouldn’t look good for you. Reputation is everything in the ton. They’re starting to accept you. It’s going well. I don’t want to ruin it.’
‘You will not ruin it. You are the very height of discretion.’
‘I try.’ She laughed. ‘Well, only where you’re concerned, if I’m honest.’
‘I am glad you are keeping your spirits up.’ Venetia smiled.
‘Why wouldn’t I? Razeby’s in the past. Ahead there’s only the future. And the future looks good for me.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m planning to throw myself into the theatre life. Make a real go of it. You have to get on with life, don’t you?’ Another of her mother’s teachings. Very easy to say, not so easy to do. But Alice would do it. She was very determined of that.
‘You do,’ Venetia agreed. Then she lifted the document Alice had set before her and slipped off the red ribbon that bound it.
A small companionable silence opened up as they sipped their coffee and Venetia read the wording of the theatre contract.
‘Is it all in order?’
‘It seems to be. You are in a strong position, Alice. Your return to the stage full time will fill the theatre. You could push Kemble to pay you more.’
But Alice shook her head. ‘I’m happy with what he’s offered me. I just want to get on with it. Get started.’
‘If you are sure?’
‘I am. Although I must confess to being a little nervous at playing so many leading roles.’
‘You will be fine upon that stage, Alice. More than fine. You will be great. I know you will.’
‘I hope so.’ Alice bit at her lip and her cheeks turned pink at the compliment.
‘Kemble has told you the plays that are scheduled?’
‘Right up to the summer. There’s nothing new, nothing I haven’t done before, thank the Lord.’
Venetia met her gaze. ‘If something new does come up...any new part to be read, come to me.’
Alice gave a nod. ‘I will.’
The two women looked at one another, bound by more than this secret that they shared. By sensitivity and friendship and past histories tha
t were too much alike.
Alice took a deep breath. ‘Go ahead, sign it,’ she said.
Venetia gave a nod and then, moving the tray aside, she lifted the plain black pen, another one of the house’s possessions, from its holder and dipped the tip into the ink well. Very carefully she signed at the end of the contract, Alice Sweetly, then sprinkled some fine sand upon the still-wet ink of the signature.
‘It is done, Alice,’ she said.
They both knew that it was more than the signing of the contract Venetia was referring to. This commitment to going back to the theatre full time was the drawing of a line under all that had gone before with Razeby. It marked the end of that chapter in Alice’s life and the beginning of a new one. She was fortunate to have such an option, and more fortunate still to have such a friend as Venetia who had helped her. Alice knew that, so she smiled and held her head up. ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you, Venetia.’
‘I will come and see you in your first performance.’
‘You do that. I’ll be looking out for you.’ Alice smiled.
They walked towards the front door.
The thought was pounding in Alice’s mind, and the words whispering in her ear, and Alice tried not to say them. But once Venetia walked out that door it would be too late and Alice had to be sure.
Just as Venetia was about to leave, Alice placed her hand on her friend’s arm and said quietly, ‘If Razeby should enquire, which I’m sure he won’t, you won’t tell him the direction of my new rooms, will you?’
There was the tiniest of hesitations in which Venetia looked into her eyes in a way that made Alice regret speaking the words.
‘Rest assured I will tell him nothing, Alice.’
There were no accusations. No denials or admissions. Just a hug of understanding. And a farewell.
Chapter Five
Within the study of Razeby’s town house in Leicester Square, Collins answered the question he had just been asked. ‘Two maidservants, no menservants. Apart from that, no one.’
‘Thank you, Mr Collins.’ Razeby slid a neat pile of folded bank notes across the gleam of the mahogany desk top.
The wiry, sharp-eyed man pocketed the money without counting it. It was not first time the Bow Street Runner had undertaken a little work on the side for Razeby. Although it was in all probability the last, thought Razeby with a macabre sense of humour.
‘All in a day’s work, Lord Razeby.’ Collins made no comment as to the information he had just given Razeby, although he could not have been unaware of its significance. The Bow Street Runner was too smart for that. It was why Razeby had used him. ‘I will bid you good day, my lord.’ Collins gave a small bow and left, closing the study door silently behind him.
Razeby sat where he was, staring at the panels of the door without seeing them. A man had his duty and his fate. And honour. None of which he could escape, no matter how much he willed it. That knowledge was ever present in his mind these days.
A few thousand pounds and his duty to Alice would be discharged, all monies owed paid. The severance between them finalised. And after that maybe then he would be able to stop thinking of her, maybe then he would be able to focus on the task in hand. Finding a bride. Breeding an heir.
His gaze lowered to the desk, to the scrap of paper that Collins had given him. He looked at it again, his eyes lingering on it even though the words written there were already imprinted on his memory. There could be no room in his life for sentimentality or faltering. Only getting the job done. He knew that, but he still folded the paper carefully and stowed it safely in the pocket of his waistcoat before ringing the bell for his valet and moving to ready himself for tonight’s dance.
* * *
In the days since Venetia’s visit Alice had done just as she had said and thrown herself into the theatre. She was working hard in preparation for her opening night at Covent Garden’s Theatre Royal. The enormity of the challenge before her left little time for that. She rose early and tumbled into bed late, exhausted. She loved the smell of the theatre, that dusty polished scent unique to the grand stage. The way it gave her a purpose on which to focus.
Every day brought new challenges, refreshing herself as to the plays and the roles, running through lines last heard a year past. She took home scripts at night and returned them the next morning, pretending she had read them, as if she could, but Alice had no need to read a single line. She only had to hear something once to remember it for ever. It was her special gift. And she was truly thankful for it.
All day, every day was spent at the theatre, with Mr Kemble and the other actors and actresses, rehearsing. Everything that she feared she might have forgotten of the art of playacting came back to her as easily as if she had last stepped upon a stage in a leading role only yesterday. Even the feeling of fear but also of excitement, like walking a knife edge. It made her concentrate, made her focus. It took away the luxury of time during which she might dwell upon Razeby.
* * *
Alice was about to leave for rehearsals one morning when the maid brought her a letter.
‘A footman has just delivered this, ma’am.’
She lifted the letter from the maid’s small silver salver, wondering who had written. So far, only Kemble and Venetia knew the address of her new rooms. Kemble she saw in person each day and Venetia knew better than to write. But as soon as she turned the letter over in her hands she knew without opening it, without needing to be able to read a single word of it, the identity of the sender.
‘Have him wait, Meg,’ she instructed.
The thick red-wax seal impressed upon the back was a crest she recognised too well. One that made her pulse thrum uncomfortably hard and her heart beat too fast with anger and too many other emotions she would rather not name. She swallowed, torn between not wanting to open it and the need to know what lay beneath that seal. Wetting her lips, she swallowed again and cracked the wax. The letter unfolded. Inside was a cheque with Razeby’s name signed against a sum she could not read. The letter itself was blank other than signed with his name. That familiar bold black scrawl—Razeby.
It was her severance pay, a common enough negotiation between mistresses and the men in whose keeping they had been. A lump sum to tide them over until they found their next protector. Or to keep them for life. But for Alice there would be no new protector. And she would keep herself, earn her own money. Venetia had been right in that. Too late she realised just what her friend had been warning her against.
She stared at the cheque. She might not know the figure written there, but she knew it was high. Common sense and practicality told her she should accept it. Take it to the bank this very day. You had to be careful with money. Save it. Look after it. The future was never certain and life without money could be very hard indeed. Who better than Alice knew that? But when she looked at the cheque, Razeby’s money, and all that it meant, she could not bring herself to do it.
Folding the cheque within the letter just as it had been, she heated a blob of rich red wax and let it drip to cover and melt away Razeby’s crest. Within a few moments it had cooled and the letter was sealed once more, the wax disc smooth and even.
She took it out to the footman who waited in the hallway. A footman she recognised from Razeby’s town house in Leicester Square. He recognised her, too, although he said nothing. If he knew the contents of the letter, he gave no sign.
‘If you would be so kind as to return this to Lord Razeby.’
‘Certainly, Miss Sweetly. Is there a message you wish relayed?’ he enquired.
‘None other than what is within the letter.’ She smiled at him.
‘Very good, miss.’ He bowed and left.
Alice watched him go.
It had taken Razeby less than a week to find her. Just for a minute she wondered if Venetia had told him. But she knew in her heart her friend would never have broken her word. Razeby was a marquis, a man of power and money and contacts, all of which he had clearly used.
/> But he could keep his money. She would not touch a damn penny of it.
Chapter Six
Razeby had checked every entry in the estate account books. The task kept his mind from wandering to other thoughts he had no wish to think. Thoughts of the future. And even more thoughts of the past...with Alice.
Lifting the pen, he made to enter the figure in the column at the bottom of the open page and found the inkwell dry. He opened the top drawer of his desk to find a fresh bottle of ink and saw, lying there, the cheque he had written to her.
He stilled, his eyes fixed upon it. Four thousand pounds, twice what was specified in their contract, and she had sent it back as if it were some kind of insult. Some men might have construed it as a means of angling for more money, but Razeby knew in his gut that it was not. There was a finality about it, a closure rather than an opening of negotiation, and it made him uncomfortable. Had she asked for three times the sum he would have felt happier. Maybe then he would not be worrying over her.
The memory came again of the expensive dresses still hanging in the wardrobe at Hart Street, all the jewellery still in its casket, the diamond bracelet abandoned upon the bed. And the same uneasiness rippled through him, the gnawing feeling that it was all wrong, the unmistakable essence that there were layers between the two of them that he dare not explore. He quelled the feelings, reassured himself that he had done everything he could. He could no longer be a part of Alice’s life, nor she a part of his. What she chose to do was no longer his concern. Lifting out the bottle of ink, he turned his eyes from the cheque and shut the drawer.
He had just blotted the entry and closed the books when the butler announced that Linwood had come to call.
MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS Page 4
