Mistress to the Marquis. Margaret McPhee
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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.
‘Were we supposed to be riding this morning?’ Razeby asked.
Linwood shook his head. ‘Not this morning. I came to ask if you are attending the Lords this afternoon.
‘I am.’
‘It is the debate on Wellesley-Pole’s circular letter.’
‘The Irish issue.’ Razeby could almost hear the whisper of Alice’s Irish accent, so soft against his ear.
‘I heard that there are plans to bring up the fact that you are biased on the matter.’
Because of Alice. The words went unspoken between them.
‘Do they not know she is no longer my mistress?’ he asked.
‘I am sure they are well aware, but they will still use the association against you. Feelings are running high on the subject. Better be prepared, Razeby.’
‘I will,’ he murmured. ‘Sit down. You’ll take a brandy?’
‘A trifle early in the day, Razeby.’ It was, but he needed it.
‘Coffee, then?’
Linwood gave a nod.
They spoke about horses and other inconsequential things while waiting for the coffee. He waited until they were sipping their coffee, bitter and strong, before he asked what he could no longer stop himself from asking. It was natural, he justified. Any reasonable, fair-minded gentleman would do the same, although the words perhaps would not have clamoured so desperately for release.
‘Have you heard anything of Alice?’ He did not meet Linwood’s eye.
‘She opens tonight in Covent Garden’s Theatre Royal, playing Lady Macbeth,’ said Linwood. ‘Kemble has made quite a fanfare. It has sold out. There is not a seat to be had in the house.’
‘So I saw in the newspapers.’ He paused. ‘Has Venetia seen her?’
‘I believe so.’ Linwood sipped at his coffee. ‘They are as much friends as we two.’
The silence was loud between them Razeby swallowed, wondering how far he dare go without raising his friend’s suspicions. ‘How is she?’
‘I understand that she is well.’
Razeby gave a nod and cleared his throat. There was another awkward pause. ‘If you should ever hear otherwise…’
‘Do not worry, Razeby,’ Linwood said quietly. ‘Should that be the case, I would let you know.’
‘Thank you, Linwood.’ He breathed a little easier.
There was a rap on the dressing room door. The same dressing room she had shared with Venetia all those months ago, before Venetia had married Linwood and Alice had become Razeby’s mistress.
‘Five minutes to curtain up, Miss Sweetly.’
‘Thank you.’
It was Alice’s opening night, her grand return to the Theatre Royal as a full-time actress.
Her palms were clammy with nerves, her stomach turning somersaults at the prospect of walking out on that stage alone before a packed house. It had always been this way. But it had not been as bad when Venetia was here as the leading lady and Alice just sharing the spotlight. And thereafter, during her occasional appearances, there had been Razeby. Just his presence, with his easygoing manner and his smile, with his utter belief in her and the way he could rub that little spot at the back of her head that, no matter what, relaxed her tension and made all of her nerves and worries fade away.
There was no Razeby tonight. She sat alone and looked at her painted face in the peering glass, lit bright with candles. She looked strong and capable and determined, even if she said so herself.
She inhaled slowly and deeply. She could do this. She would do this. Pour all of everything she did not feel over Razeby into the part. It was a simple strategy.
Another deep breath and Alice rose and walked out of the little dressing room, along the corridor and through the wings.
‘Miss Sweetly on stage in five, four, three, two…’ They counted her down with every step she took. ‘One.’ She walked out on that stage before a packed Theatre Royal.
Her eyes slipped unbidden to Razeby’s box.
It was empty. And she was glad of it.
She shifted her eyes to Linwood’s box. And there, beside Linwood, was Venetia. Just as she had promised.
Alice smiled, and when she opened her mouth to speak she was not Alice any more but Lady Macbeth.
The clock ticked on the mantel. The sunlight streamed into the study, catching on the crystal drops of the wall sconces on either side of the fireplace and making them shimmer and sparkle with a rainbow of colours. From somewhere in the house there was the quiet opening and closing of a door.
Razeby noticed nothing of it. He stood, rather than sat, at his desk, his focus trained on the newspaper spread open on his desk before him, more specifically on the article about the woman whose return to the stage had taken Covent Garden by storm. London was in awe, as it regaled the delights of the previous night’s play with Alice in the role of the leading lady. His eyes followed down the printed column, reading each and every word.
Since her separation from a certain Lord R., Miss Sweetly’s acting talent has blossomed and taken on a new and vibrant dimension. She has a passion and realism that quite transfixed the audience and left them shouting, nay, begging, for more.
He had always known she had such wonderful talent upon the stage and he was truly gladdened by her success. But beneath his happiness for her was also an ache.
A subtle rap of knuckles against his study door and then his butler was there, showing his lawyer in.
‘Mr Ernst of Ernst, Spottiswoode and Farmer, my lord.’
Razeby’s eyes lingered on the words for only a second longer. Then he closed the newspaper and set it aside.
‘You sent for me, Lord Razeby,