Regency Desire: Mistress to the Marquis / Dicing with the Dangerous Lord. Margaret McPhee
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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.
Razeby 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.’