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‘You are not afraid of much, Alice Flannigan.’ Venetia’s eyes held hers. ‘I heard you beat him at Dryden’s.’
‘I beat them all,’ Alice said carefully.
‘At vingt-et-un,’ pointed out Venetia. ‘Razeby’s game.’
‘So?’ Alice gave a shrug, but she knew Venetia understood something of the game’s significance between them.
‘You are playing dangerously with him.’
‘We always played dangerously, me and Razeby.’
‘Such games do not always turn out the way we think.’ Venetia’s warning, though veiled, was unmistakable.
‘Maybe not, but sometimes for the sake of our pride we have to play them,’ Alice said and met Venetia’s gaze. ‘I’m getting on with my life, Venetia. I’ll not let Razeby get in the way of that. And if, along the way, he’s made to feel just a tiny bit of regret, is that such a very bad thing?’
‘As long as you know what you are doing, Alice.’
‘I do, trust me. I’ll flirt with him just the same as the others. But it doesn’t mean anything. Honest.’ She gave a grin. ‘Well, maybe I’ll flirt with the others just that bit more to annoy him!’ She pressed a swift kiss to Venetia’s cheek.
‘Alice Flannigan, you are an incorrigible woman.’
Alice laughed. ‘I’ll say it now because I can’t say it once we’re at the ball. Enjoy the evening. Dance with Linwood until your head’s dizzy. It really is for a good cause. Had there been a similar charity in Dublin years ago, it would have saved my mam a lot of trouble. Being homeless with thirteen mouths to feed isn’t much fun.’
‘I hope you enjoy yourself, too, Alice.’
‘Oh, I’ll be doing that, all right. You needn’t worry on that account.’
‘Will you be all right with Frew?’
‘I know how to deal with Frew. He’ll be getting a few dances and not a thing more.’
The two of them laughed, knowing that Alice could more than handle herself.
The ballroom was crowded. Alice caught sight of Venetia and Linwood standing talking with Linwood’s parents, Lord and Lady Misbourne, and Venetia saw her, but they could not give any acknowledgement, or even appear to notice one another. Ton and demi-monde. Two different worlds indeed, even if they were standing only a few yards apart in the same room.
Alice was wearing a new dress from Madame Boisseron. It had cost a small fortune, much more than Alice would ever normally have paid for a dress, but she had bought it, and a few others, with the winnings from her card game. The skirt was plain ivory silk, the bodice was gold silk, suggestively cut and fitted, but without even a hint of cleavage on display. The dressmaker had said that it would make every man that looked at it unable to take his eyes from her, which, judging from Frew’s reaction, seemed to have been an accurate prediction.
It had small gold sleeves that were really just two bands of silk framing her fully exposed, naked shoulders. She wore not so much as a ribbon or a necklace, neither a bracelet nor a ring, and yet Madame Boisseron had been right to say the dress was designed to be worn this way, without a single item of adornment. Alice had known it the moment she looked at herself in the peering glass. And she knew it now from the way every gentleman in the room was looking at her. And the way Venetia raised her eyebrows and sent her a secret smile.
Razeby was dancing with some respectable young lady across the dance floor. Alice told herself it did not matter. Every man in Razeby’s position had to do the same, eventually. It was just as he had said—he had a duty to marry and provide an heir. She ignored the stab of jealousy and moved her mind to more pleasant thoughts.
She glanced across at Frew, and the fact that he so clearly thought himself so handsome and a gift to all of womankind made her want to chuckle; he set not a single firework alight in Alice’s arsenal.
‘You are looking especially beautiful tonight, Miss Sweetly,’ he said.
‘You’re too kind, Mr Frew.’
‘My given name is Edward.’ His eyes stared deeply into hers, affecting a smoulder that at best appeared contrived, and at worst as if he had contracted an ocular complaint.
‘How interesting, Mr Frew.’ She smiled.
Razeby would have laughed at the response. Frew just looked slightly aggrieved.
She refrained from teasing him further and resigned herself to a very dull evening in his company. ‘So what was that poem you recited in the Green Room the other night?’
‘I wrote it just for you, Miss Sweetly.’ Frew began to recite the flowery words again, but Wordsworth had nothing to worry about. After two verses she knew that if Frew made one more reference to long thrusting swords and softly dewed maidens she would not be able to keep a straight face.
Halfway through the dance his hand took hers and their steps led them to exchange places. It was the point she had been waiting for. She glanced again towards Razeby, whispering his name in her mind as if to call him.
Razeby’s eyes moved to meet hers, as if answering her call. She watched his gaze drop to her dress and sweep over it before coming back up to her face. She held his gaze, gave him a small teasing smile. Nice? it asked.
Very nice, indeed! His eyes answered with an unmistakable interest.
She gave him a naughty arch of her eyebrows, knowing full well what it would do to him, before she turned back to Frew.
She leaned her mouth closer towards Frew’s ear, let him hold her that little bit closer than respectability decreed. ‘Tell me that last line again, Mr Frew. You do have such a way with words.’
Frew positively puffed out his chest, and, looking like a man that thought his luck was in, he obliged.
By the next time she could glance in Razeby’s direction she saw he was watching Frew with a distinctive glower.
She drew Razeby an admonishing look.
He put on his innocent face.
She gave that smile that told him she was not fooled for a minute by his protested innocence.
He grinned an admission.
The dance took them away from one another. She did not see him again, only Frew. And she could not help feeling a little deflated at that. But not as disappointed as Frew at only being allowed a chaste kiss of her hand when he delivered her home.
When she lay in bed that night it was not Frew she was thinking of or his terrible poetry, but Razeby.
No one could accuse her of avoiding him. Not after Dryden’s. Not after White’s. And not after tonight. She smiled because it felt like her plan was coming together. And she smiled just because she had enjoyed the little exchange with him and it made her feel warm and dangerous and excited. In the back of her mind she heard again the whisper of Venetia’s warning. There was a truth to it, she acknowledged, because as surely as Alice dangled an enticement before Razeby, she felt the pull of him. There was a rapport and an attraction that existed only with him. And that was a very dangerous thing. Venetia was right; she should have a little more care in her dealings with Razeby.
‘You know you are more than welcome to come, Razeby, but do you really think it is a good idea?’ Linwood asked his friend as they sat together in the drawing room of Linwood’s home a few nights later. He got up and poured two glasses of brandy from the decanter that sat on the nearby desk, passing one of them to Razeby.
‘A man is entitled to one night off.’ Razeby accepted the brandy with a murmured ‘thank you’. He knew what Linwood was saying was true. Going to watch Alice in one of her plays in the company of Linwood and his wife was the worst idea in the world. He knew it and yet here he was sitting in Linwood’s drawing room, suggesting the idea. ‘Besides, I have a wish to see the play.’
Linwood raised a single, dark, sceptical eyebrow. ‘Or a wish to see Miss Alice Sweetly.’
‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘She is the most talked-about actress in all London. Her reputation as a serious actress on stage challenges both Venetia’s and Mrs Siddons’s. Maybe I just want to see how her performance has developed.’ And part of that was true. But only part.
Linwood did not look convinced. ‘Your presence will not go without comment.’
‘Because Alice was once my mistress? Am I never to set foot in the Theatre Royal again?’
‘No one is saying that.’ Linwood met his gaze. ‘But what happened to the clean severance?’
‘The severance was clean. Alice understands the situation as well as I do. There is nothing between us save for civility.’ But he was lying. There was something very much more than civility between them. Something that was driving this compulsion he felt to see her.
‘It is not as if I have lost sight of what I am doing. I will be at Almack’s tomorrow.’ There was no harm in just seeing her. He drank the brandy down and glanced away towards the window. It changed nothing, save made him feel better. ‘I will have myself a wife before the Season is done, Linwood. I have to. There can be no two ways about it.’
‘I understand that it is “over” between you and Alice, but have you considered that when it comes to finding a wife there is always next Season?’ asked Linwood.
Razeby smiled and met Linwood’s eyes. ‘No, my friend, there is not,’ he said quietly. It was as close to telling him the truth as he could come.
Linwood’s eyes searched his as if seeking to glean the answer that was there. But Razeby held his gaze, steadfastly refusing to give away anything more, until at last Linwood, with a tiny incline of his head, acknowledged defeat and dropped the challenge.
Linwood topped up their brandy glasses. ‘Well, in that case, Razeby, you had better spend this evening in the company of an old friend at the theatre.’
Alice stepped out on to the stage that night. It was another full house. The part came naturally to her. She closed off her mind to all of real life and just let herself be this other woman. She acted. And it was almost as exhilarating as teasing Razeby across a room, but nowhere near as dangerous.
His box was empty, just as it was empty every night. But her eye caught a glimpse of figures in Venetia’s box. Alice slipped her gaze to her friend and saw not only Venetia and Linwood. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Razeby sitting there with them. She turned her eyes away, careful not to allow herself to be distracted.
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.
