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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 (#ue4f0f10f-a38d-5358-aa6e-4787ba8a1f26)
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 (#ue4f0f10f-a38d-5358-aa6e-4787ba8a1f26)
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, to undertake an audit of the Razeby estate and monies.’
Razeby did not allow himself to think of Alice, but only of what lay ahead.
He took his seat at his desk. ‘Please sit down, Mr Ernst.’
Alice was in the middle of removing her stage make-up after her fifth evening of performing when Sara, her fellow actress and mistress to Viscount Fallingham, popped her head round the door of Alice’s dressing room.
‘Hawick asked if you’ll be coming with us tomorrow. There’s a little outing arranged to Hyde Park, a promenade at the fashionable hour. I’ve already run it past Kemble and he’s all for it. There’s me and a couple of the other actresses, Hawick, Monteith, Frew, and Fallingham of course, not that he doesn’t trust me.’ She smirked.
Alice thought of her theatre contract. Being seen with the top gentlemen of the ton was all part of the promotion she was required to undertake. And now that the performances had started there was no longer any reason to avoid this side of it.
‘You don’t need to worry, Alice. Razeby won’t be there. I checked for you.’
Alice felt her blood run cold. ‘You checked?’ she said softly.
‘I didn’t think you would want to bump into him any time soon.’
It was the truth, but she knew she could not let the comment go unchallenged. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s only been a couple of weeks since.’ Sara glanced away awkwardly.
‘He gave me my congé,’ Alice finished for her with a smile. ‘You can say the words. I’m perfectly fine with it.’ She knew whatever she said to Sara would be all round the theatre by this time tomorrow.
‘I thought that you and he… the way the two of you were together… that maybe you were loved up on him.’
Alice dreaded that was what they were all thinking. She gave a scornful laugh. ‘Don’t be daft. It was an arrangement, nothing more.’ She still had her pride.
‘But the way you looked at one another. If Fallingham looked at me like that.’ Sara fanned a hand before her face as if just the thought brought her out in a scorching flush.
