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‘You could have kept her on,’ said Devlin. ‘I would have, had it been me.’
‘We all would have,’ said Monteith.
‘I am not you.’ And Alice deserved a damn sight more respect than that.
‘Why exactly didn’t you keep her on?’ asked Fallingham and stopped sipping his champagne to hear the answer.
The rest of the group looked at Razeby expectantly, a speculation in their eyes that had not been there before.
‘Do you really have to ask?’ he drawled with a deliberate ambiguity that did nothing to answer the question.
‘What you need is to get her back in your bed,’ said Fallingham.
‘What I need is to get myself a wife.’ He gritted his teeth.
‘The two need not be mutually exclusive,’ Monteith commented.
‘For me they are,’ Razeby said it with nothing of his usual jest or charm. He smiled, but the smile was hard and his eyes cool. He saw the look that was exchanged between his friends. And he did not care.
The awkwardness of the moment was alleviated by Bullford’s mother, the formidable Lady Willaston, who appeared amidst their circle. ‘Sorry to interrupt your little chat, gentlemen, but, Lord Razeby, Miss Frome is nigh on ready to swoon with hunger from waiting for the plate of food you went to fetch her some considerable time ago.’
‘My humble apologies, ma’am.’ Razeby gave a nod. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen.’ Picking up the plate from the table next to him, he made his way back to Miss Frome and her friends.
On the day after the débutante picnic Alice’s visitors sat in her new little drawing room while she poured tea into the three china cups set on their saucers on the table before her.
Ellen and Tilly were old friends—they worked secretly as Miss Vert and Miss Rose at the blot in Alice’s past, London’s infamous high class brothel, Mrs Silver’s House of Rainbow Pleasures, in which the courtesans each dressed in a different colour and hid their identities behind feathered Venetian masks.
‘You ain’t half landed on your feet, Alice,’ said Tilly, glancing wide eyed round at the warm yellow decor of the drawing room with its gilt-and-crystal chandelier and peering glasses. ‘Razeby must have seen you all right in his severance settlement.’
Alice smiled and passed the teacups to each of her friends in turn. ‘Of course he did.’
‘What did you manage to wangle from him? A suitably large sum and a nice piece of expensive jewellery, I hope,’ Ellen said.
Alice thought of the diamond bracelet and felt that same chill ripple through her. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ she said, still smiling. She could not tell them the truth. Everyone knew the deal in relationships like hers and Razeby’s. Everyone knew she would have taken everything she could from him. It was what any mistress would have done to her protector.
‘You held him to the letter of the contract between you?’ Ellen asked.
‘Absolutely.’ But Alice had no idea what was written within the legal contract that had defined her and Razeby’s arrangement. The document had never been unfolded; it still lay, tied in its green ribbon, in the drawer of the desk in Hart Street. She remembered the day that Razeby had presented her with it and how she had refused to accept it until the red ribbon that was used to secure all such legal documents was changed. Razeby had sent out immediately for a green ribbon and tied it in place himself as she stood and watched.
‘Don’t let the bastard wriggle out of it.’ Ellen grinned.
But Razeby had not tried to wriggle out of anything. Quite the reverse. It made her feel angrier, both at him and herself.
She stretched her smile wider, pushing the feeling away. ‘I’ve a good head on my shoulders when it comes to money.’ It was true. She thought of the money that Razeby had given her through the months they had been together, little of it spent on frivolities. A regular sum had been sent to her mother in Ireland, the rest she had saved.
‘And a good head when it comes to men.’ Tilly grinned. ‘You did all right out of Razeby.’
‘I did,’ she admitted and turned her mind away from why the knowledge made her feel queasy.
‘You’re a clever girl, Alice.’ Tilly poured her tea from her cup into her saucer and sipped it as daintily as any lady.
‘Aren’t I just?’ she exclaimed in a voice that made them all laugh.
‘Thank you, Mr Brompton. We will continue our discussions later, when you return.’ Razeby dismissed his steward from his study and turned to where Linwood was standing by the fireplace, examining the portrait of Razeby’s father that hung on the wall above.
‘I would have come back another time when you were not busy,’ said Linwood, turning to him. ‘I did not realise you had summoned Brompton down from the Razeby estate.’
‘One has to get one’s affairs in order…’ he glanced away ‘… before one’s marriage.’ The ticking of the clock punctuated the silence.
‘You do not seem yourself, Razeby.’
He did not feel himself. ‘Prospect of parson’s trap does that to a man.’ He attempted a light-hearted response. ‘You should know.’
Linwood’s dark eyes met his and there was not a trace of humour in them. ‘I do not,’ he said, admitting the truth outright of what lay between him and Venetia. ‘But then you are already aware of that.’
Razeby turned away and poured them both a brandy, handing one to Linwood.
‘It is not that. There is something more. There is a change in you,’ said Linwood, still holding him under scrutiny.
Razeby gave a laugh and turned his gaze away from those shrewd black eyes. ‘You grow both fanciful and poetic in your old age, Linwood. Have you been in Byron’s company?’
‘No.’ Linwood was to the point.
Silence.
Razeby gave a shrug, but made no more denials. ‘Maybe it is time for a change. A man must face his fate, sooner or later.’ The inescapable fate that they all would face in the end.
‘He must indeed. But it does not need to be like this.’
‘Believe me, it does,’ said Razeby with a grim smile.
‘There is a rumour circulating about you and Hart Street.’
‘There is always some rumour or other circulating,’ he said curtly, not wanting to discuss anything of that.
‘And Alice?’
‘I have already told you, it is over with Alice.’ His voice sounded too harsh and defensive. Linwood knew better than to probe further.
Before heading to the Green Room within the Theatre Royal that night, Alice called in at the dressing room that Sara shared with two other actresses.
‘Oh, Alice, I’m not ready yet! I just can’t get my hair to sit right. All the curls have fallen out because of that damn wig! Look at the state of it!’ Sara wailed.
‘Just leave it as it is, Sara!’ one of the other actresses said. ‘Or we’re all going to be late for the Green Room and Kemble will have something to say about that.’
‘You two go on ahead and keep Kemble happy. I’ll help Sara with her hair,’ Alice said.
‘If you’re sure, Alice?’ They did not look certain.
‘Go! The pair of you!’ Alice ordered with a grin.
The two younger women smiled and hurried away, while Alice, elbows akimbo, hands on hips, turned to where Sara sat before a peering glass, her hair lying limp and straight from three hours of compression beneath a hot heavy wig.
‘Lucky for you I’m a dab hand with hair that’ll not take a curl. Now, missus.’ Using just her fingers she scraped Sara’s hair back into a ponytail, twisted it round, gave it a flick and secured it in place with just three pins.
‘Alice, you’re a wonder!’
‘I am, indeed,’ Alice teased. ‘Now, come on, get yourself moving, girl.’ She turned to leave.
‘Just before we go through…’ Sara put a hand on her arm. ‘The gaming evening at Dryden’s, the one I told you about last week.’
‘It is still on, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Sara smiled and gave a nod, but there was a slight look of unease in her eyes. ‘It’s just… well… I was talking to Fallingham about it last night and it seems that he’s invited Razeby.’
Razeby. Just his name made Alice’s heart skip a beat.
Sara screwed up her face in an expression of awkward apology. ‘Sorry!’
‘What’s to be sorry about?’ Alice gave a smile. ‘It doesn’t matter to me whether Razeby’s there or not. I’ve already told you, it’s fine between us.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Alice reassured her.
‘I hope so, or it’s going to be an awfully uncomfortable evening.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that, honestly.’ Such confidence. Truly worthy of her best performance upon the stage.
Sara smiled her relief.
‘Now come on.’ Alice slipped her arm through Sara’s. ‘Kemble will be wondering where on earth we’ve got to. Better make sure you dazzle him with that new hairstyle of yours.’
Sara gave a giggle as the two of them hurried from the dressing room towards the Green Room, to dazzle and sparkle, to tease and entice. But beneath all of Alice’s air of glamour and charm was the constant knowledge that tomorrow would bring Dryden’s and a night spent gaming with Razeby.
Chapter Eight (#ue4f0f10f-a38d-5358-aa6e-4787ba8a1f26)
Dryden’s Gambling Palace was busy. It was a luxurious affair that rivalled Watier’s, with tables to cater to every taste and every pocket. The top room had a chandelier reputed to have real diamonds amongst its glass. Entry was by invitation only and the stakes could stretch to match the highest in all of London.
The room was spacious, airy, the walls papered in plum-coloured paper embellished with real gold patterning. The floor was tiled in marble imported from Italy, black and gold to match that of the blinds that masked the windows. There were no footmen, only the prettiest girls dressed up in footmen’s livery who served free drinks to the men who came here to game.
Along the full length of one wall was a bar that housed any drink a man might desire, whatever the time of day. On the opposite side was an enormous Palladian-style fireplace of black marble. The walls themselves were hung with expensive works of art depicting Rubenesque women and wondrous exotic landscapes. But no clocks. Not a single one.
A champagne fountain flowed in the centre of the room, the filled glasses from which were being served and replenished all around. There was a faro table in one corner, casino in another, and tables for vingt-et-un, hazard and piquet in between. In the furthest corner a whist table catered for the more elderly gentlemen or the few ladies who ever dared enter this hallowed place. Women of the demi-monde were a different story.
Alice stood with Sara looking over the men seated round the vingt-et-un table. Razeby was not here and Alice felt a curious mix of both relief and disappointment at his absence.
‘Do you play tonight, ladies?’ drawled Monteith.
‘I’m here only as Fallingham’s good-luck charm,’ said Sara, stepping up close behind the chair at which Fallingham was already seated and resting her hands upon his shoulders in an intimate fashion. Alice watched while the viscount lifted one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it. The display of charm and affection reminded her too much of Razeby, making her feel awkward. The smile felt stiff upon her mouth.
‘Somehow, gentlemen, I feel my luck is in tonight whatever chances to happen upon this table,’ Fallingham said in a playful tone.
Sara’s smiled deepened and Monteith and several of the men smiled in that knowing way.
Alice swallowed her discomfort and glanced away.
‘And what about you, Miss Sweetly?’ Monteith raised an eyebrow. ‘Which one of us lucky gentlemen will be fortunate enough to have you act as our charm this evening?’ There was speculation and interest in his eyes, in Frew’s, and too many of the other men’s. She knew what playing the part of any of their lucky charms in this place would entail and she would be damned if she would do that, no matter that she wanted to prove that Razeby meant nothing to her. Flirtation was one thing, an illusion of sparkling enticement, but an illusion just the same. She could not go so far as to let any of them actually touch her.
‘Oh, I’m my own lucky charm,’ she said smoothly. ‘I play tonight, Your Grace.’
She saw the stir of interest around the table, the way they liked that idea.
Monteith smiled, as if amused by both the double meaning of her words and her challenge. ‘Do you need anyone to… refresh your memory as to the rules?’ He put it so delicately, but she knew what he was thinking, that she had no idea how to play a serious game of cards.
‘No, thank you, Your Grace. I think I can remember them.’
They smiled at her indulgently.
As if she could ever forget. Razeby had taught her the trick behind stacking the odds in your favour of winning in vingt-et-un—the way to count and memorise the cards. It was a game that they had liked to play often. A game that they had played not for money, but for the removal of their clothes. Razeby always said that the excellence of her memory made her a natural at it—either that or a desire to have him stripped naked before her.
The last time they had played it had been only three weeks ago and they had ended up making love on the dining-room table on top of the forgotten scattered cards. The memory made her heart skip a beat and brought a slight blush both of anger and embarrassment to her cheeks. She thrust it away and took her seat beside Fallingham.
The vingt-et-un dealer, dressed in the smart black-and-gold livery of the gaming house, sat in the middle of the other side of the table. There were empty chairs on either side of him, one of which would not have been empty had Razeby been here. She felt a slight sense of pique at his absence, part of her wanting him to see this proof of how little he had affected her.
‘The house rules apply. Are you ready to begin, gentlemen… and Miss Sweetly?’ The dealer smiled politely at her.
There was common agreement.
‘Then we shall commence.’
Alice kept her eyes on his hands as he dealt a card to each of them and himself last of all, before dealing a second card in a repeat of the process.
‘Not too late, am I, gentlemen?’
The smooth velvet voice stroked all the way down her spine. A voice she knew too well, which the mere memory of could set her skin a-tingle and her heart racing. Alice froze in that moment, her heart skipping a beat before setting off at a thunderous tilt. She forced herself to breathe, to stay calm, to focus. And only then did she raise her eyes to look at Razeby, at the very same minute his eyes met hers.
There was the tiniest of moments—that catch of time, that ripple of tension. And then he bowed smoothly. ‘Miss Sweetly.’
‘Lord Razeby,’ she replied politely, as if all of the previous six months had never been. Round the table every pair of eyes looked not at the cards upon the table but at Alice and Razeby.
She had prepared herself for seeing him this time, she reminded herself. And she was a very good actress. She breathed, calmed herself, smiled.
‘Miss Sweetly decided to play tonight,’ Monteith said, the unnecessary explanation a subtle message to Razeby, as if Alice would not understand.
Her eyes met Razeby’s, a silent comment upon Monteith’s transparent and wasted subtlety passing between them. She remembered what she had come here to do and she smiled at him, a smile that only he would understand.
He knew her challenge. Accepted it by selecting the chair directly opposite her to take his seat.
