Читать книгу Mistress to the Marquis - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 12

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.

‘We had a good time.’ Alice gave a shrug of her shoulders as if it was nothing so very special. ‘But these things aren’t meant to last.’ A parody of the words Razeby had said to her, standing there in that bedchamber.

‘Was it an amicable separation?’ Sara’s curiosity was getting the better of her. She looked surprised, making Alice wonder just what the gossipmongers had been saying, given that they had so little to go on. Maybe she needed to give them a little grist for their mill.

‘Sorry to disappoint the girls, but, yes, it was.’

‘We thought you were upset, you’ve not been seen out anywhere on the town.’

‘I’ve been busy. Give me a chance. I’ve not even finished my first opening week!’

‘I suppose so,’ said Sara.

‘And I’m not upset in the slightest.’ Alice smiled to prove it.

Sara gave a grin and looked like she believed her. ‘So you’ll come tomorrow?’

‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

The door closed behind Sara.

Alice took a deep breath. There could be nothing of avoidance. Avoidance was tantamount to admitting that she cared, that she was hurt, that she could not bear to face him. And none of that was the case, as London would see soon enough.

She was getting on with her life. And if Razeby happened to cross her path, then so be it.

It would make not one jot of difference to her. He would make not one jot of difference to her.

Within Hyde Park Miss Pritchard was strolling by Razeby’s side, her concentration more on the people in the park who were looking at them than anything else. Behind them, Mrs Pritchard, her younger daughter by her side, was espousing on the merits of good breeding and outlining a detailed Pritchard family lineage in the process.

The Pritchards were wealthy and well connected. A suitable alliance for Razeby. But Razeby did not know if he could suffer Mrs Pritchard’s incessant boasting. Or, indeed, Miss Pritchard herself. All he had to do was marry her and bed her. It should be simple enough, especially for a man like him who had bedded no shortage of women in his life. But the prospect left him cold. He stared into the hazy afternoon distance and tried to not to think about it.

The last time he had been here in Hyde Park was with Alice. She had shunned the use of his curricle and insisted they walk. She did not care about being seen on his arm or not. What she had cared about were simple things—the glory of the sunshine, the freshness of the air, the birdsong and the furls of new green buds on the trees; riches for the eyes, as she called nature or art or anything that she liked to look at. He had been unable to prevent his fingers from curling in hers. And she had smiled and not given a damn about who was watching them.

The memory made his heart swell.

He felt Miss Pritchard’s hand upon his arm stiffen. Mrs Pritchard was still talking, but he could hear the increased arrogance and volume of her tone, that sudden slight edge of superiority and distaste.

And then he saw the reason why. Ahead, rounding the corner was a small party of men and women, out taking the air and being seen at this most fashionable of hours in the park. But not just any men and women. The men were some of the highest in the ton. Of the women, Razeby only noticed one. A woman who stood out from the others because she was golden and beautiful and she just seemed to glow with life and with happiness. He could hear the playful banter within the little party, the laughter, the teasing, flirtatious air.

Alice, clad in her plain pale-yellow walking dress and contrasting cream spencer and gloves, was walking by Hawick’s side, listening to something the duke was saying to her. Perched at a jaunty angle on her head was a small stylish hat he had not seen her wear before. Beneath it her fair hair, so haphazardly pinned up, had allowed pale golden strands to escape and waft artlessly around her neck. It was fresh and simple. He had watched her so many times twist her hair up and pin it all within a minute, only to have him unpin it and slip his fingers through those long silken skeins and take her into his arms and kiss her.

She looked comfortable, confident and yet with that same slight shyness that had always intrigued him. Her eyes were lowered as she listened to something that Hawick was saying, but she was smiling. The sight of her made Razeby feel things he did not want to feel. Not now that it was over and he had set his mind to doing what must be done. There was the hard thud of his heart. The fast rush of his blood.

And the awful sinking sensation of his predicament.

Miss Pritchard was by his side, her mother and sister walking behind. Razeby realised what he was going to have to do. What any gentleman in his position would have to do. And the prospect of it sent a chill all the way through him.

Alice had been his mistress. The woman walking by his side could be his wife.

Duty. The word seemed to resonate with every beat of his heart.

Du-ty.

Du-ty.

Du-ty.

He had no choice.

He turned his eyes away from Alice. Kept his focus steadfastly elsewhere. Cutting her, as the rules of polite society dictated. As if she were some stranger. As if she were not the woman he had loved every night of the past six months.

But he could see her in his peripheral vision, that blur of yellow and cream and blonde, slight beside the tall loom of Hawick’s darkness. And he could hear the rustle of the silk of her skirts, hear the distinctive lilt of her softly spoken words, smell the faint scent of her perfume.

His heart beat faster.

He could sense her, feel her, the awareness as sharp as if his eyes were studying her every detail.

He measured every step that brought them ever closer on this path, knowing that they must pass one another, that it was far too late for retreat. Neither of them could turn away from this.

He knew that Alice’s attention was all fixed on Hawick. As if she had not even noticed Razeby. As if she were cutting him every bit as much as he were cutting her. And he should be glad of it. Truly he should. But it was not gladness that he felt as the little group strolled towards him and his party through the sunshine.

Every step brought her nearer.

Five feet… She was so close now that he could hear the soft breathiness of her laughter at Hawick’s joke.

Four feet… Everything sharpened. Everything focused. The hushed ripple of grass blades in the breeze. The sweep of her eyelashes, soft as a butterfly’s wing.

Three feet… The sound of his breath. Alice.

Two feet. The beat of his heart… and of hers. Alice.

One foot… Razeby turned his gaze to Alice. And in that very last moment, that second in which all of time seemed to slow and stop, she raised her eyes to meet his.

The jolt hit his stomach and rippled right through his body. It was as if they were the only two people in the park. As if all of the past six months flashed between them in stark vivid clarity. As if the dark blue depths of her eyes swallowed him up and submersed the whole of him in this moment and this woman and all that was beating through him.

Their gazes locked and held. And he could not look away, not if all of the future depended on it, which in a way it did.

And then the moment was past.

She was past.

Walking on with Hawick and the others. Walking away from him.

His steps never faltered. He kept on walking. As if nothing had just happened.

No one else noticed. Everything else went on just the same. Miss Pritchard’s fingers still lay upon his arm. Mrs Pritchard was still selling the family pedigree behind him, her younger daughter chipping in smart little comments here and there.

But Razeby was not the same.

Something had just happened and the force of it shook him more than he wanted to admit. Something had just happened, something which Razeby did not understand.

Alice did not hear what it was that Hawick had been saying to her, all she could hear was the rush of her own blood too loud in her ears and all she could feel was the tremor that vibrated through her body. She deliberately kept her gaze low as if playing coy with Hawick, when in truth, it was to hide the storm of emotion suddenly raging within her.

She had seen Razeby and his party, the rich, beautiful young woman clinging so possessively to his arm, and the women who could only be her mother and sister walking so proudly behind, the minute she had rounded the corner. And she had prepared herself. Knowing that he had no choice but to cut her. Knowing she had no choice but to not give a damn. To cut him right back.

And she had almost done it. Would have done it, despite the pound and throb of her heart, and the raw rush of air that rasped in her lungs, and the tight knot that worked itself ever tighter in her stomach, except for that last moment, when it felt like his voice had whispered her name, calling her. The sound of it stroking right down her spine. Tingling against her skin. And she had answered without pausing to think. Yielded to it instinctively.

And when she looked, those liquid brown eyes had been on hers, not looking away, not cutting her, only holding her as intensely as they ever had done, perhaps even more so. As if all that had gone between them had not ended, but grown only stronger. Her heart was still beating nineteen to the dozen.

By her side Hawick shifted infinitesimally closer.

‘So you will come, Miss Sweetly?’ he was saying.

She calmed herself, hid the shock of what had just passed between her and Razeby. By the time she raised her eyes to meet Hawick’s she had herself under control again.

She smiled at him, although she had not the slightest idea of what he had just invited her to. ‘If I’m free,’ she said. ‘I’ll need to check my diary.’ Truly the consummate professional. Venetia, her teacher, would have been proud of her.

Hawick smiled, too, with a particular interest in his eyes that made her want to shiver in the warmth of the spring sunshine. She hid the urge, along with all the others.

The party walked on through the park.

Hawick began another story, but Alice was not listening to Hawick or his story. She was thinking of Razeby and why, despite everything, it felt just like it had done when she had seen him for the very first time.