Regency Desire

Mistress to the Marquis

Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

Margaret McPhee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Mistress to the Marquis

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Copyright

Mistress to the Marquis

MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the stories down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind and enjoys cycling in the Scottish countryside, tea and cakes.

For my wee Wee Sister, Joanne – an extra spicy story especially for you!

Chapter One

London, England—April 1811

‘Razeby, you surprise me! I wasn’t expecting you until later.’ Much, much later. Miss Alice Sweetly’s fingers were flustered as she shoved the sheet of paper she had been writing upon into the drawer and rammed it shut, but her sudden anxiety had nothing to do with not being ready for her protector. Within seconds she was on her feet and hurrying towards the Marquis of Razeby to distract his interest from the desk. ‘You’ve caught me unawares.’

‘Forgive me, Alice. I did not mean to startle you when you were so absorbed.’ Razeby said in his rich, aristocratic voice.

‘Hardly absorbed. I was just writing a letter to a friend.’ In her nervousness her natural soft Irish lilt grew stronger than ever and she felt her face burn with traitorous colour at the lie.

‘Lucky friend.’ Razeby smiled with his usual good nature.

She tensed in case he meant to quiz her on the fictitious letter and friend. But, true to form, Razeby trusted her and did no such thing. He did not even glance over at the little bureau.

‘Finish your letter. I will fetch myself a brandy while I wait.’

‘I’ll do no such thing.’ Embarrassment rippled through her, making her face grow hotter just at the thought of sitting back down at the desk with him watching. With a glance down at her shabby moth-nibbled woollen shawl and the morning dress beneath it, with its old-fashioned style, the pretty muslin faded and worn, she changed the subject. ‘Look at the state of me! I’m only wearing this old thing to keep my fine clothes good.’ It was a habit she found hard to break, having grown up with nothing. ‘And I’ve a lovely silk ready to wear tonight. I best get up the stairs and change into something decent.’ She made to pass him.

But Razeby swept an arm around her waist, stilling her panic and pulling her against him. ‘Relax, Alice. You look beautiful just as you are. As ever.’ His eyes, deep brown and true, met hers as he stroked an escaped strand of hair away from her cheek. ‘And have I not told you, it is not the clothes that are important, but the woman beneath?’

‘Flatterer,’ she accused, but she smiled and his tall, masculine body in such proximity sent waves of attraction and excitement crashing through her.

‘It is the truth as well you know it.’ Razeby could charm the birds down from the trees. He was still smiling as he pulled her closer. ‘But if you have a wish for a new wardrobe, then you shall have one.’

‘I’ve no wish for a new wardrobe. I’ve enough dresses up those stairs to clothe half the women in London!’

‘I like buying you things—it makes you happy.’ He gathered her right hand in his left. ‘And I want you to be happy, Alice.’

Alice tried to curl her fingers to hide the black inkstains that marred her fingers, but Razeby did not let her. He slid his thumb to rub against the marks on her skin.

‘Mmm…’ His eyes lingered over the inkstains before moving teasingly to hers. ‘I do believe a new pen is a requirement.’

‘No.’ She laughed, but her face flamed anew at the mention of writing and of the precious silver pen that was so dear to her. ‘I don’t want another pen. I like the one I’ve got just fine.’

‘I am very glad of that,’ Razeby murmured huskily and pressed her inkstained fingers to the warmth of his lips.

‘You know I’m happy. Very happy…’ She paused before adding softly, ‘And not because of the things you buy for me.’ It was the truth.

He smiled a strange, almost poignant, smile, stroked his fingers against her cheek and stared into her eyes.

And it did not matter that she had been his mistress for six months, sleeping with him nearly every one of those nights. When he looked at her with that look in his eyes she felt that same flare of desire that had sparked between them the very first moment they met in the Green Room of the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Indeed, familiarity had not diminished the passion, or all that had grown alongside, between them, only sharpened and heated it. Her stomach turned cartwheels, her skin tingled all over and her thighs seemed to burn. He glanced away, over towards the window, a pensive, sombre expression upon his face. ‘Alice…’

But whatever he meant to say was lost as she gently took hold of his face, turned it to hers and kissed away the worry that she saw there.

Razeby retaliated in kind, his mouth passionate and warm and irresistible as the night he had first kissed her in the moonlight outside the theatre stage door.

Breaking the kiss, she watched him as she smiled, a mischievous smile this time, and let her hand stroke lightly over the hard bulge in his breeches. He swallowed and she felt the shiver that rippled through his body, felt the way it strained to meet her and heard the slight catch of the breath in his throat.

He caught her hand in his own and moved it away from temptation, his eyes darkening to that familiar smoulder that made the fire of desire twist and curl and dance all the more, low in her belly. ‘Alice, you are a wicked woman,’ he breathed in a velvet voice that tickled against her ear and sent a shiver tingling across her skin.

‘Very wicked, indeed, Razeby.’ Her top teeth caught at her bottom lip. ‘So wicked that you might need to put me across your knee and spank me.’

‘I would be remiss in my duty to you if I did not do so.’ She could hear the low stroke of desire beneath his words.

‘And the one thing about you, Razeby, is that you’re never remiss in your duty.’ Again she thought she saw the shift of a shadow in his eyes so she teased her skirts higher to flash him a glimpse of a stockinged ankle, wanting to make him forget whatever was troubling him. And it worked.

‘Be careful, Miss Alice Sweetly,’ he cautioned.

‘I prefer to be reckless, James Brundell, Marquis of Razeby. But isn’t that the truth of why you like me?’ She arched an eyebrow and playfully unfastened the buttons at the top of her bodice, allowing the dress to gape and reveal the bulge of her breasts over the transparent linen of her shift.

Razeby’s eyes darkened. His focus narrowed and sharpened upon her. He swallowed, then wetted his lips. ‘Alice, you are a temptation I cannot resist.’

‘I hope so.’ She laughed, and one by one she plucked the pins from her hair, until the neatly coiled length of fair hair loosened and tumbled long and wanton over her shoulders.

Razeby discarded the neatly fitted dark tailcoat on the sofa behind him. His fingers moved to the buttons of his pale waistcoat, unfastening it and shrugging it off. Around his neck his white cravat was still neatly tied in a fashionable knot. She reached and tugged an end of it, pulling it free and draping it over the back of the sofa. Through the fine white lawn of his shirt she could see a hint of his flesh and the dark peppering of hair that covered it. Her eyes swept lower to the tight buckskin of his breeches that did little to disguise the extent of his arousal or the long muscular thighs beneath. And lower still to the glossy black riding boots that were coated with dust from his having ridden from his own town house in Leicester Square to the one he kept for her here in Hart Street.

She knew the body beneath those clothes, intimately, every inch of honey-coloured skin, every hard taut muscle. She knew the sweep of his tight buttocks and the breadth of his chest, the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips and the way his heart beat fast and hard after he had loved her. She knew the scent of him, the feel of him, the taste of him and the way he made her heart blossom with such warm tenderness. It just made her want him all the more.

She turned round and, sticking out her bottom, wiggled it to taunt him.

‘You are playing dangerously, Alice.’

‘Are you close to yielding?’ she asked over her shoulder.

He stepped towards her.

She skirted around the other side of the sofa so that they faced one another as opponents across that barricade.

‘When I catch you, Alice…’

‘If you catch me…’ She smiled and arched an eyebrow. ‘What are you going to do to me?’ she asked, as excited by the game she had instigated as he was.

‘I am going to pull up your skirts.’

‘Yes.’ she breathed.

‘And bend you over my knee.’

‘And then…?’ She felt breathless at the thought.

He stepped closer to the sofa, lowering his voice to little more than a husky whisper as he did so. ‘You know there is only one way this can end, Alice.’

‘Really? How might that be, my lord?’

He lunged over the sofa for her.

Alice dodged clear, making a run for the door of the drawing room. ‘You’ll have to be faster than that, Razeby!’

She made it to the first landing of the staircase before he caught her, his arm fastening around her waist and pulling her to him.

She gave a yelp and a giggle.

‘Minx,’ he whispered in her ear as he kissed the side of her neck, where the blood pulsed strong and wild.

He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing at all. Her breathing was loud and ragged while Razeby’s was barely changed at all. For all her squeals he threw her over his shoulder like some marauder from olden times abducting his woman and strode up the rest of the stairs.

‘Razeby!’ she protested and gave a wriggle, but all she got in return was a slap on the bottom before he kicked open the door to their bedchamber and threw her down upon the bed.

‘Now, woman of mine,’ he said. ‘We have a score to settle—a matter of some spanking, I believe.’

‘Oh, you think so?’ She laughed and, rolling on to her stomach, began to quickly crawl across the bed to evade him.

‘I will not let you escape me,’ he said in a strict voice as his fingers fastened around her ankle and hauled her back across the bed towards him, catching her skirts on the bedcovers and hitching them up her legs in the process. She was still lying on her stomach, her stockings revealed. He pushed her skirts higher to expose her naked thighs and bottom in full.

‘Now there is a sight to behold,’ he murmured and she caught her breath as his fingers traced down the curve of her hip.

The mattress dipped as he sat down upon it and she gasped as she felt herself hauled to lie across his thighs, her skirts twisted high around her hips, her buttocks bared for whatever he chose to inflict upon them.

‘Mercy, my lord Razeby, I beg of you,’ she pleaded, but she was smiling and the words were breathless with anticipation.

‘I swear, my love, that when it comes to you I have no mercy… or resistance.’ His hand stroked against the fullness of her buttocks, then he spanked her bare bottom, several small light slaps that were little more than cupped caresses.

She laughed again, as did he, as he turned her in his arms, cradling her to him and kissing her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck, kissing him with all the passion that was burning within her. He rolled her flat on to the mattress and she pulled him down on top of her, stroking his face, threading her fingers through his hair.

‘Alice,’ he whispered, and caressed her cheek. His eyes were a dark liquid brown, so filled with both tenderness and desire as they stared into hers.

‘Razeby,’ she said softly.

Their eyes held as he plucked a single deep intimate kiss from her lips.

He rose, long enough to divest himself of his shirt over his head and unfasten his breeches and drawers. Her fingers were still working upon the buttons of her bodice when he returned.

‘Allow me to assist,’ he offered, and then in a move that would have done justice to any Viking warrior in the midst of some rape and pillage Razeby took hold of the neckline and tore the length of the bodice open.

‘Such impatience, my lord,’ she chided.

‘It is the state you push me to, wench.’

‘You’ll be tying me to the bed next.’

He glanced up at the lengths of black silken cord that dangled from the headboard of the bed. ‘Let us save that game for later.’

‘If you insist, Lord Razeby.’

‘I do, Miss Sweetly.’

She smiled at that and felt the place between her thighs grow hotter at the thought.

He gave a growl as he pushed the flimsy torn linen and sprig muslin aside, exposing her nakedness to the hunger of his gaze.

‘Do you know what you do to me?’ She could hear the strain in his voice, see it in his face. He touched her lightly, trailing his fingers across her breasts, making their tips harden and grow unbearably sensitive.

‘I could hazard a guess,’ she murmured as he lowered his face, all the while keeping his gaze locked with hers, and flicked his tongue to taste her.

The gasp escaped her, loud and needful, and in response his torture grew only more exquisite.

She groaned her need of him, arching her back to thrust her breasts all the more into his mouth so that he suckled her in earnest. Her fingers threaded through the dark feathers of his hair, clutching him to her, wanting him never to stop, wanting this, and more, so much more. He laved her, worked each rosy nipple in full until it was bullet hard and so sensitive that she was in danger of finding the fullness of her pleasure before he had even touched between her legs. She tried to hold back, tried to resist, but, seeing how close she was teetering to the edge, he smiled.

‘No mercy, Alice,’ he said in his low, sexy velvet voice and then did something so clever with his tongue that rendered all resistance futile. She let go and exploded in a bliss that was blinding and overwhelming, making her body ripple and shimmer as the pleasure, absolute and all consuming, filled her from head to toe and she was gasping aloud with the wonder of it.

She was still pulsing inside as his face came up to hers. ‘Razeby,’ she whispered.

‘Naughty girl,’ he said and he was smiling.

She let her hands glide over the pale honey-coloured contours of his shoulders, over the muscles at the top of his arms. He was strong and lean from all the fencing and horse riding and pugilism, his body so different from hers, so much bigger, so masculine.

‘It’s all your fault,’ she said.

‘Guilty as charged,’ he admitted, and his eyes smouldered all the darker. He kissed all the way up the column of her neck, kissed the line of her jaw, kissed her chin.

Already she could feel the desire stoke again within her. Her woman’s place between her legs ached for him.

She scraped her teeth against the naked skin of his shoulder, licked him there, sucked him there while one hand slipped lower to caress the long hard length of him.

She felt the involuntary contraction of his muscles, heard the sharp intake of his breath as she stroked him.

‘Alice.’

She smiled and bit his shoulder.

Razeby took her mouth with masterful possession, plunging his tongue into its depths as she wrapped her legs around him and welcomed him home.

They moved in a dance as old as time itself. A man and his woman, mating, bonding, sharing all that was possible to share on this journey that could have only one destination for them both. Striving together until she was gasping and crying out his name as he spilled his seed within her and she pulsed around him and shattered into a myriad of stardust and magic that transcended all else.

And afterwards, as ever, he held her safe in his strong arms, curving his body around hers as if he would protect her from all the world. She could feel the stir of his warm breath against her hair and the possessiveness of his hand around her breast, the warmth of his hard masculine body preventing the cooling of her own lover’s rosy glow. His lips brushed against the top of her head and her heart gave a little dance of utter happiness and joy. She snuggled in closer and basked in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

But when she opened her eyes to look into his she glimpsed again something of that same pensive undercurrent that she had seen in the drawing room. She stroked her fingers against the faint blue stubble of his cheek. ‘What’s wrong, Razeby?’ He was not his usual self. He had not been entirely himself for the last weeks. ‘You’ve something on your mind.’ Please God, don’t let it be what she had been writing upon the desk. If he asked about that, she was not sure what she was going to tell him.

He looked into her eyes, studied them, and just for a moment she thought he was going to tell her. Then it was gone, replaced by that smile of his that made her melt inside.

‘Nothing that cannot wait a little longer.’ He caught her fingers from his cheek and pressed them to his lips.

But she was not so easily reassured. A little whisper of unease stroked down her spine. ‘Razeby,’ she began, but he rolled her on to her back and followed to cover her, staring down into her face all the while.

‘Please not yet,’ he said, and it sounded almost like a prayer; then he silenced any further protestations with a kiss. The kiss led to another, and another, until the passion that consumed them made all else fade away.

Chapter Two

Razeby stood by the window of his study in his town house in Leicester Square, observing all of normality go on in the street outside. A carriage rolled by, the Earl of Misbourne’s crest painted upon its door. A coal cart rattled slowly out of the nearby mews, its load lessened following its delivery. Two gentlemen upon horseback had pulled over by the gardens to greet each other. Servants hurried along the pavements on errands for their masters. A nursemaid was taking a baby for a walk in a child’s pushchair. He turned away from the window at that last sight.

The brandy decanter was sitting on his desk. The heavyweight crystal engraved with the Razeby coat of arms and motto—The Name of Razeby Shall Prevail—was a taunting irony. Regardless of the earliness of the hour he lifted the decanter, filled one of the matching engraved glasses, and took a sip.

The heat of the brandy hit the back of his throat, the smooth warmth tracing all the way down to his stomach. He took a deep breath and set the glass down upon the letter that lay open upon his desk. A bead of the rich tawny liquid trickled down from the glass’s rim, slipping slowly, inexorably, down the stem to the base, where it finally crept upon the paper beneath to blur the inky words his cousin Atholl had written there—Atholl, who had defied all advice to buy a commission in the cavalry and taken himself off to fight against Napoleon. Yet another reminder. Everywhere Razeby looked there were reminders.

There was not a sound within the house. Only the slow steady tick of the tall clock in the corner, marking how quickly time was slipping away. He had left it so late, almost too late. He could leave it no longer.

He thought of Alice, his Alice, with her beautiful dark blue eyes and her passion and her warmth of heart and spirit, of how much she had been looking forward to the fireworks tonight. He thought of Alice and all that had been between them these past months, and felt an ache in his chest. His eyes strayed to the long, slim brown-velvet box that lay beside his pen holder. Just a momentary pause, as he steeled himself to the task. Then he slipped the box into the pocket of his tailcoat.

Razeby downed the remaining brandy in one go, but it did not settle the sourness or dread in his stomach.

The night sky was a canopy of clear midnight-blue velvet sewn with a smattering of diamonds that twinkled and glittered. The moon was a thin crescent hanging high in their midst. Although the winter had passed, the spring night air was cold, turning Alice and Razeby’s breaths to smoke as they climbed from the little boat and walked hand in hand across the grass to Vauxhall Gardens.

Alice wrapped the cloak around her more tightly and felt Razeby’s arm pull her closer.

‘You are cold.’

‘Only a little.’ She smiled up at him. And he stared down into at her face with a curiously tender expression, as if he were branding her image upon his memory never to be forgotten. ‘Why so serious? Hmm?’ she asked, still smiling, and cupped his beard-scraped cheek.

He moved his lips to kiss the palm of her hand. ‘It has been an unpleasant day.’

‘Then we’d better make sure we enjoy tonight.’

‘Every last precious minute.’ The words were so softly murmured she had to strain to catch them. Then he seemed to shake off his megrims, and, taking her hand in his, led her to watch a host of entertainers: jugglers and knife throwers, dancers and musicians. A hurdy-gurdy man with a little monkey upon his shoulder, its tiny furry body all dressed up smartly in a fine coat and matching hat, was drawing quite the crowd. They could smell the food from the banqueting tables beyond, but the night seemed too chill for the wafer-thin cold ham and champagne that was being served to the guests.

‘I’m glad we ate at home,’ she said.

‘Me, too.’ Razeby pulled a bottle of champagne from his pocket. ‘No glasses. I am afraid we will have to slum it. Even if it is the best bottle from your cellar.’

‘Your cellar,’ she said and laughed, as he timed the popping of the cork to merge with the explosion of the fireworks in the sky.

The froth exploded over the top of the bottle, cascading down the bottle’s neck as Razeby offered it to her.

Alice took a swig from the bottle and spluttered at the furious fizz of bubbles.

Razeby’s swig gave not the slightest hint of choking.

Then she leaned back against his chest as his arms wrapped around her waist, and together they looked up and watched the magnificent explosion of coloured lights and flashes fill the sky. All around them the crowd was ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ with amazement and appreciation at the spectacle. She could smell the sulphurous stench of the fireworks and catch the drift of the scent of smoke from the braziers not so very far away.

Razeby leaned down to kiss her and he tasted of the green grass and of strawberries and champagne, and of Razeby and all that was wonderful in life. They watched the fireworks and they drank the champagne and they kissed, not caring who saw them, because it was dark and because this was the slightly risqué Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, and because it would have been too much to keep their lips from one another. As the fireworks began to wane Razeby took her hand, not even waiting until they had finished in full, and led her back towards the boats so that they would not have to wait in the crush that would follow.

Within their bedchamber at Hart Street the glow of the firelight burnished the dark blonde of her hair a red-gold. He reached out and caught a vibrant strand that had loosened from her pins, running it between his fingers before tucking it behind her ear. His thumb stroked against the softness of her cheek. She closed her eyes and angled her face into his hand for the breath of a moment before stepping away beyond his reach.

He shrugged off the midnight-blue tailcoat he was wearing, throwing it to land on a nearby armchair. But as he did so the slim brown-velvet box fell from the pocket to land upon the rug beneath their feet.

Alice smiled when she saw it. ‘You bought me another gift. What did I tell you the other day?’ she demanded.

He picked up the box, kept his eyes on it and could not rise to her teasing.

‘Honestly, Razeby, you shouldn’t have.’

He gave a small tight smile and passed the brown-velvet box to her.

‘I’m mystified as to what it can be.’ She stared at the jeweller’s box, stroked her fingers once against its velvet, hesitating for a moment before finally opening the lid. The radiance of the diamond bracelet, lying within on its cream-velvet cushion, caught the firelight to glitter and sparkle and illuminate the room around them.

She gave a soft gasp. ‘Oh, Razeby! It’s beautiful!’ She pressed a kiss to his cheek. ‘It must have cost you a fortune.’

‘You are worth every penny, and more.’

‘I love it.’ Her hands came to caress his face, her eyes scanning his. ‘Thank you.’

His heart squeezed tight.

Slowly she touched her lips to his.

‘Alice,’ he murmured and, pulling her into his arms, he kissed her.

He kissed her and he could not stop. He kissed her and lost himself in her, as ever he did. She made him forget everything else, all of his responsibility that weighed upon his shoulders, all of the darkness that was coming. Her eyes were filled with a passion and need that matched his own.

‘Make love to me, Razeby.’

He could not deny her. He could not deny himself, or all that he felt for her.

He undressed her in silence, their eyes clinging together all the while, and laid her down gently on the bed. He never took his eyes from hers even while he stripped off his waistcoat and shirt and cravat. Nor while he unfastened the fall of his breeches and freed himself from his drawers.

He took her tenderly, with reverence, with meaning, all of which seemed to make the force between them only stronger and rawer. Claiming her as his own, gifting her all he could, so neither of them would ever forget. And she rose to meet him. He opened himself to her entirely, gave all, held nothing back. And in Alice’s reply he felt her do the same, this woman for whom he would pluck both the sun and moon from the sky and give them to her if he could.

Their bodies had been made to be together. To merge. To be as one. She was his complement, and he hers. Together they found another place distinct from the world. But the lovemaking between them tonight took them further than he had ever known. It was poignant, special, a bonding between them like no other. As if she touched an even deeper part of him he had not known existed. They clung together, strove together, looking into one another’s eyes as their bodies reached a new nirvana, and together stepped over the edge to tumble into a shared climax the force of which made them capture each other’s merging cries. And afterwards, he could feel her heart and his beat in time, as they lay entwined together watching the flicker of the firelight dance upon each other’s naked skin.

Her fingers gently caressed the muscle at the top of his arm.

‘Alice…’ he said, and there was a terrible pressing tightness in his chest.

‘Did you get the tickets for tomorrow night’s show?’

‘I have the tickets.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ She smiled but Razeby could not reciprocate. ‘We’ll have a grand time. Ellen says the horses are amazing. That a body wouldn’t believe they could be trained to do such tricks.’

He closed his eyes, took a breath, forced himself to say the words aloud before he could not. ‘I cannot accompany you to the show tomorrow night.’

‘I thought you said you had the tickets.’

‘I do, but there is… another occasion… which I am obliged to attend.’

‘What occasion?’

The small silence hissed loud.

‘A ball at Almack’s.’

‘Almack’s is not usually one of your haunts.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘All those débutantes and fierce matrons intent on landing eligible husbands for their daughters. Is Devlin finally on the hunt for a bride?’

‘I am not going with Devlin, but with Linwood.’ Viscount Linwood, who almost six months ago had married Alice’s best friend and London’s most celebrated actress, Venetia Fox.

And he felt the withdrawal of her body and saw in her face that she realised the truth even before he said the words he did not want to say, ‘We need to talk, Alice. There is something I have to tell you.’

Chapter Three

Razeby fixed his drawers and breeches into place before sitting up in the bed. Leaning his spine against the massive carved-oak headboard, he stretched his long still-booted legs out before him over the counterpane.

Alice felt the rush of cold air fill the space where he had been. She shivered at its icy touch as she pulled the sheet to cover her nakedness and sat up next to him, leaning back to rest against the headboard in the same manner.

And even though he moved his hand to cover hers, threading their fingers together, her stomach dipped and a cold draught moved across her heart. She waited, knowing what Razeby was going to say and willing with all her heart and mind and soul that it would turn out to be something different, that later she would laugh over this foolish pound of her heart and tight fear in her throat.

‘You best get on and tell me then.’ She smiled as if dread were not trickling like ice through her veins.

‘I have a duty, Alice, to my title, to my estates and the people upon them. A duty to safeguard them for future generations. And part of that duty is to marry and produce an heir. I was raised for that purpose. I must produce a son who will do the same. I must marry.’

‘Of course you must.’ She had always known it, they both had. But he would marry at some distant time in the future, not now, not when what they had together was still so fresh and vital. ‘But you’re young enough yet. Surely you don’t need to step upon that path right now?’

‘I’ll be thirty in six months’ time.’ He glanced away and raked a hand through his hair.

‘What’s the significance of thirty? Is there some kind of stipulation that you have to be married and breeding an heir by then?’

A shadow moved in his eyes as he glanced away. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Atholl will be coming home on a stretcher. It could too easily have been a coffin.’

‘Your cousin who got shot in battle.’

‘As it stands he is my heir, Alice.’

‘I thought he was on the mend.’

‘He is. Now. He very nearly was not. What happened to Atholl… it has forced me to reconsider things. I have deferred my duty for too long. I can defer it no longer. I have to find a bride for Razeby.’

Their fingers still lay entwined together. Neither of them had moved, both just sat leaning back against the headboard of their bed, as if this was just an ordinary conversation, one of the thousands they had had before, when it was anything other. She sat motionless, feigning relaxation, pretending that she was not shocked and reeling from his words.

‘So is this you giving me my congé?’ She smiled with the incredulity of it, half-expecting him to deny it, to tell her they could still go on as before. On the ivory of the bedcover she could see where the dust of his riding boots had smudged dark.

But he made no denial. ‘I am sorry, Alice.’

She slipped her fingers from his. Looked round at him, but he stared straight ahead, as if seeing into the distance, and did not meet her eyes.

Not five minutes ago they had been making love, their breaths and bodies and hearts merged as one in that ultimate act of intimacy. Now he was sitting there dismissing her. It felt like she had just been punched in the stomach.

She glanced down at the diamond bracelet that glittered as beautiful as a night sky full of stars. ‘That’s why you bought me the bracelet!’ She laughed a mirthless laugh. ‘As a pay off.’

The silence hissed.

Her fingers unfastened the latch and slipped it from her wrist. The diamonds sparkled and cast shimmering lights against the shadowed walls as she let it fall on to the pale counterpane.

She could not think straight. Her thoughts swayed and staggered as she struggled to understand. ‘You were going to tell me the other day, weren’t you? That’s why you came round unexpectedly.’

Again he did not deny it.

She gave an ironic laugh and shook her head.

His eyes were dark and serious.

The tide of emotion threatened to engulf her. She turned her face away, barely able to conceal her anger and incredulity, and the splintering unbelievable hurt. How could she have been so blind? Six months of thinking that everything was happy and good and wonderful. And believing that he had felt the same. She could barely take it in that he was telling her it was over.

‘You can stay here as long it takes to find other lodgings. There is no rush to leave.’

‘How kind of you.’

He ignored the irony. ‘I will, of course, make a settlement of money on you.’

‘I don’t want your money, Razeby.’

‘It is part of our contract.’

‘Oh, so it is.’ She thought of the piece of paper with its fancy black writing, secure and tied neat within its green ribbon. ‘How could I have forgotten?’

The silence seemed to pulsate between them. There were so many thoughts running through her head, so many words crowding for release upon her tongue. She closed her mouth firmly to prevent their escape.

Climbing from the bed, she grabbed an old dressing gown from where it hung over the back of a chair, pulling it on and tying the belt around her waist as she walked to stand by the window and stare down on to the lamp-lit street below. In the continuing silence she watched the occasional group walking along the pavements. Theatre goers who had gone elsewhere after a late show. Women who, despite the quality of their dress, were ladies of the night, plying their trade; Alice could pick them out with an expert eye—like could always recognise like. A carriage passed and then a gentleman on a horse.

She heard him move and glanced round to see him get to his feet, all six feet of him, with his tight dark breeches and his naked chest, and that ruggedly handsome face. And, despite what he had just told her, her traitorous body reacted with the usual rush of desire for him.

‘Arrangements like ours are not meant to last,

Alice.’

‘They’re not,’ she agreed.

‘I have to do my duty, Alice.’ His mouth, which had always been so warm and smiling, was unhappy and determined, the expression in his eyes unreadable.

Her heart was beating harder than a horse at full gallop. ‘Maybe you should have considered your duty six months ago.’ When he had pursued her while the play in which she and Venetia had starred together took London by storm. When he had wooed her and swept her off her feet and made her his mistress within weeks of their meeting.

‘Maybe I should have,’ he said.

His quiet admission stripped her raw.

They stared at one another. He was grim-faced, serious in a way she had never seen him before.

‘For what it is worth, I really am sorry, Alice.’

‘So you said.’

He swallowed. ‘Thank you for everything.’ His eyes clung to hers. He took a step towards her, reached a hand as if he meant to touch her.

Alice recoiled, sweeping her eyes over his extended hand with its long manly fingers and its lightly tanned skin. It was a hand that had caressed her lips and stroked against her naked skin, a hand that had touched her in the most intimate of places. It was all she could do to stop herself from striking it away with every ounce of strength in her body.

She raised her gaze to meet his with fierceness.

He swallowed, glanced away, let his hand drop to rest by his side. ‘If there is anything more you need—’

‘There isn’t. You should go now,’ she said with feigned calmness before turning away again to the window. Clutching her dressing gown all the tighter around her, she stared down at the gas-lit street, seeing nothing of it, waiting only for him to leave.

But he did not leave.

She heard him come up behind her. He did not touch her, but she could feel the heat of his proximity scorch the length of her spine.

‘Alice…’ there was a straining pause ‘.I hope I have not… hurt you.’

She turned to him, held her head up to look him defiantly in the face. ‘Hurt me? Don’t flatter yourself, Razeby. It was nice while it lasted, but…’ She gave a shrug as if she did not care and bit hard at her bottom lip to stop the threat of the betraying tremor.

She saw the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat, the way his dark eyes studied hers.

‘That at least is something.’ He gave a nod. ‘Goodbye, Alice.’

‘Goodbye, Razeby.’ The words were tight. She forced a smile and turned away to the window again as if she were more interested in the dark view.

He turned and walked away, but she could see the reflection of his leaving in the glass of the window pane and her own face watching, pale and haunting as a ghost.

The bedchamber door closed with a quiet click that seemed louder than an almighty slam.

She stood there and listened to the stride of his booted footsteps along the corridor and down the stairs. Her breath caught in ragged gasps, but she caught her hand to her mouth to silence them. Five minutes later the front door shut. Only then did she let herself sag back to lean against the wall and allow the sob to escape.

For what remained of that night Alice sat in the little blue armchair by the fireplace and stared into the flames. They licked high around the fresh coal she had thrown on to it, devouring the black rocks with a ferocity that matched the force of emotion whirling and tumbling through her. It did not matter how much heat they threw out, it did not warm the chill from her bones. Nor did the dressing gown or the woollen shawl clutched tight around her shoulders. It was the shock, she thought to herself. And the anger. And that feeling that she had drunk ten cups of coffee and that it did not matter if she lay on the bed and closed her eyes; her thoughts were running so wild she would never sleep again.

Don’t you dare shed a single tear for him!

But her eyes were swimming and she felt she could have wept a waterfall. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, but no amount of swallowing could shift the boulder from her chest that felt like it was crushing her.

It was just sex. It had always been just sex. And the way she was feeling now, so scraped and raw and bleeding, was down to the shock of it; that was all. Razeby’s words had come out of nowhere, catching her with her guard down.

She breathed, calmed herself. Stared into the flames. She had survived worse things than this. She thought of her family back in Ireland, of her coming to London to find a job that she might help them, of the hunger and the desperation. She thought of playing the role of the masked Miss Rouge in Mrs Silver’s high-class brothel, her identity hidden from the world. So few people knew. But Razeby did. God only knew why she had told him. She was regretting that now.

Her eyes glanced across at the bed with its sheets still rumpled from their lovemaking. Amidst them she could see the sparkle of the diamond bracelet, so brilliant and beautiful and expensive. She gave a shaky laugh and shook her head at what a fool she had been.

Never let them see how much they hurt you. Her mother’s words, drummed into her across a lifetime, played in her head. The bastards can’t take your pride away from you unless you let them. Look life straight in the face, Alice, and always, always keep smiling.

Alice was not clever. She was not smart. But she was practical and hard-working and determined. And she still had her pride, every damn inch of it.

She turned her face away from the bed and, staring into the low golden flickers amongst the red glowing coals, made her plans.

Chapter Four

Within the hallowed grounds of Almack’s ballroom, the chandeliers sparkled beneath the flames of a thousand candles. The walls were painted a soft cream and outlined in antique gold. The ceiling had recently been reworked in an array of white plasterwork. In its centre was a line of three elaborate roses, from each of which hung an enormous crystal chandelier. There was a three-piece matching peering glass set above the fireplace, with candles fitted to the fronts and a series of matching mirrored wall sconces positioned at regular intervals around the room. Small chairs and tables were seeded around the periphery. The musicians played from the balcony above, the music floating sweet and melodic to fill the ballroom and haunt Razeby.

‘I was not sure they were going to let you in,’ he said to Linwood standing by his side.

‘I did have to call in a few favours.’

‘I am glad you did,’ he admitted.

There was a small silence as the two men let their eyes wander to the other side of the dance floor and the crowd of white-dressed débutantes there that posed and giggled and chattered amongst themselves while their stern-faced turban-wearing chaperones looked on.

‘Does Alice know you are here?’ Linwood asked.

‘It is over between me and Alice.’ Razeby felt the weight of Linwood’s gaze, but he did not shift his own, just kept his face impassive and remained staring straight ahead so that nothing of his feelings showed.

‘I am sorry about that.’

‘So am I.’

There was the music and the droning hum of surrounding conversations and the tinkle of women’s laughter.

‘You could have kept her on at least until you found—’

‘No.’ Razeby did not let him finish. ‘A clean severance is for the best.’ He met his friend’s eyes.

Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘I was under the impression that you and she dealt very well together.’

‘We do.’ He glanced away and corrected himself. ‘We did.’ He swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. ‘But she was my mistress, Linwood. And now it is time to find myself a wife.’

Linwood looked at him with that too-perceptive gaze of his, as if he could see the way that Razeby’s stomach clenched at just the mention of her name. He was doing the right thing, the thing that had to be done. The thing he should have been doing six months ago, before Alice Sweetly came into his life and changed his best-laid plan. Six months and he could regret not one day of it. Six months and… He changed the subject, pretending something of his usual lightness of spirit when what he felt was anything but.

‘See what you missed out on by not playing the marriage mart?’

Linwood smiled, which was a sight that was a deal more common since his recent marriage. ‘I would rather be tried for murder and catch a wife in the process,’ he said, referring to exactly what he had done just a few months ago. ‘Scandalous and dangerous—but more than satisfying in its end result.’ He smiled again and there was a softening of his expression so that Razeby could tell he was thinking of his wife, the former star of the Covent Garden stage, Venetia Fox. Venetia, who was Alice’s best friend.

A vision of Alice swam in his mind. Alice, with her mischief and her heart and her laughter. Alice standing in their bedchamber looking at him with that expression of shock in her eyes as he told her it was over. Something churned in Razeby’s stomach. He forced that last image away and turned his gaze to the hordes of white-frocked débutantes across the floor, one of whom by the end of the Season would be his wife, in his bed and carrying his child. He felt numb at the thought, but it had to be this way. He had had his fun and Alice had been more than he had ever anticipated, but now it was time to bite the bullet and do his duty… before it was too late. He turned his mind from all other distractions and summoned a cold determination.

‘So which lucky débutante are you going to ask to dance?’ asked Linwood.

‘The first one I come to,’ replied Razeby with a smile that did not touch his eyes and, setting his champagne glass down on the silver salver of a passing footman, he made his way across the room.

The day had been a long one, following a night in which she had not slept, but Alice was not tired.

It had been a mammoth effort and one which had seen her travel round half of London. But it had been worth it.

The large travelling bag lay open at her feet.

‘Shall I help you, ma’am?’ The maid hovered awkwardly in the doorway as if afraid to enter the bedchamber. The girl’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, her manner awkward. Alice saw the way her eyes dropped to take in the travelling bag before meeting her face.

All of the servants knew, even though she was sure that Razeby would have told them nothing of it. Alice had two sisters in service in Dublin. She knew that servants always knew these things.

‘No, thank you, Mary. I’ll see to myself. But if you could have Heston see that a hackney carriage is summoned for me.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to update the rest of the staff.

Alice went through the wardrobe, pulling out a minimal selection of clothes, all of which she had brought with her when she had come to this house, and ignoring the expensive silk dresses and accessories that Razeby had paid for.

She made short work of gathering up the rest of her possessions. There were not many. Alice travelled light. She preferred it that way.

It was when she moved to close the wardrobe doors that she stopped, her eyes drawn, as if not of their own volition, to the dress hanging on its own at the very end of the row. She hesitated, bit her lip, knowing that she should shut the door upon it just like all the rest, but unable to do so. Before she could think better of it, she slipped the emerald-silk evening dress from the hanger and folded it into her bag.

Of all the gifts that Razeby had given her, she took only one, opening the lid of the long thin cherrywood box just long enough to check that the engraved silver pen was inside. But she did not look at it. She did not touch it, just snapped the lid shut and stuffed it into the travelling bag with a tortoiseshell comb and the rest of her toiletries before buckling the bag closed. Then she swept the black-velvet cloak over her shoulders and lifted the travelling bag.

One final glance around the bedchamber, at the dressing table and its peering glass, at the wardrobe and the armchairs and the pretty little table with its ivory vase of deep-pink roses that had had their day. The heads were blown, the petals starting to fall. But their perfume was still sweet and lingering in the room. She moved her gaze to the bed, which she and Razeby had shared, let her eyes rest there for only a moment. Then, with her bag in hand, she walked away, down the stairs and out into the waiting hackney carriage.

The driver flicked the reins and the carriage drove off into the sunset. Alice kept her focus on the glorious rosy-streaked sky. She clutched her hands tight around the travelling bag and kept her mouth set firm with determination.

And not once did she look back at the house.

Razeby lost track of the number of women he danced with. They all seemed much the same. He made conversation. He went through the motions. But all the while he could not get last night’s scene with Alice out of his head.

She knew more than most how the games between men and women played out. She had been under no illusions. Neither of them had. And yet.

I don’t want your money, Razeby.

The words whispered again in his ear. It was that one phrase more than any other that worried him.

Last night had been about a clean, quick break. It was the only way. The best way for them both. Just as he had told Linwood. The theory of it had been easy, the practice anything but. He had handled it badly. More than badly. He wondered if he could have handled it worse.

Alice had been good to him, good for him. She was like no one he had ever known. It explained the gnawing feeling he had felt since telling her. Guilt. He should make sure she was all right, now and for the future. He should up the sum of her severance payment from that which his lawyer had specified in the contract, regardless of what she said.

He delivered Miss Thomson back to her mother. And bowed.

Hurt me? Don’t flatter yourself, Razeby. He was not sure he believed her. The thought niggled him. He felt the guilt gnaw harder, even though he had spoken the truth to her. Arrangements like theirs were not meant to last. But he could not stop wondering how she was.

‘Leaving so early?’ Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘The night is still young, Razeby.’

‘Breaking myself in gently, Linwood,’ he lied. ‘There are only so many débutantes a man can endure in one evening.’

‘Do you want to go to White’s to recover?’

‘Another night,’ said Razeby.

The lights glowed through the blind-shuttered windows. The house in Hart Street looked as welcoming as ever it had done. He wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here. But he needed to reassure himself that she was all right.

‘What do you mean she is gone?’ It had been the early hours of this morning when he had left her here alone. Not even twenty-four hours had elapsed since that botched confrontation.

He saw the awkwardness of the butler’s expression before the man remembered his professional decorum and schooled his face to the usual attentive impassivity.

‘Miss Sweetly was out all day, my lord, returning earlier this evening to pack a travelling bag.’

Something twisted in his chest. ‘Did she leave a note?’

‘There is no note, my lord.’ There was something in the way the old man’s eyes looked at him that made him feel even more of a bastard. He paused before adding, ‘She gave instructions that she would not be returning.’

‘And did Miss Sweetly say where she was going? Or leave a forwarding direction?’ Razeby knew in his heart what the answer to those questions would be, but he asked them in the hope that he was wrong.

‘No, my lord, she did not.’

‘But she must have given a direction to John Coachman?’

‘Miss Sweetly did not travel by your lordship’s coach when she left.’

He understood the significance of that very clearly. She did not want him to find her, and, in truth, he could not blame her.

Razeby dismissed the butler and climbed the stairs to the bedchamber they had shared. Everything looked just the same as it always did, as if last night had been just some bad dream. The wall sconces on either side of the fireplace were lit, the flames of their candles reflecting soft and subdued in their adjoining looking glasses. The roses he had brought her not a week ago were still in their vase. A small fire burned on the hearth, making the room cosy and warm. The scent of her was in the air, the sense of her entwined in the very fibres of the place.

Her jewel casket still sat upon her dressing table, beneath the lid all of what he had given her lying neat in their own little compartments.

He walked to her wardrobe, opened up the door. There were only a few spaces where garments no longer hung. The myriad of coloured dresses that he had paid for from Madame Boisseron’s were still there. Their matching slippers and shoes sat in neat pairs at the bottom of the wardrobe. On an impulse he opened his own matching wardrobe and saw all of his clothes just as he had left them.

He closed the doors over, letting his eyes survey the rest of the room. Nothing was out of place… except… His gaze stilled when it came to the ivory bedcovers, neat and smooth upon the mattress, for laid carefully upon them, in their very centre, was the brown-velvet box opened to reveal the cream-velvet cushion and the diamond bracelet that lay sparkling upon it.

He felt his jaw clamp tight and a cold realisation seep through his blood. Alice had gone. He did not know where. Without her severance payment. Without a single thing he had bought for her. And there could be nothing for the best about that.

‘I came as soon as I got your message.’ Alice’s best friend and mentor, the woman who had saved her from her life in Mrs Silver’s bawdy house and set her up as an actress, Venetia Fox, or Viscountess Linwood as she was now, handed her cloak to Alice’s new maid and followed Alice through to the drawing room of her new home in Mercer Street.

‘You must have dropped what you were doing and come straight away. I only sent the boy half an hour ago.’

‘You are my friend, Alice. What else did you expect I would do?’ There was a concern in Venetia’s face that made Alice feel guilty.

‘I didn’t mean to worry you, Venetia. I was just letting you know where I was.’

‘I am glad that you did. I really have been worried.’ Venetia sat down next to her on the sofa and took her hands in hers. ‘What happened?’

Alice smiled as if the words were easy to say. ‘He gave me my congé. Said it’s time he found himself a bride.’

‘Oh, Alice, I am so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It had to happen one day. I’m an actress. He’s a marquis. How else was it going to end?’ She shrugged and gave a little laugh. ‘Besides, I was tired of him. I fancied a bit of a change, myself.’ The joking words tripped easily from her lips.

Venetia did not look convinced. ‘Neither of you could have anticipated what happened to Atholl. I suppose it made Razeby see things differently.’

‘Atholl was a grand excuse for the both of us.’ An excuse for Razeby, more like. She knew now what had been bothering him all those weeks and months leading up to it and she was more fool for being worried over him. ‘Our time was on the wane.’

‘You left Hart Street very quickly.’

‘Striking while the iron’s hot.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve got myself sorted out. What do you think of the new rooms? I’ve had my eye on them for a little while.’ The smile broadened to become a grin. ‘Nice and handy for the theatre. And not too high a rent.’

‘They are very nice. But I did not come to see the rooms, Alice,’ Venetia said carefully.

‘You did warn me not to become his mistress. Do you remember?’

Venetia gave no reply, only held her gaze with eyes that were filled with compassion.

Alice hated to see it. It made her feel angry and even more determined. She did not want anyone’s pity, not even Venetia’s. ‘You told me it was better to earn your own money than put yourself in any man’s power.’

‘And did you put yourself in his power, Alice?’ Venetia asked softly.

‘Of course not! I’m not that daft. I knew the score with him. Just as he did with me. With my background, how could I not?’ The secret of her scandalous past whispered between them. She smiled again as if it meant nothing. ‘I kept my hand in at the theatre, didn’t I? Doing the odd appearance. Which is why Kemble’s agreed to take me back full time.’

‘I am glad of that.’ But whether Venetia’s gladness was due to Kemble taking her back full time or her attitude over Razeby was not clear. ‘But there is more to power than money, Alice.’ Venetia looked at her. ‘I do understand something of how it has been between you and Razeby. How it was even in the very beginning.’

‘You’re imagining things, Venetia.’ Alice gave a dismissive laugh. ‘What was between Razeby and me was a kind of mutually beneficial business arrangement, nothing more. Great sex and a good time, and money, of course, lots of money.’

‘It seemed as if there was a lot more than that.’

‘I’m a good actress. What can I say? You trained me well.’ She smiled again.

‘You are,’ said Venetia, ‘a very good actress.’ There was no edge to the words. Alice did not know why they brought a blush to heat her cheeks.

The little clock on the mantel ticked, reassuring and steady.

Alice busied herself in pouring tea into the pretty bone-china cups that came with the fine furniture and everything else in these rented rooms. She added a lump of sugar to each and a few drops of cream before passing one small cup and saucer to Venetia.

‘You seem as if you have everything in hand, Alice.’

‘I have, indeed.’

‘If there is anything I can do to help.’

Alice glanced across the room to the side table, where the folded cream paper lay with its red ribbon tied around it. ‘Actually, there is one thing you could do for me, Venetia, as you’re here. Kemble’s given me the contract for the theatre. I was going to come and see you. But I was waiting for a quiet time.’ She fetched the document over and set it down next to the coffee tray.

‘You can come round any time, you know that.’ But that was not true. They both knew it.

‘We move in different worlds now, Venetia. You’re no longer an actress, but a viscountess. If I’m seen visiting, it wouldn’t look good for you. Reputation is everything in the ton. They’re starting to accept you. It’s going well. I don’t want to ruin it.’

‘You will not ruin it. You are the very height of discretion.’

‘I try.’ She laughed. ‘Well, only where you’re concerned, if I’m honest.’

‘I am glad you are keeping your spirits up.’ Venetia smiled.

‘Why wouldn’t I? Razeby’s in the past. Ahead there’s only the future. And the future looks good for me.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m planning to throw myself into the theatre life. Make a real go of it. You have to get on with life, don’t you?’ Another of her mother’s teachings. Very easy to say, not so easy to do. But Alice would do it. She was very determined of that.

‘You do,’ Venetia agreed. Then she lifted the document Alice had set before her and slipped off the red ribbon that bound it.

A small companionable silence opened up as they sipped their coffee and Venetia read the wording of the theatre contract.

‘Is it all in order?’

‘It seems to be. You are in a strong position, Alice. Your return to the stage full time will fill the theatre. You could push Kemble to pay you more.’

But Alice shook her head. ‘I’m happy with what he’s offered me. I just want to get on with it. Get started.’

‘If you are sure?’

‘I am. Although I must confess to being a little nervous at playing so many leading roles.’

‘You will be fine upon that stage, Alice. More than fine. You will be great. I know you will.’

‘I hope so.’ Alice bit at her lip and her cheeks turned pink at the compliment.

‘Kemble has told you the plays that are scheduled?’

‘Right up to the summer. There’s nothing new, nothing I haven’t done before, thank the Lord.’

Venetia met her gaze. ‘If something new does come up… any new part to be read, come to me.’

Alice gave a nod. ‘I will.’

The two women looked at one another, bound by more than this secret that they shared. By sensitivity and friendship and past histories that were too much alike.

Alice took a deep breath. ‘Go ahead, sign it,’ she said.

Venetia gave a nod and then, moving the tray aside, she lifted the plain black pen, another one of the house’s possessions, from its holder and dipped the tip into the ink well. Very carefully she signed at the end of the contract, Alice Sweetly, then sprinkled some fine sand upon the still-wet ink of the signature.

‘It is done, Alice,’ she said.

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

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

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.

Chapter Seven

Razeby dreamed that night that Alice was with him in the bed, that they were still together and all was as it had been.

‘Razeby,’ she had whispered in her soft Celtic lilt and stroked her fingers against his cheek. ‘Razeby.’

Alice. In the dream he had whispered her name through the darkness. ‘Alice,’ the word murmured aloud on his lips as he held her to him, so glad she had found him, to save him from the terrible thing that was coming, although in the dream he could not remember the nature of the dawning threat, no matter how hard he tried.

The early morning sunlight danced across his eyes, waking him from sleep, dragging him back from his dream world to reality. His body was primed and hard, his erection throbbing for release, but Alice was not in his arms.

He was alone.

And he knew the terrible dark thing that was coming.

The warm comfort of the dream world fell away, leaving in its place the hard coldness of reality and a sinking feeling in his gut. His arousal deflated.

The sunlight that had crept through the crack in his curtains dimmed behind the greyness of cloud. Razeby threw aside the covers and sat up, swinging his legs round to sit on the edge of the bed, relishing the sting of the cool morning air against the nakedness of his skin. It helped clear his mind of Alice and the bittersweet echo of the dream.

The clock chimed nine just before his valet knocked on the door and entered, followed by a maid bearing a pitcher of hot water and his secretary carrying a diary that Razeby knew was crammed full of appointments. He pushed aside the dream as surely as he had pushed aside what had happened yesterday in Hyde Park. Guilt, lust, desire—whatever it was. He could not name it otherwise. He would not name it otherwise.

Not Miss Pritchard, he thought. But tonight there was dinner at Mrs Padstow’s at which twenty young respectable women would be present. And tomorrow afternoon, a débutante picnic organised by Lady Jersey. Then there was Almack’s, and Lady Routledge’s matchmaking ball. And he would find a wife at one of those.

He raked a hand through his hair and, taking a deep breath, rose to face the day.

Alice came offstage to rapturous applause that night. Three curtain calls and still the audience were whistling and calling for more. Her dressing room was so crammed with flowers there was scarcely room for the rail of costumes and table of face paints with its peering glass. Their perfume filled the air of the little room: roses, lilies, sprays of blooms she did not recognise. All with letters and cards attached. All sealed with red wax which displayed the crests or monograms of their senders so prominently. Her eyes scanned over the seals, searching for one in particular. She could not help herself. He had been too much in her mind since yesterday and Hyde Park. Although heaven only knew why. She caught what she was doing and, with a harsh sigh of annoyance, averted her eyes and got on with wiping the make-up from her face. Then she slipped into the fawn-silk evening dress that was hanging over the dressing screen.

A knock sounded on the dressing-room door. The stage hand’s voice shouted through the wood.

‘Five minutes to the Green Room, Miss Sweetly. Mr Kemble says to tell you that both the Duke of Hawick and the Duke of Monteith are in again tonight.’

‘Right you are, Billy. I’ll be right there.’ She checked her appearance in the peering glass. The woman that looked back from the glass was pale without the thick grease and colour of the stage make-up. And she thought again of that moment in Hyde Park.

‘Don’t be such a damned fool, Alice Flannigan, you’re imagining things,’ she whispered to herself, using the name with which she had been born, rather than that she had taken for the stage. ‘You put a smile on your face and get through there, girl. Life goes on—if you’re lucky. And he isn’t worth it.’ She rubbed a little rouge on to her cheeks, added a spot to her lips and tucked an errant strand of hair into place.

Taking a deep breath, she held her head high, fixed a smile on her face and went to sparkle and entice the gentlemen of the Green Room, just as her contract required.

‘Razeby,’ Viscount Bullford exclaimed, wandering over to where Razeby stood filling a plate with choice selections at the débutante picnic. ‘Thought Aunt Harriet would have lampooned you into coming this afternoon.’

‘Bullford.’ Razeby gave a nod.

The weather was sunny and dry, although a slight chill still sat about the fine spring day. The trees surrounding this corner of the park lent a level of protection against the breeze, but not enough to stop the gentle flutter of bonnet ribbons and muslin skirts amongst the ladies milling all around.

Bullford lifted a small, perfectly formed pork pie from one of the serving dishes on the nearby table and took a bite. ‘Couldn’t get out of it myself. Pater had m’arm up my back. Insisted I had to bring m’friends with me. Apparently too many ladies and not enough gentlemen.’

‘You managed to persuade the others to come?’ Razeby raised an eyebrow in surprise.

‘Not an easy task, I can tell you, old man.’ Bullford took a deep breath as if the memory of what that had entailed was difficult to bear. ‘Will be years till I can clear the favours owed over this one.’

Razeby smiled.

Fallingham, Devlin, Monteith and a few others wandered up, glasses of champagne and large chunks of food in hand.

‘How goes the bride search, Razeby?’ Devlin asked.

‘Well enough.’ He felt himself tense just at the question.

‘Found one yet?’ Fallingham enquired.

‘Not yet.’ He kept his face impassive, his manner cool.

‘Don’t seem quite yourself of late, Razeby,’ Monteith observed.

He smiled at the irony of Monteith’s remark. Would any man be the same were he to stand in Razeby’s shoes? ‘Can’t imagine why,’ he said drolly.

‘Losing one’s freedom, weddings, wives and nurseries,’ Devlin supplied and gave a shudder.

The rest of the group chuckled as if that was the reason.

‘Not regretting giving up the delightful Miss Sweetly, are you?’ Monteith asked as he helped himself to a bottle of champagne from a passing footman and topped up all their glasses.

Nonchalantly uttered words, yet they cut through everything to touch some raw inner part of Razeby. It was all he could do not to suck in his breath at the sensation.

‘Not at all,’ he said smoothly and held Monteith’s gaze, denying the suggestion all the more.

‘Do not know why.’ Monteith smirked. ‘The common consensus is that you have run mad. Dismissing such a little gem when all of London is panting after her.’

It took every bit of willpower to keep his jaw from hardening and the basilisk stare from his eyes, and to prevent the curl of his fingers into a fist.

‘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

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.

‘I hope you have deep pockets tonight, Razeby,’ she said.

All the men laughed, not appreciating the full depth of her tease.

But Razeby did. ‘Perhaps not deep enough,’ he said. She could see it in his eyes as they met hers, knew it for certain with his next words. ‘Maybe we should lower the minimum stake on account of Miss Sweetly’s playing.’

There were murmurs of assent as the men around the table mistook his meaning. They all thought it was because, otherwise, she would be out after the first few hands.

‘Afraid, Razeby?’ She arched an eyebrow, and held his gaze boldly, all the while letting the small smile still play around her mouth.

‘My concern is all for you, Miss Sweetly.’

She smiled at that, a smile of genuine amusement, and only then released his gaze, so that she could place a counter onto the green baize.

Bullford looked at the size of her stake, then leaned to her, a look of concern on his face. ‘I say, Miss Sweetly, you have played before?’

‘Once or twice. But, I admit, not usually for money,’ she said carelessly, and could not resist flitting a glance at Razeby. His eyes were on hers, deep and intent. He was remembering all the times they had played when it had not been for money.

Bullford lowered his voice a little. ‘Razeby is considered something of a shark when it comes to vingt-et-un. Perhaps he did not tell you.’

She smiled at Bullford in a wickedly flirtatious way, knowing that Razeby was watching, then leaned in closer to him as if they were two conspirators. ‘I thank you for the warning, my lord.’ Then to Razeby, ‘I hear you have something of a reputation when it comes to vingt-et-un.’

‘I make no such claim.’ His voice was soft, his manner subdued, his eyes sharply watchful.

‘If you do not wish to play, Razeby…’ The same words with which she had teased him on a hundred nights before.

‘I do want to play, Miss Sweetly.’ His eyes darkened ever so slightly as he gave the same reply he always had done.

Like two players in a script full of secret meanings to which only Razeby and Alice held the key.

She felt the tension tighten between them.

His eyes flicked to the dealer. ‘Deal me in.’

Two cards came his way.

His eyes held Alice’s. ‘I hope you know what you are doing, Miss Sweetly.’

‘Oh, I know all right, Lord Razeby,’ she said softly. ‘You needn’t worry about that.’

‘In that case… let us play.’ He smiled.

And she returned the smile. A real smile. It was impossible not to. Despite everything.

After fifteen rounds, only four of them remained in the game—Monteith, Devlin, Razeby and herself. Monteith and Devlin were almost out of counters. The pile of counters in front of Alice was only marginally larger than that in front of Razeby. Men had wandered over from the other tables to watch the play so that a small crowd now surrounded them.

The sixteenth hand was dealt.

For all her laughter and sparkle and feigned joviality, all evening Alice had been watching the cards very carefully, memorising who held what, the cards that had gone from the pack and therefore, by default, those that remained. It was an easy enough task when she could hold the whereabouts of three packs in her head at any given time.

Razeby was rolling a counter within his hand. ‘Fifty pounds.’ He threw a pile of ten counters into the centre of the table.

She swallowed at the enormity of the bet.

Monteith glanced down at his three remaining counters and shook his head. ‘Too high. Out.’

All eyes moved to Alice. She stayed calm, relaxed, still. Leaned back in her chair and met Razeby’s warm brown eyes.

His gaze seemed to stroke against hers as he waited with everyone else for what she would do.

She smiled. ‘Fifty pounds.’ She matched the stake with ten counters of her own.

Monteith gave a chuckle. ‘You do not frighten her, Razeby.’

She did not let herself think of the sums of money with which they were playing. Enough to last a poor man a lifetime. If her mother knew just how much money was on that table being gambled away…! Alice pushed the thought away, focused her mind. Money or clothes, in the end the game was just the same, if she kept her nerve.

Razeby did not so much as raise an eyebrow. He stayed cool, impassive. Just the hint of a smile upon his face.

Devlin met the stake. But when they turned over their cards Devlin lost his counters and was forced to bow out of the game, leaving only Alice, Razeby and the dealer to play the seventeenth hand.

The dealer dealt each of them their two cards.

It was Alice who was to set the stake this time. She met Razeby’s gaze. Their eyes held, each knowing the other’s strengths and weaknesses in this game. A test of nerve, a test of so much more.

Never let them see how much they’ve hurt you.

She smiled, hearing the words from so long ago in her head. Hurt just made you stronger. She did not let her gaze drop from his, held it as boldly as she had done that first night in the Green Room before he had been hers, and she, his. Held it and did not let it go.

‘All in, two hundred pounds,’ she said, and pushed all of her counters forwards.

The gasp rippled round the table.

‘Good Lord,’ she heard Fallingham mutter.

Beside her, Bullford produced a handkerchief and mopped at his brow.

The whole room was tense, poised for the next step. They stared at Razeby to see what he would do.

His eyes met hers again.

The attraction, the affinity that had always been between them was still there, stronger than ever. Powerful. Dangerous. Beguiling.

‘As you will, Miss Sweetly,’ he murmured, and pushed all of his counters in to match hers.

Not a single voice spoke, not a glass sounded. Even the serving maids stopped where they were and stared to see what would happen.

The dealer’s voice broke the silence. ‘Lord Razeby…’

Razeby looked his cards. ‘Stick.’ He smiled at her.

‘Miss Sweetly?’ the dealer prompted.

She lifted her own, glanced down at them. ‘Twist.’

The dealer dealt her a third card.

‘Twist again.’

A fourth card came her way.

‘And again if you’d be so kind, sir.’

There was a murmur of voices all around.

The dealer looked at Razeby. ‘Please show, Lord Razeby.’

There was a craning of necks to see as Razeby laid his cards down on the table.

‘Queen of hearts, king of hearts. Twenty,’ the dealer’s voice intoned.

There was an irony in both cards. She wondered if Razeby realised it, too. That deep dark look in his eyes was so full of meanings that she could not tell.

‘Please show, Miss Sweetly.’

Everyone looked at Alice as she laid the five cards down on the green baize: ace of hearts, two of hearts, three of spades, five of diamonds, queen of diamonds.

‘Five-card trick,’ said the dealer.

The buzz of excited voices spread throughout the room around them, followed by a silence as the dealer turned over his own cards. A ten and a seven. He added another from the pile—the six of clubs. ‘Bust.’ He cleared the cards with one smooth movement of his hand. ‘Miss Sweetly wins.’

‘Congratulations, Miss Sweetly.’ Razeby was magnanimous in defeat, his dark gaze lingering on hers.

‘Thank you, Lord Razeby,’ she said with an innocence that belied the look in her eye.

‘Alice, I cannot believe your luck tonight!’ Sara exclaimed and hugged her, and the gentlemen clamoured excitedly all around.

‘I say, Miss Sweetly!’ Bullford was beaming by her side.

‘Congratulations, Miss Sweetly.’ Devlin was shaking her hand.

‘Well done!’ Frew took her hand next. ‘You have a lucky streak to rival Razeby’s.’

She smiled. Both Alice and Razeby knew that when it came to winning vingt-et-un, there was a great deal more to it than luck.

‘I think you have played this more than a few times, Miss Sweetly.’ Hawick was by her shoulder.

‘Maybe,’ she conceded. Her eyes flickered to Razeby’s, resting there only for the briefest of moments. ‘But never before in public.’

‘We must have a game together some time,’ said Hawick.

She saw the tiny telltale narrowing of Razeby’s eyes, the slight flicker of tension in his jaw at Hawick’s words, and she smiled a mischievous smile.

‘Indeed, we must, Your Grace,’ she said, and wandered away from the table with Hawick.

Chapter Nine

The early morning was bright, the air in Hyde Park fresh and filled with spring and all the promise that came with it. Razeby could smell the scent of leather and of horse, mixed with the freshness of earth and dew-laden grass, and feel the warmth of the early morning sun on his face.

‘You seem in better temperament this morning, Razeby.’

Razeby smiled. ‘It is a fine morning and I am out riding with my friend.’

Linwood kept his gaze forward facing. ‘I heard that Alice was at Dryden’s last night.’

‘News travels fast.’

‘It is London, Razeby.’

Razeby gave a laugh.

‘Indeed, the news is that she was in your party and that she fleeced all of the table.’

‘She did,’ Razeby admitted.

‘With a skill that matched your own.’

Alice’s skill far exceeded his own. She had been a most ardent pupil. Razeby remembered how too many of those long dark winter nights had started between him and Alice, of him sharing his secrets, of her sharing hers….

‘Strange, that,’ commented Linwood.

‘Is it?’ said Razeby, all innocence.

‘Who would have known she was so skilled at vingt-et-un?’

‘Who indeed?’ Razeby answered, revealing nothing of it.

‘There is nothing of… awkwardness… between the two of you?’

‘Nothing.’ Awkwardness was not what lay between them. There was as much desire, tension and excitement as ever there had been. She had been flirting with him, flirting with the others. Light-hearted, teasing, mischievous. Just as she had done before. But there was a difference this time. There were other layers there that had not been present then and a subtle sense that she had removed herself from his reach—that he might look, but not touch. He could not get her out of his head.

‘It was an enjoyable evening.’ He told that part of the truth. Enjoyable, and exciting, in a way nothing had been since the last time he had glimpsed her in Hyde Park. He could still feel the thrill of it running through his blood. The thrill of her. Right up until Hawick and that naughty little jibe about playing cards with him. Razeby did not like the thought of that one little bit. That had not been enjoyable. That had been something else altogether.

‘I am glad that the separation seems to have been an amicable one.’

But what things seemed and what they were in truth were not always the same thing. Razeby gave no reply. He did not fully understand what was between him and Alice. But he knew that it was anything but amicable. It was raw and powerful and hungry. There were complexities to it that he did not understand, depths that were downright dangerous.

‘It makes no difference whether it is amicable or not.’ He needed to stay away from her and keep his mind focused on the marriage mart. But last night and this morning the marriage mart had never been further from his mind.

‘In that case, you will not have an interest in which of your events Miss Sweetly is booked to be present.’

‘I did not say that,’ said Razeby quietly and looked over at him.

Linwood glanced up, the look exchanged between them saying much their words could not. ‘She will be at White’s next week. For the awards.’

‘You are sure?’ Razeby felt his heart beat quicker at just the prospect of seeing her there.

‘My father is on the committee. Alice is the new darling of Covent Garden. The theatre has gone from barely making ends meet to being practically sold out every time she steps on stage. White’s know she will go down a storm with its members. They have offered Kemble, the theatre and Alice a substantial amount of money for her presence.’

Razeby gave a nod. ‘Thank you for the warning, my friend.’

Alice stood in the small anteroom that adjoined the main banqueting room in White’s Gentleman’s Club in St James’s Street.

A nervousness ran through her, making her palms clammy and her stomach turn a few cartwheels, and she knew it was not down to presenting a few awards to some stuffy, rich old gentlemen. She knew Razeby was in there. She knew, too, that he would be in receipt of one of the awards. Kemble had warned her. And the fact that Kemble had felt the need to do so was all the more reason that she could not refuse the invitation to be here tonight.

Had she and Razeby never been, she would have accepted this opportunity without hesitation. It promoted both herself and the theatre, and it paid well. So she accepted it just the same now. Not letting Razeby dictate her actions. She was getting on. Making a success of herself. Refusing to avoid him. And maybe there were a few other reasons, too.

It gave her another opportunity to show him how much she was over him. And maybe even to rub his nose in what he had given up just a little more. She smiled at that thought.

She was a successful actress. She earned her own money. And she really was over Razeby.

Alice took a deep breath and smiled.

The men were seated around the table in the banqueting room of White’s Gentlemen’s Club.

The dinner had been eaten. Their glasses were filled with port, cigarillos were being smoked, snuff boxes being opened and offered.

Mr Raggett, the proprietor of the club, had come in person to host the dinner and awards.

‘And now, gentlemen, we come to the purpose of this, our annual awards ceremony. The giving of awards for services we, within our little club, consider outstanding in the past year. Services to our gentlemen’s community, to the general well-being of the city of London, those in support of charities, and of the arts. And those a little less serious in nature…’ He smiled and everyone in the room smiled, too, at what was coming. ‘The member who has won the most entries in the betting book, and the least. The member who consumed the most bottles of port and still left standing, and he who holds the record for sleeping the longest in the drawing room.’ Everybody looked at old Lord Soames.

‘Speak up, young man,’ Soames said in a loud voice. ‘Can’t hear a word you are saying.’

A chuckle rippled round the table, all the more so given that Raggett was sixty if he was a day.

‘Every year we invite someone special to present the awards to each of our gentlemen and this present year is no exception. I guarantee you will not be disappointed. Gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome straight from the stage of Covent Garden’s Theatre Royal.’

Razeby knew what was coming yet he felt the anticipation of just hearing her name spear through his blood.

‘… the delightful Miss Alice Sweetly,’ finished Raggett.

Every man at the table got to his feet and applauded as Alice swept into the room.

She was dressed in the same pale-green silk evening dress as he had seen her wear a hundred times. A dress that complimented her fair colouring. The bodice was low, but not indecently so, fastened in the centre with a line of pearl buttons that he was most adept at unfastening.

The light from the overhead chandelier cast golden tones in the dark blonde of her hair. She had not followed the fashion, trying to curl her hair and wear it up in a mass of flowing ringlets. She had told him so many times that her hair defied all attempts to hold a curl, no matter how tightly she tied the rags in it or how long she left them in place. She wore it in its usual simple style, caught back in a simple chignon. And tonight she would pluck those pins from it and uncoil it to hang loose and free down her back in long silky straight lengths. With deliberate control he turned his mind away from that image.

Raggett announced each award in turn, then read the name of the winner from the list, before passing the appropriate small silver cup to Alice. It was Alice who presented the cup to each winner, brushing a light kiss against each man’s cheek.

He felt his stomach curl with anticipation. He tried not to think of it. It was just an award. Alice had been his mistress, nothing more. The sex had been amazing. She had been amazing. But that was over, done with. Or so he told himself. And he was taking Miss Longley out in his curricle in the morning. Doing what had to be done. He should just propose, move things on faster.

‘The Marquis of Razeby.’ Raggett’s voice brought him back to himself.

He got to his feet, walked the length of the table to where she stood. And he couldn’t take his eyes from her. She was so self-contained, so radiant and golden, exuding that same strange paradoxical play of shyness and confidence that had enticed him right from the very start. And as he walked towards her, her eyes watched him with that same calm which did not quite cover the teasing playfulness he knew lurked beneath.

‘Congratulations, Lord Razeby,’ she said in that sweet, soft, sexy voice. It stroked against his ear, rippled down the length of his spine, straight down into his breeches.

‘Miss Sweetly,’ he said in a voice that was nothing more than polite, but the hint of a smile played about his lips as much as it played about hers.

She knew what she was doing to him. Her smile broadened as she passed the silver cup into his hands, the tips of her fingers so close to his that his own tingled as if she had stroked against them, when in truth they did not touch. He could smell her perfume, the familiar clean scent of her, making his heart beat faster and stoking the heat all the hotter in his blood. Triggering memories he could not stop: Alice in his arms, Alice naked beneath him on the bed.

She had kissed all of the others. Her eyes held his with that hint of mischief and he knew that she was going to kiss him. And, God help him, he wanted it so much, even standing there while half the members of White’s looked on.

She leaned closer, tilting her face up to his, her eyes holding his all the while. And he could feel the speed of his heart and the driving urge to move his mouth and take hers with all the force of what was crackling between them. She smiled as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Her breath was warm against his cheek, the brush of her lips soft and hinting at so much more. All of which he knew, all of which he longed for.

His fingers tightened around the cup. ‘Miss Sweetly,’ he said in a low husky voice.

He saw the way her smile deepened and he smiled, too. Sharing this moment. Like so many they had shared before. As if there were only the two of them in the room. As if nothing else mattered. As if there were only light in his life.

It was with a supreme effort of willpower that he managed to turn away and give his thanks to those assembled in the room before resuming his seat. But after it was done he kept his eyes on her for every last moment, until she walked from the room with that sexy little wiggle he knew too well.

Alice Sweetly, you minx! And he smiled again and felt a glow in his heart.

‘Razeby was at Almack’s again last night.’ Within Alice’s little parlour two days later, Sara announced the fact without so much as a glance in Alice’s direction.

Alice should have been glad of it because it meant that she really was fine over Razeby and all of them knew it. But the words did not engender gladness. Rather it felt like a hand had tightened around her heart.

‘Was he?’ She concentrated on pouring the tea. Part of her did not want to hear how Razeby was getting on in his search for a woman to marry and part longed to know every damn detail. She did not ask the question but Sara told her the answer any way.

‘He danced with Miss Penny, Miss Lewis, Lady Persephone Hollingsworth.’ She counted the names on her fingers as she rhymed them off. ‘Miss Jamison, and twice with.’ she paused for effect ‘.Admiral Faversham’s daughter, who is quite considered the catch of the Season.’

‘Was Fallingham there,’ Ellen asked, all sweetness, ‘making a list of Razeby’s partners for you?’ She sipped at her tea, a picture of innocence, but Alice was not fooled. It both gladdened and worried her.

‘Only because his crowd were all there. It’s not as if he’s bride hunting. He’ll not be looking to settle down for ages yet.’ Sara could not quite keep the defensive tone from her voice.

‘You hope,’ murmured Tilly beneath her breath.

‘What was that?’ Sara snapped. ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said.’

‘I didn’t say nothing, it was just a bit of wind. Tea don’t half make me burp.’ Tilly shot a smile at Alice.

Alice shook her head and barely suppressed the grin.

‘They’re saying that Miss Faversham has quite set her mind on him.’

‘She ain’t got a chance in hell,’ said Tilly.

‘She’s an heiress,’ retorted Sara.

‘She’d have to be,’ said Ellen. ‘She’s got a backside on her the size of a horse and a face to match.’

Tilly sniggered.

‘He’d have to be blind to go for her,’ Ellen said. ‘It’s about breeding and money,’ protested Sara.

‘Just like a horse,’ said Tilly with a giggle.

‘Enough, girls,’ Alice said with a chuckle.

But when her friends finally left and the maids came in to remove the used tea tray, the image of Razeby dancing with all of those women, one of whom would be his wife, lingered.

For all the teasing and the jest, she knew what Ellen and Tilly had been doing—trying to protect her. As if she needed protecting! As if she were hurting from the split with Razeby! She felt mortified just at the thought, and a determination to prove to them otherwise, that it was just as she said, Razeby had never meant anything serious to her.

A vision of him sneaked into her mind. Standing before her at White’s, with those smouldering brown eyes that sent spirals darting through her body. And it was as if she felt again the rasp of his cheek beneath her lips and smelled the scent of him in her nose. And felt that sense of heady power. And despite everything, she smiled at the memory. She could not help herself.

It was a very dangerous line she was walking. A knife edge, just like being on stage at the theatre. Avoiding avoidance. Temptation—for him and maybe even for her. Showing him what he could not have. But she could not turn back from it. Not when there was still clearly work to be done.

Chapter Ten

Within Lady Hadley’s stifling ballroom a few days later, Razeby and Linwood were standing by the glass doors that led out into the back garden, breathing in the draft of cool air.

‘How goes your search?’ Linwood asked.

‘Well enough.’

‘Almack’s, matchmaking, picnics and balls… You have been busy.’ Linwood paused. ‘And yet you do not appear to have narrowed down the field.’

‘Keeping my options open.’ Razeby took a sip of champagne.

Linwood gave a nod of understanding. ‘White’s betting book has Miss Faversham as the favourite.’

Razeby said nothing.

‘With Lady Esme Fraser as a close second.’

‘There are better alliances for Razeby out there.’

‘Maybe, but it seems you find a reason to reject every suitable woman who comes your way.’ Linwood held his glass up to the light and examined it.

Razeby felt the slight tension in his jaw. ‘Nonsense.’

‘Indeed, one might almost think that your heart was not in it, Razeby.’

His heart.? Razeby thought of Alice at White’s. Of the mischievous look in her eyes, of the caress of her breath and the warm tease of her lips. He thought of her in Dryden’s and of that heart-stopping moment in Hyde Park. All the tension that rippled between them. And the way he felt when he saw her, when he was with her, when he touched her. He pushed the memories away, crushed the feelings that were coursing through his mind and body, knowing they were something he could not allow.

‘What has heart to do with it?’ he said grimly. ‘It is about consolidating positions, about power and money, and safeguarding the future. Duty, my friend, nothing else. We all know that.’

‘And Alice?’

‘Alice has nothing to do with it.’ He said it too quickly. ‘It is over between us.’ If he said it enough times maybe he would come to believe it.

‘So you keep saying,’ said Linwood. ‘But from where I was sitting in White’s the other night, it looked anything but over.’

‘You are mistaken.’

Linwood said nothing, just looked at him.

‘We are both adults. We both understand how these things work.’

Still Linwood said nothing.

‘Hell, Linwood! We still move in the same circles. What do you expect? That we should snub one another? Alice is not like that. I am not like that.’

‘So it would seem.’ Linwood raised his eyebrows by the tiniest degree. ‘And you do get to forgo Almack’s tomorrow.’

‘I am the charity’s patron, for heaven’s sake! I can hardly miss their benefit ball. It is just unfortunate that it happens to coincide with Almack’s.’

‘Most unfortunate,’ agreed Linwood with his usual deadpan expression, but Razeby knew exactly what his friend was thinking.

And the problem was Linwood was not far wrong.

‘Are you sure about this, Alice?’ Venetia set the fan back down upon the dressing table in Alice’s bedchamber.

‘Frew has invited me and it’s for a very good cause.’ Alice pushed the last hairpin into place and turned away from the peering glass to look at her friend. ‘The Benevolent Society for the Assistance of the Unfortunate and Homeless of London.’

‘You do know that Razeby is their patron.’

‘Of course I know.’

‘And that as such he will be there tonight.’

‘I can’t let that stop me. If I avoided every place I thought he’d be, I’d never set foot outside the door.’

‘Alice…’

‘What?’ She tried to look all innocent. ‘It’s the truth!’ And it was, just not all of it.

‘You do not have to do this.’

Alice met her friend’s eyes directly. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I do, Venetia. If I avoid him, what message does it send all of London? I’ll not turn away from a single situation.’

‘Proving to the world that he did not hurt you?’

Proving to herself. Proving to him. That was what this was about.

‘Or punishing him by showing him just what he has lost?’ Venetia asked.

‘Maybe a bit of both. I’m not afraid to face him, Venetia.’

‘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.

‘That can’t be right,’ Alice murmured before she could stop herself.

‘It is,’ insisted Sara. ‘He’s been seen there.’

‘Why on earth would Razeby do that?’ Alice asked, her pace subconsciously slowing.

Sara raised her brows, widened her eyes and gave her that look that brought a blush of embarrassment to Alice’s cheeks.

It was Tilly who finally told her. ‘The rumour is it ain’t just a bride he’s looking for, Alice, but a new mistress. We thought you knew.’

Alice felt the words hit her hard. She glanced away to hide her shock. ‘Rumours aren’t always true.’

They all looked at her in a way that made her regret saying the words aloud.

‘Going in there late at night. Leaving early in the morning. A girl doesn’t have to be a bluestocking to work it out,’ said Sara.

‘You know what men are like.’ Tilly patted her arm as if to console her.

‘I do.’ And yet she thought Razeby different. Even now. Even after all that had happened. It could not be true. She knew Razeby. And what he was doing was about duty, no matter how much she disliked the way he had gone about doing it.

‘It’s always about what’s in their breeches,’ said Ellen.

‘It is,’ agreed Alice with a smile to mask how much she was still reeling from the revelation.

‘But you didn’t leave anything behind, did you?’ Sara persisted.

Alice’s smile broadened. ‘I didn’t leave one thing.’ But, in truth, she had left a lot more than a diamond bracelet and some expensive dresses.

‘You don’t want some other woman getting her hands on anything that’s rightfully yours.’

Tilly and Ellen nodded in agreement with Sara’s words.

Alice laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that.’

‘Glad to hear it, girl.’ Tilly slipped her arm through hers.

‘Come on—’ Ellen gave a smile ‘—I need some new stockings and Benjamin Preece has been advertising ladies’ white silk hose made of real China silk for only 7s 6d a pair.’

‘I could do with some stockings myself,’ said Alice, denying the disquiet she was feeling. ‘And then we’ll go and have tea.’

‘Like ladies.’ Ellen raised her eyebrows and affected a posh accent.

They 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.

Chapter Eleven

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.’

Razeby felt a sudden uncomfortable premonition of just what that ‘slightly sensitive subject’ might be.

‘Not like you to be bashful,’ he said and waited to see what Devlin would say.

‘I just wanted to ascertain the situation. Regarding you and Miss Sweetly.’

Razeby’s heart beat harder. ‘I am looking for a bride, Devlin. Does not that say it all?’ He forced his muscles to stay relaxed.

‘I thought perhaps you and Miss Sweetly might still have something going.’

‘We do not.’ The words were curt. He kept control.

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Razeby’s gaze sharpened on Devlin. But Devlin did not seem to notice.

‘The thing is, Razeby…’ Devlin cleared his throat. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Now that you and Alice are no longer together I thought I might ask her out. You wouldn’t have any objection to that, would you?’

‘Why would I possibly object?’ he said drily. But inside he could feel the thud of his heart too loud and hard in his chest and the cold prickle of his skin, and something primitive and menacing snake through his blood.

‘Thank you, Razeby.’ Devlin gave him a nod. ‘I had better catch up with the others.’

‘You had better,’ said Razeby in a voice that barely concealed the warning. He stood there and watched Devlin leave with a jaw clenched so tight it was painful, only shifting his gaze to Linwood once Devlin had disappeared through the door.

The two friends exchanged a glance. ‘You are over her, remember,’ Linwood said quietly.

‘I remember,’ Razeby replied grimly. ‘Remembering is all I do.’

Alice slipped the cloak hood from her head as the Linwood butler ushered her into the hallway of Venetia’s rooms.

‘Alice.’ Venetia came hurrying out of the drawing room to see her.

‘You don’t have anyone in, do you?’ Alice asked, darting a cautious look over at the drawing room.

‘No one. I am just writing some letters while Linwood is out this evening.’ She made no mention of exactly where Linwood had gone. She did not need to. Both women knew that there was a matchmaking ball at Almack’s tonight and that Linwood would be there with Razeby.

‘Is something wrong?’ There was a look of concern on Venetia’s face that made Alice feel guilty.

‘Nothing,’ Alice lied. ‘I just fancied a chat, that’s all.’

‘Come on through. A chat sounds much more inviting than dealing with a pile of business letters.’ Venetia ordered a tray of tea with crumpets and jam.

The drawing room was cosy, the curtains drawn against the darkness outside. They drank the tea and ate the crumpets, even though Alice was not one bit hungry. The scene reminded her too much of the dark winter nights when she and Razeby had toasted crumpets by the fire and spread thick butter on them to melt and drip down their chins and all over their fingers as they snuggled together beneath a blanket. She pushed the memory away.

They talked of the theatre, of how much Venetia missed it, of the current plays, of Kemble and people they knew in common—indulging in a little gossip and laughing together.

‘Talking of gossip,’ Alice said and it sounded a little contrived even to her own ears, ‘I was wondering…’ She hesitated, then, taking a breath, asked the question that she had come here to ask. ‘Have you heard any rumours concerning Razeby?’

‘What kind of rumours?’

‘About Hart Street.’ Alice swallowed. ‘It seems he’s kept the house on.’

‘I had not heard.’

Alice looked at her friend, wondering if she was telling the truth, or just sparing her feelings.

‘I am sure if it is true there is a perfectly good explanation behind it.’

‘It’s true all right,’ Alice muttered and then blushed when she realised just how much that reply revealed.

Venetia did not question her on it. ‘Whatever Razeby’s reasons, I doubt very much they stretch to what the gossipmongers are saying.’

‘I thought you hadn’t heard the gossipmongers saying anything about him.’

‘And neither I have, Alice. But I can well imagine.’ Venetia raised an eyebrow. ‘I know what you are thinking.’

‘Do you?’ Alice looked into her eyes.

‘Do you really think he is interested in another woman as his mistress?’ Venetia asked quietly.

‘No. Maybe.’ Alice closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to think any more, Venetia.’

‘Whatever is going on with Razeby, I think you may rest assured it is not that.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Alice gave a sigh. ‘It shouldn’t matter a toss, even if he’s taking a different woman back there every night of the week. But a woman has her pride.’ But pride was only part of Alice’s problem.

Venetia gave a nod of understanding.

‘I best be away.’

‘You will not stay for some more tea?’

Alice shook her head. ‘Thank you, Venetia.’

They both knew it was not the tea Alice was thanking her for.

Alice tried to put Razeby out of her mind and get on with her life. The prospect of seeing him worried her, because she felt like something had changed in her and she knew it was more important than ever that she maintain a façade of normality. But she had to see him again, and she did, only two days after speaking to Venetia.

The musicale in Mr Forbes’s drawing room was in full swing, the formally arranged rows of chairs filled completely. Some gentlemen were standing against the walls at the back of the room and some at the sides. Forbes was a personal friend of Kemble’s. He was a wealthy man, but not exceptionally so. Precisely how he had managed to secure the talent of Angelica Catalani to sing for them tonight was a coup that had everyone asking the question. The soprano was famously difficult in temperament and her fee was reputed to be beyond the reach of all but the richest in the land. But when she opened her mouth and sang, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. She had a voice with true clear clarity, a voice that made Alice think of crystal and purity and perfection.

Alice was here with Kemble and his sister, the famous tragedy actress Sarah Siddons. Their seats in the middle row meant they had a good view of Madame Catalani, and were the optimal distance to appreciate the music. Alice was trying very hard to focus herself entirely on the singer. Trying to block out the knowledge that Razeby was sitting at the back of the room with Miss Althrope, who accompanied him this night.

The programme for the evening, neat and nicely printed, was lying open on her lap. Before the music had started she had pretended to read it, and chatted with Kemble and Mrs Siddons. As she had suspected, Kemble could not help himself running through the scheduled music and discussing each one. Alice had smiled and listened and added in her tuppence, conscious that Razeby could see her and her every reaction. It was important that she look as if she were having the best time in the world. Without him.

It should have been easier once Madame Catalani started singing. All Alice had to do was sit there, looking serenely engrossed in the music. But it grew strangely more difficult.

Madame Catalani’s voice was so haunting and melodic that it made Alice feel emotional. Emotions were dangerous. Especially emotions of the sort that were seeping into her chest. She glanced away from the soprano, seeking to distract herself, but all she could see were the fashionable red-painted walls around her. Red—pray God that they had been any other colour!

The applause sounded. Kemble glanced at her, applauding for all he was worth, nodding at her and smiling his enjoyment. She made herself smile back and clap all the harder. But then Madame Catalani began to sing again, a piece so devastatingly haunting that it had the power to pierce through all the armour Alice had donned. It moved her. It made her think of things of which she did not want to think. The truth of feelings and pretences.

It made her think of Razeby.

She dropped her gaze to rest on the programme lying on her lap. But the beautiful voice sang on and inside of Alice all of her emotions seemed to be twisting and turning and welling dangerously high. And there, ever present, was that burning awareness of Razeby sitting behind her with another woman. It was like a burr, cutting into her. Or maybe it was just the haunting voice and that music, and those red, red walls. All of it pressing in on her. Suffocating her, until she did not think she could bear it for another minute.

She leaned closer to Kemble, whispered near his ear, ‘If you’d excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Kemble. I’ll be right back.’

Kemble gave a nod, barely taking his eyes from Madame Catalani.

Alice made her way from the row as inconspicuously as she could.

Razeby was not focused upon Madame Catalani like everybody else in the room. Rather, he was watching Alice leave alone, and a few moments later the sleazy figure of Quigley slip out after her. No one noticed. Madame Catalani sang on. The whole audience was transfixed.

Razeby whispered his excuse to Miss Althrope. And went out after them.

The hallway was empty. Not a footman or a maid was in sight. Madame Catalani’s voice was softer, more muted in volume out here. Beneath it Razeby heard the quiet footsteps on the staircase. He moved silently to follow, reaching the top of the stairs just in time to see Quigley’s black-jacketed back at the end of the passageway disappear through a door signed as the ladies’ withdrawing room. Razeby’s eyes narrowed.

He made his way along the passageway.

Alice had no need to avail herself of the withdrawing room’s facilities behind the modesty screens. She could still hear Madame Catalani’s voice, even up here, but at least she was alone. And the walls were a cool pale grey rather than red. She could breathe. The sky was a clear blue through the windows, the afternoon sunshine lighting it brightly, but the sun was at the front of the house, and this room at the rear. It was cool in here, the fire unlit. And Alice was glad of it. It was just that aria, she told herself, and those red walls and the heat of the room downstairs. A few moments in here and she would be in command of herself once more. She took another breath just as the footsteps sounded outside the door.

Alice pretended to be smoothing down the skirt of her dress as the door opened behind her. She did not look at the reflection in the full-length looking glass, just lowered her eyes and turned to leave.

‘Why, Miss Sweetly. There is no need to rush off, my dear.’

She stopped dead in her tracks, the sight of the lecherous Mr Quigley standing there making her stomach tighten in shock. ‘Mr Quigley! What on earth do you think you’re doing in here? This is the ladies’ withdrawing room!’

‘Yes. I am well aware of what room this is. But I wanted to have a little word with you, in private. And it is so very difficult to get you alone.’

‘You’ll understand if I don’t oblige. Mr Kemble and Mrs Siddons are waiting down the stairs for me.’

‘Now, you cannot expect me to believe that Mr Kemble and Mrs Siddons, or indeed any person in that drawing room, are not so engrossed in Madame Catalani’s singing that they will miss you for a little while. And with you, I do only need a little while.’ He licked a tongue against his lips as if he could taste her upon them and she could not suppress the shudder of revulsion that went through her.

She made to pass him by, but he caught hold of her wrist lightly with his little claw-like fingers.

‘Now, my dear Miss Sweetly,’ he began. He smiled in a leering sort of way, leaning in close so that she could smell the stench of stale wine upon his breath. ‘I have had my eye on you for a long time. And now that Razeby is off the scene and you are left alone, without a protector, I thought I would do the chivalric thing and take you under my wing.’

‘Honoured though I am by your offer, sir, I’m afraid I must decline it.’ She said it politely but firmly.

‘Come now, Miss Sweetly.’ He put on a cajoling voice.

She looked pointedly at where his hand was fixed. ‘If you’d be kind enough to unhand me, Mr Quigley.’

‘Now, don’t be like that, little Miss Sweetly. Such a stern tone does not suit.’ His fingers tightened around her wrist and he dragged her close to him, sliding his hand round her hip and over her buttock to fasten there. ‘Just one little kiss for an old man.’

‘No!’ She tried to push him off, but he was surprisingly strong for a man of his age.

Her eyes met his and she saw the lust that had always been in them when he looked at her and the new intent that lurked there. And the panic rose in her.

It happened so fast she was not sure what had actually taken place until she saw Quigley, face pressed against the wall, his arm up his back, held there by a tall dark figure she knew too well.

Quigley gave a little whimper of fear.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing, Quigley?’ Razeby’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the sudden silence of the room like a whip.

She stared, unable to believe that Razeby was really here.

‘I thought you were done with her, that she was avail—’ Quigley gave a yelp as Razeby inched the older man’s arm higher. ‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry. Won’t touch her again.’

‘It is to Miss Sweetly you should be addressing your apology.’ Razeby’s face was like flint. She had never seen him like this.

‘Apologies, Miss Sweetly.’ Quigley’s words were strained and urgent.

She nodded her acceptance, her eyes darting from Quigley’s contorted face to the dark, dangerous expression on Razeby’s.

Quigley gave another moan of pain.

‘Let him go, Razeby. I think he’s drunk.’

She saw the snarl on Razeby’s lip. ‘Stay away from her, Quigley,’ he hissed.

Quigley nodded, his face powder white. ‘Message understood, my lord.’

Only then did Razeby release his grip on the man.

Quigley picked up his hat, which had been knocked off in the process of being slammed face first into the wall, and disappeared through the door.

Alice did not move and neither did Razeby. They stared across the few feet that separated them. Her heart was thudding hard enough to break free of her ribcage. Her blood was rushing so fast she thought she might faint. But neither were because of Quigley.

‘Are you all right, Alice?’ His voice was quiet, but intense and loaded.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He moved slowly to stand in front of her, his eyes raking hers. ‘He did not hurt you?’

‘No.’ She shook her head.

And all of the tension that was roaring between them had nothing to do with Quigley.

Their gazes were locked, unable to look away. Inside she was trembling so much she feared it would show.

‘I am glad of that.’ He reached his hand to hers and took hold of it, his fingers surrounding hers with warmth and strength and gentleness. ‘You are shaking.’

‘It’s cold in here,’ she lied.

He slipped off his tailcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

The scent of him enveloped her, bringing with it too many memories, too many conflicting emotions that warred and struggled within her chest.

‘No!’ She pulled his coat from her shoulders and thrust it back into his hands.

The silence hissed between them, the tension winding tighter.

And still she could not look away. And neither could he.

Their eyes held, conveying so many words, none of which could be spoken.

Her heart was thudding so hard she could feel each beat reverberate through her body. A shiver rippled down her spine and tingled across her skin. She was breathing faster now, more shallow, not knowing how much longer she could keep herself together.

He looked at her for a moment longer. Then he drew her a small incline of his head and walked away.

Through the open door she watched him pass the two young ladies who were poised on the brink of entering the withdrawing room.

‘Ladies,’ she heard him say politely as he calmly walked past them.

The two girls were giggling and gaping as they entered the withdrawing room. But they fell silent when they saw her standing there, their eyes growing wide with shock and speculation.

Alice held her head up, flicked some imaginary dust from her skirt, then sauntered out with all the dignity of a duchess, as if she did not give a damn that she had just been caught with Razeby in the ladies’ withdrawing room.

When Razeby came back into the drawing room Quigley’s chair was empty. Razeby returned to take his seat by Miss Althrope’s side, who was far too well bred to comment upon a gentleman’s absence. Whether she had noticed Alice leave he neither knew nor cared.

His blood was still pounding from the sight of her, his mind still focused and intent—with lethality towards Quigley and something else altogether for Alice. He could feel her in every beat of his heart.

It was not supposed to be like this. He was not supposed to feel like this. He knew that, but sitting there with Miss Althrope by his side, his eyes half on Madame Catalani, half on the door waiting for Alice to return, he did, and there was not a damn thing he could do to change it.

At last Alice slipped into the room, resuming her place beside Kemble once more. She did not so much as glance his way. Just sat there seemingly quietly intent upon Madame Catalani’s performance. But she did not need to look at him. He was so damned aware of her that Madame Catalani could have missed every single note and he would not have noticed. He could feel the sense of Alice thudding through his chest, feel the knowledge of what was between them in his blood and in his bones. He stared straight ahead, as if watching the soprano, but he was watching Alice for every minute of that concert. And he could not look away.

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