MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS by Margaret McPhee Read Free Book Online Page A

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.