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.
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