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