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
