Regency Desire. Margaret McPhee
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