Regency Desire. Margaret McPhee
Alice,’ Venetia said carefully.
‘You did warn me not to become his mistress. Do you remember?’
Venetia gave no reply, only held her gaze with eyes that were filled with compassion.
Alice hated to see it. It made her feel angry and even more determined. She did not want anyone’s pity, not even Venetia’s. ‘You told me it was better to earn your own money than put yourself in any man’s power.’
‘And did you put yourself in his power, Alice?’ Venetia asked softly.
‘Of course not! I’m not that daft. I knew the score with him. Just as he did with me. With my background, how could I not?’ The secret of her scandalous past whispered between them. She smiled again as if it meant nothing. ‘I kept my hand in at the theatre, didn’t I? Doing the odd appearance. Which is why Kemble’s agreed to take me back full time.’
‘I am glad of that.’ But whether Venetia’s gladness was due to Kemble taking her back full time or her attitude over Razeby was not clear. ‘But there is more to power than money, Alice.’ Venetia looked at her. ‘I do understand something of how it has been between you and Razeby. How it was even in the very beginning.’
‘You’re imagining things, Venetia.’ Alice gave a dismissive laugh. ‘What was between Razeby and me was a kind of mutually beneficial business arrangement, nothing more. Great sex and a good time, and money, of course, lots of money.’
‘It seemed as if there was a lot more than that.’
‘I’m a good actress. What can I say? You trained me well.’ She smiled again.
‘You are,’ said Venetia, ‘a very good actress.’ There was no edge to the words. Alice did not know why they brought a blush to heat her cheeks.
The little clock on the mantel ticked, reassuring and steady.
Alice busied herself in pouring tea into the pretty bone-china cups that came with the fine furniture and everything else in these rented rooms. She added a lump of sugar to each and a few drops of cream before passing one small cup and saucer to Venetia.
‘You seem as if you have everything in hand, Alice.’
‘I have, indeed.’
‘If there is anything I can do to help.’
Alice glanced across the room to the side table, where the folded cream paper lay with its red ribbon tied around it. ‘Actually, there is one thing you could do for me, Venetia, as you’re here. Kemble’s given me the contract for the theatre. I was going to come and see you. But I was waiting for a quiet time.’ She fetched the document over and set it down next to the coffee tray.
‘You can come round any time, you know that.’ But that was not true. They both knew it.
‘We move in different worlds now, Venetia. You’re no longer an actress, but a viscountess. If I’m seen visiting, it wouldn’t look good for you. Reputation is everything in the ton. They’re starting to accept you. It’s going well. I don’t want to ruin it.’
‘You will not ruin it. You are the very height of discretion.’
‘I try.’ She laughed. ‘Well, only where you’re concerned, if I’m honest.’
‘I am glad you are keeping your spirits up.’ Venetia smiled.
‘Why wouldn’t I? Razeby’s in the past. Ahead there’s only the future. And the future looks good for me.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m planning to throw myself into the theatre life. Make a real go of it. You have to get on with life, don’t you?’ Another of her mother’s teachings. Very easy to say, not so easy to do. But Alice would do it. She was very determined of that.
‘You do,’ Venetia agreed. Then she lifted the document Alice had set before her and slipped off the red ribbon that bound it.
A small companionable silence opened up as they sipped their coffee and Venetia read the wording of the theatre contract.
‘Is it all in order?’
‘It seems to be. You are in a strong position, Alice. Your return to the stage full time will fill the theatre. You could push Kemble to pay you more.’
But Alice shook her head. ‘I’m happy with what he’s offered me. I just want to get on with it. Get started.’
‘If you are sure?’
‘I am. Although I must confess to being a little nervous at playing so many leading roles.’
‘You will be fine upon that stage, Alice. More than fine. You will be great. I know you will.’
‘I hope so.’ Alice bit at her lip and her cheeks turned pink at the compliment.
‘Kemble has told you the plays that are scheduled?’
‘Right up to the summer. There’s nothing new, nothing I haven’t done before, thank the Lord.’
Venetia met her gaze. ‘If something new does come up… any new part to be read, come to me.’
Alice gave a nod. ‘I will.’
The two women looked at one another, bound by more than this secret that they shared. By sensitivity and friendship and past histories that were too much alike.
Alice took a deep breath. ‘Go ahead, sign it,’ she said.
Venetia gave a nod and then, moving the tray aside, she lifted the plain black pen, another one of the house’s possessions, from its holder and dipped the tip into the ink well. Very carefully she signed at the end of the contract, Alice Sweetly, then sprinkled some fine sand upon the still-wet ink of the signature.
‘It is done, Alice,’ she said.
They both knew that it was more than the signing of the contract Venetia was referring to. This commitment to going back to the theatre full time was the drawing of a line under all that had gone before with Razeby. It marked the end of that chapter in Alice’s life and the beginning of a new one. She was fortunate to have such an option, and more fortunate still to have such a friend as Venetia who had helped her. Alice knew that, so she smiled and held her head up. ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you, Venetia.’
‘I will come and see you in your first performance.’
‘You do that. I’ll be looking out for you.’ Alice smiled.
They walked towards the front door.
The thought was pounding in Alice’s mind, and the words whispering in her ear, and Alice tried not to say them. But once Venetia walked out that door it would be too late and Alice had to be sure.
Just as Venetia was about to leave, Alice placed her hand on her friend’s arm and said quietly, ‘If Razeby should enquire, which I’m sure he won’t, you won’t tell him the direction of my new rooms, will you?’
There was the tiniest of hesitations in which Venetia looked into her eyes in a way that made Alice regret speaking the words.
‘Rest assured I will tell him nothing, Alice.’
There were no accusations. No denials or admissions. Just a hug of understanding. And a farewell.
Within the study of Razeby’s town house in Leicester Square, Collins answered the question he had just been asked. ‘Two maidservants, no menservants. Apart from that, no one.’
‘Thank you, Mr Collins.’ Razeby slid a neat pile of folded bank notes across the gleam of the mahogany desk top.
The wiry, sharp-eyed man pocketed the money without counting it. It was not first time the Bow Street Runner had undertaken