Read Online MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS by Margaret McPhee - Free Book Online Page B

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 circulating,’ he said curtly, not wanting to discuss anything of that.
    ‘And Alice?’
    ‘I have already told you, it is over with Alice.’ His voice sounded too harsh and defensive.
    Linwood knew better than to probe