A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREVIEW, THE PERFECT BRIDE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY EILEEN PUTMAN:

  A Passionate Performance

  Eileen Putman

  Copyright

  Copyright© Eileen Putman, 1997

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission requests, please contact the publisher.

  Second Edition, 2013;

  Third Edition, 2015

  To the A’s in my life:

  Alan, Andy, and Abby.

  Miracles, every one.

  PROLOGUE

  London, 1801

  The pistol pointed straight at Justin’s heart. He knew it was loaded, for he had watched his father prepare the weapon using bullets, measure, mallet, and powder flask from the polished mahogany case.

  His father’s hands shook, as they always did, from too much drink. His piercing blue gaze met Justin’s over the barrel of the gun.

  “Death is a rather permanent state, boy,” he drawled, anger etching the lines on his face into deep crevices. “Are you certain you do not wish to retract those words?”

  Justin stared mutely at the man who had given him life, the man whose blotched and puffy face made him unrecognizable as the father who years ago had bought him his first pony, taught him to swim, and showed him how to shoot before he could scarcely hold a weapon’s weight.

  That man was nowhere in evidence. Instead, this ugly stranger stood in his place, smiling a dangerous smile and pointing a trembling pistol at his son’s heart.

  Like wildly firing cannons, Justin’s pulse thundered in his ears. He could not manage even an inarticulate grunt in response to his father’s question. Yet moments ago the words had spewed from him in an accusing rush of sound and rage spawned by the image of his mother’s bruised face. He had meant to force his father to see the damage he had wrought, to change his ways. But he had gone too far, said too much, and accomplished nothing. He was only a youth, without the skill and strength of a man, even a man such as his father.

  Words were the only weapons he had. And they had failed, because they were only words.

  “Pity. You have lost your tongue.” His father yawned, but kept the pistol leveled at him. “’Tis just as well. I have no desire to listen to more of your drivel.” He gave Justin a penetrating look. “Be careful before you set yourself up as judge and jury, boy. You may not be in possession of all of the facts.”

  “I did not mean —” But Justin’s voice cracked, and he broke off in mortification. His father laughed scornfully.

  “You are no more than a mewling babe, hardly fit to criticize your elders. That scullery maid I sent you has obviously had no success in helping you find your manhood.”

  Justin flushed, remembering the awkward exercise he had endured with the smirking maid. He could not imagine his parents engaging in such activity, but he knew they did, for his mother was several months gone with child. He wondered about the mistresses whose existence his father never troubled to hide. Did they enjoy such sport? His mother surely did not. He had heard her cries in the night, cries of anguish and pain.

  Fury filled him, a man’s fury in a boy’s body. Smoke darkened his grey eyes as a rush of courage propelled him a step forward.

  “I demand satisfaction,” he said in a voice that was not quite steady. “On my mother’s behalf.”

  Red-streaked eyes blinked at him. A crude laugh of disbelief echoed around the room. “You!” His father gaped. “You would challenge Oscar Trent — nigh the best shot in England — to a duel! How old are you, boy?”

  “Nearly fourteen, sir.”

  “Fourteen! That is rich!” The pistol shook wildly as his father nearly doubled up in mirth.

  “I can shoot, sir,” Justin replied with as much dignity as he could muster. “And I am prepared to die.”

  A fist crashed upon the desk, sending Justin’s heart to his throat. “First you consign me to the devil,” his father roared, “then you decide to send me there yourself! Perhaps your mother did not birth such a milksop puppy after all — only an idiot.” His father lurched toward him, nearly losing his balance.

  “Very well, lad,” he said, a wild gleam in his eye. “I will accept your challenge. My choice of weapons, of course.”

  A deck of cards suddenly appeared on the desk. A grin, cunning as it was grotesque, distorted his father’s features.

  Justin waited.

  “Low card loses,” his father said softly.

  Justin looked from the man to the cards. “I do not understand the stakes.”

  “’Tis a simple duel. Whoever draws high is the victor. The owner of the low card will be deemed to have cocked up his toes.” His father waved a hand dismissively. “All in pretense, of course, else the hounds of hell will be on my heels. But you and I will know the truth, will we not?” His malevolent smile sent a shiver down Justin’s spine.

  Now he understood. It was a game, but not a game. Justin nodded slowly, agreeing to the stakes. “Shuffle the cards thoroughly, if you please, sir.”

  His father’s gaze narrowed. “Perhaps I did not raise such a fool, after all.” He set the pistol down to take up the cards. Justin breathed a sigh of relief, though he knew that the danger remained. He watched closely as his father shuffled clumsily. The cards were probably marked, although there were no obvious signs.

  “Go on, boy.” His father tapped the deck. “Choose.”

  Carefully, Justin took a card from the middle. He put it facedown, covering the back with his palm so his father could not see the markings, if they were there. When he looked up, he read the anger in his father’s eyes.

  Without a word, his father pulled a card from the top of the deck. He turned it over. It was the king of spades. He grinned.

  “Your turn, boy.” The scent of victory gave his voice a hoarse, breathy sound.

  Justin removed his palm. His father’s gaze went to the back of the card. A flicker in those bloodshot eyes gave Justin pause. Slowly, he turned over his card.

  Ace of spades.

  Father and son stared at each other.

  “Alas, I am dead.” His father’s lips curled contemptuously around the blunt words. “I shall find a comfortable grave and watch the lot of you make fools of yourselves for all eternity. My troubles are over. Yours have just begun, however.”

  “Sir?” Justin willed his voice to calm.

  Idly, his father ran a finger over the barrel of the pistol. “Did you think you would escape unscathed, boy?
” he asked softly. “That is not how it works.”

  Justin’s blood ran cold at the venom in his father’s voice. “I do not understand.”

  “Surely you know that it is a son’s duty to exact revenge for his father’s murder?” A strange, glittering look inhabited his father’s gaze. “I am dead. By your hand, in a duel. I am afraid that means you must now die. An eye for an eye, you know.”

  As the boy watched in horror, his father pushed the pistol toward him. ‘Take it,” he commanded, placing the gun in Justin’s hand and curving his son’s finger around the trigger. His fleshy lips curled in a knowing smile as he maneuvered the weapon so that it pointed at Justin’s head.

  “Go ahead, son,” he said in a silky purr. “See that justice is done.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “It is your duty. Pull the trigger.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chester, April 1816

  “Very well, Harry. I shall be your bride,” Sarah Armistead said in an exasperated voice, “but this is the last time.”

  Harry shot her a relieved smile. “You’ve got bottom, Sarah, I will give you that.”

  She eyed him sharply. Harry’s colorful cant was not one of his endearing traits. “I promise you, Harry. I will not do it again.”

  “With a bit of my luck and your skill, there should be no need to. Do you think you could manage to be increasing? ’Twould seal the deal.” He grinned.

  Green eyes flashed him a look that instantly removed the smile from his face. “That is too much, even from you, Harry,” Sarah admonished as a flush swept her features. “I daresay my performances are not that good.”

  Harry had the grace to look properly chastened. “Ought not to have said that. I forget my manners around you.”

  “One must possess manners to forget them.” Sarah gifted him with the stern gaze she had perfected over many months of delivering setdowns to members of the masculine gender. Men often made unflattering assumptions about her character, but that did not mean she would tolerate such careless disregard of her sensibilities. “Any more remarks like that and you can very well go begging to your Aunt Agatha alone.”

  “She will probably leave everything to Justin anyway,” Harry grumbled, “even though he will never wed. No respectable woman would have him.”

  “Oh?” Sarah flounced into the chair at her dressing table, angry at herself for accepting Harry’s offer, angry at the circumstances that had forced her to do it. “Pray, what is your cousin’s problem, Harry? Two heads? A weakness for Blue Ruin? An unquenchable thirst for the muslin set?”

  “Not two heads. His one is more than a match for most men.” Harry eyed her cautiously, wary of her mood. “The last, perhaps.”

  “Do you mean to say that your cousin is a rake?” Sarah pretended shock. “Never say I am marrying into a notorious family, Harry!”

  Harry’s chin lifted mulishly. “I suppose every family has a scandal or two. My father was a paragon of virtue, not that it brought him anything. The money and title went to Oscar.”

  “Oscar?” Sarah asked.

  “Justin’s father — my father’s older brother. Anyway, I have kept my branch of the tree spotless, you may be assured.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sarah retorted. “Paying an actress to pretend to be your bride is most aboveboard. I am surprised more young men have not thought of it.”

  “Justin has a reputation,” Harry conceded, ignoring the barb. “Comes by it naturally. His father was infamous in his day. Aunt Agatha was cross as crabs after Justin’s duel with Greywood. She fears his scapegrace ways will result in the title being passed on to me prematurely.”

  Harry blew a ponderous breath, like a man with many burdens. “She hounded me for months to wed and start my nursery. She had no children of her own — Claremont cocked up his toes years ago, with nary a male relative in sight, so it all went to her. Says she’ll settle her estate on our branch of the family. But she wants legitimate Trents, not the bastards Justin is rumored to have spread about the country.”

  At Sarah’s glare, he managed an apologetic smile. “I ought not speak so baldly, should I? Even an actress has standards.”

  That last comment did nothing for Sarah’s black mood as she studied the array of powders before her. It was time to get ready, even though there was not one chance in a hundred that she would get to play Ophelia tonight. Rose McIntosh was exceedingly healthy. An understudy could grow positively ancient waiting for Rose to succumb to so much as a headache.

  Sarah could hardly blame Harry for his crude speech and his indelicate assumptions about her character. In a profession where women were viewed as no better than they had to be, upholding her reputation was a Sisyphean task. Her poor parents, were they still alive, would have been scandalized to know that she performed on stage for faceless strangers. They had enjoyed the little plays she had put on in the privacy of their home; for them, however, her talent was not for public consumption.

  But they had been dead for five years — a carriage accident had claimed them both — and her father’s last desperate business investment had removed any possibility of an inheritance. When William was younger, she had scraped by. But now that he was away at school....

  Sarah sighed heavily. Acting provided a decent living if one were fortunate to get steady circuit work and could tolerate being considered a loose woman. The best money was to be made on the side, however, and most actresses had few scruples where those side activities were concerned. Sarah had long since gotten used to the leering Lotharios who haunted the theater seeking actresses eager to feather their nests in exchange for performances of an entirely different sort.

  Sometimes it was hard to hold her head up as she walked past them through the playhouse doors. She was a respectable woman, even if no one else knew it. Her mother had taught her that virtue was its own reward. If only the reward were not so... intangible.

  William would be mortified if he knew the truth — that his sister was not the sedate lady’s companion he believed her to be but a member of one of the most disreputable professions in England. But her brother was tucked safely away at Eton, where a baron’s son belonged and where she meant to keep him. He would get the education he deserved, if she had to do every menial job in the theater, including scrubbing floors.

  That did not include joining the muslin set herself, however. God had indeed given her a talent, and while she plied it in a forum her parents would not have sanctioned, she would never hire her body out for satisfaction of a man’s carnal appetites. For all the worldliness surrounding her, Sarah had only a vague notion of what those appetites involved; she only knew that she was determined to retain her honor.

  Though it was not, perhaps, the simplest of tasks. She had recently discovered there were varying degrees of honor. This was the second time, for example, that Harry Trent had employed her to play the role of his wife for his Aunt Agatha who, with one foot in the grave, was determined that her wayward nephews would marry and produce heirs upon whom she could bestow her fortune. On the first occasion, Harry had driven her to his aunt’s estate for tea, and Sarah had played the demure, deferential bride with great skill.

  Harry had assured her that the charade was harmless, that Aunt Agatha’s wits were dulled, and that Sarah was only helping to brighten the dear lady’s remaining time in this life. Sarah’s conscience had pricked her mightily, however, when the woman’s eyes lit up upon being presented with Harry’s “bride.” And there was a keen spark in the lady’s eyes, which made Sarah deeply suspicious of Harry’s account of the situation. After that, Sarah vowed to restrict her roles to more benign ones, such as the recent job she had taken reading Shakespeare to an earl’s sickly wife.

  But the earl and his wife had since removed to Bath. Then William had written to say that his funds had run out. Another letter had come from the headmaster saying that William was showing great promise in his studies. Thanks to Rose McIntosh’s superb health and the dearth of women’s roles in “Hamlet,” one of
Mr. Stinson’s favorite plays, Sarah did not have money to send her brother. Mr. Stinson was extremely stingy when it came to paying understudies for a role they were never likely to perform.

  Harry’s offer of a substantial sum for one last performance as his bride was a godsend. He did not have the ready at the moment but had promised to pay her upon receipt of his quarter allowance next month.

  Aunt Agatha’s house party was next week, however, so her performance would be tendered on faith. Sarah eyed Harry dubiously.

  “I intend this to be the last time. Have you thought about how you will explain my absence from future family events?”

  Harry waved a dismissive hand. “I will say you died in childbirth, or some such. She will never know the truth. Aunt Agatha is practically a recluse. She rarely leaves that musty country estate. Telling her you have gone to your final reward will buy me a proper period of mourning. She would not dare pester me to remarry for at least a year — perhaps two, if I am especially heartbroken.”

  Sarah shook her head. Harry was willing to go to absurd lengths to avoid the parson’s noose. “Has it ever occurred to you simply to look for a real wife? That would solve your problem.”

  “Why would I want a wife? Women are pleasant enough to look at, and some have delightful, er, talents. But a wife is plaguesome. Why, George Ferguson’s bride spent a fortune last year on a wardrobe that she promptly declared to be out of fashion this Season. Who would want to settle down with one woman, when he can have a different one every night? If you will pardon my frankness.”

  “I will pardon almost anything, Harry,” Sarah said evenly, “providing you pay me on time.”

  “Do not worry. My allowance is due in three weeks. And now that Aunt Agatha believes me to be married, I think I can persuade her to increase the sum.” He winked. “Especially if it seems we are starting a nursery.”

  Three weeks. With luck, William could scrape by until then. He was nearly living on charity as it was. Sarah sighed and began to apply Venetian talc to her skin as Harry watched in fascination. She supposed that a proper lady would not have allowed Harry access to her dressing room, but as her dressing area was simply an open alcove off the theater’s back hall, the fact of his presence there seemed merely incidental and perfectly acceptable. After all, dozens of people rushed by nightly. A little screen behind which to change was all she had, and that she shared with several other actresses. There was no privacy in the theater.