A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  In the mirror she could see Harry watching as the profusion of freckles on her nose slowly disappeared and the genteel baron’s daughter vanished before his eyes. Sarah had learned the artifices of her profession well. She thoroughly enjoyed disappearing into a role; it was one of the pleasures of acting. Pretense took the edge off the harsh realities of life. On stage, she became someone else — a woman with passions that bubbled over without a care for society’s strictures, a grand lady with a comfortable life and servants to command, a princess awaiting rescue from a love-struck knight.

  Real life was not like that. It was about changing one’s clothes behind a dingy screen and hoping for a modicum of privacy, trying desperately to scrape together the funds to keep William at school, sharing a bed with another actress in a cramped room in a bawdy boarding house. And it was about holding one’s head up high, no matter what people thought. It was important not to feel the humiliation. For then, all was lost.

  When at last Sarah turned to face Harry, her skin was ghostly white and her pale lashes had been darkened with a preparation of elderberries. Carefully, she tucked her thick auburn hair under a blond wig. Her green eyes, the only remaining genuine feature, gleamed with unnatural brightness.

  “Good God, Sarah,” Harry exclaimed. “You look very unlike yourself. In fact, you look rather...”

  “Ill? Mad, perhaps?” She gave him one of her best eerie smiles. “‘They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.’” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “‘Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.’”

  At his baffled look, she laughed. It was far from a carefree expression of mirth, however, and her eyes remained curiously impassive. “’Tis not me before you, but Ophelia,” Sarah explained. At his blank expression, she added: “You do know that she was quite mad?”

  He frowned.

  Sarah sighed. “Do not worry, Harry. For your Aunt Agatha, I shall once more be your demure, devoted bride. Exceedingly healthy and perfectly sane.”

  He nodded uncertainly.

  ***

  Justin, Viscount Linton, stepped down from his claret- trimmed carriage with the easy grace of one of his finest Arabians. His keen grey eyes narrowed, hawk-like, as he took in the number of carriages waiting in the drive. It was as he suspected. Aunt Agatha was entertaining guests. Predominantly female, if he did not miss his guess.

  These duty calls were damned inconvenient, especially now, as he had more pressing concerns in town. But he supposed he could spare a week in the country for his elderly aunt, the only woman who had never bored him. He was between mistresses, which perhaps accounted for the edgy restlessness that plagued him recently. Aunt Agatha had undoubtedly sensed that fact, as very little escaped her attention. She had begun campaigning again. The house party was ample proof of that. The woman never gave up hope of transforming her debauched nephew into a paragon of respectability.

  The party would undoubtedly include an array of eligible young ladies with their wary mothers. Justin scowled. Debutantes bored him. Their mothers, on the other hand, occasionally could be most interesting.

  Stifling a yawn, he ascended the steps to his aunt’s ancient mansion. Married women offered benefits that inexperienced debutantes did not. Once you got past the cat-and-mouse game they were obliged to play, the wives of other men could be most rapacious in their appetites. No one knew that better than a man of his repute.

  “Hello, Sidney.” Justin clapped his aunt’s aging butler on the back with the familiarity of long acquaintance.

  The butler allowed himself a slight smile and opened his mouth to return the greeting. But just then, Justin gave a mild exclamation.

  “What is this?” he demanded, lightly touching the butler’s ear and appearing to pull something from it. “Tsk, tsk,” he said, shaking his head. “You ought to be more careful about your toilette, man.”

  As he beheld the queen of hearts dangling between Justin’s fingers, the butler emitted a long-suffering sigh. “It is always a pleasure to see you, my lord.”

  Justin’s laughter momentarily erased the lines of cynicism on his face as he stepped into the house. His aunt would be waiting somewhere upstairs to ring a peal over him. He might as well get it over with. Tolerating Aunt Agatha’s tirades was the least he could do for the woman who had practically raised him after his parents died. His harsh features softened as he thought of his crusty relative.

  Aunt Agatha did not approve of his antics or, indeed, most of his pursuits. Nor did she scruple to say so. It was regrettable that the scandalous reputation he had achieved in London had come to her attention here in Cheshire. In his dealings with the female sex, she thought him frankly predatory. Had the topic been suitable for discussion, he would have told her that he was careful to seduce only those women who wished to be seduced and that most women, in his experience, enjoyed the chase. They wore their virtue like a Sunday frock, pulling it on and off as the occasion warranted.

  Except for his aunts — and he was beset by two of the troublesome creatures — Justin had never met a woman he truly liked. For him, congress between the sexes was simply a matter of mutual need.

  Which brought him to a pressing problem. At the moment he had urgent need of a woman — an actress, and a very good one at that. One who was desperate, for the role he had in mind would be dangerous. He had combed the London theaters for actresses willing to take the job, to no avail.

  And who could blame them? It was not every day a woman was asked to kill a man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “In a moment you will meet my other nephew,” Lady Agatha Claremont said. “My sister Arabella’s son. Doubtless you have never seen him in town. Justin moves in rather exceptional circles.”

  The frown accompanying that last comment made it clear that Harry’s aunt did not approve of those circles. Sarah adjusted her bonnet and smiled politely.

  “Harry has spoken admiringly of his cousin,” she said carefully, certain that she was not supposed to know of Viscount Linton’s unsavory reputation. “You must be very proud of him, ma’am.”

  Lady Claremont’s gaze narrowed. “Justin is an unrepentant rake. If Harry has not told you that by now, he is an idiot. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Sarah blinked. At that first tea several weeks ago, Lady Claremont had merely regarded her with silent scrutiny as Harry gabbed away like a magpie. Sarah had taken the lady’s silence as sign of a placid, perhaps even feeble nature. But the sharp-tongued grande dame who greeted her today did not seem feeble or dull-witted. In fact, Sarah had the dreadful feeling that Harry had painted a picture of his aunt that was entirely inaccurate. Her stomach lurched queasily. She would have to be very careful not to raise Lady Claremont’s suspicions.

  Lady Claremont turned to greet the other guests as they entered the spacious parlor. In the whirlwind of introductions Sarah registered the presence of several young ladies and their mamas, an older gentleman who apparently lived nearby, and two men about Harry’s age.

  As she was trying to commit their names to memory, the back of her neck began to tingle, as if someone were watching her. Sarah felt suddenly awkward, as if she had stepped onstage and somehow forgotten her lines. Surreptitiously studying the other guests, she could not detect that anyone was paying her an extraordinary amount of attention. Still, the uneasy feeling did not go away.

  Sarah smiled pleasantly, but her mouth grew dry and her heart began to race. The symptoms were not unlike those of stage fright, and although dozens of performances had inured her to an audience’s scrutiny, she sensed that whoever watched her was no benign spectator.

  There was a threat here, and it was imminent.

  As if to confirm that fact, the space around her suddenly seemed to contract. The sunlight streaming in through the window behind her vanished, chased by a looming shadow. With growing apprehension, Sarah turned.

  A tall gentleman, his expression unreadable, bowed politely. His glossy chestnut hair was thick and unruly, tousled in the style o
f the day — although something told her the man had not a care for fashion. His eyes were a cool, unfathomable grey. They regarded her assessingly for an uncommonly long moment. There was about his features an arrogance that proclaimed his class, and while his expression was one of perfect civility, there was an insolence in his air that suggested his manners were but a thin veneer.

  His gaze took in her leghorn bonnet with the pink ribbons, moved downward to her pink spencer and sedate cambric frock, and settled on her left hand, which held the glove she had removed in order to show Lady Claremont the opal ring that had once belonged to Harry’s late mother and which she now wore.

  “So it is true, after all.” He shook his head. “My condolences, madam.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sarah managed, trying to ignore the hammering of her pulse as the intense grey eyes held hers. Her breathing was shallow — like an actor who ran out of wind before the soliloquy was finished. She felt queasy.

  Her odd reaction seemed to interest him. His gaze held hers rather longer than was polite, and his lips curled in an unsettling smile.

  “I take it you are my cousin’s new bride, though I could scarcely credit that Harry had decided to wed.” Brilliant shards gleamed within his grey eyes. “Now that I have seen you, I quite understand.”

  At her blank stare, he shot her a half-smile evidently intended to appear apologetic. “How remiss of me. I am Linton, Harry’s cousin,” he said. “No doubt he has been filling your head with all manner of scandalous things about me. Most of them true, unfortunately.”

  Sarah decided there was nothing remotely apologetic about that smile.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Linton,” she said. The queasiness in her stomach grew, as did the doubts about the wisdom of her masquerade. Even if Lady Claremont suspected nothing, there was still this man to get around — and he appeared to be sharp-witted and not a little dangerous.

  “To think that Harry has turned responsible,” he continued blandly, with a slight shake of his head. “To be sure, my aunt’s dictates can be most persuasive.” He paused for a heartbeat. “But I imagine that Harry was not thinking of Aunt Agatha on his wedding night.” This bald comment was uttered with such polished civility that Sarah was completely taken aback.

  It was undoubtedly acceptable for a man to flirt with a married woman, but all the nuanced performances Sarah had ever witnessed had not prepared her to penetrate the layers of meaning beneath his words, or indeed, to fathom his intent. She stared at him uncertainly. She had the notion that a proper young matron might take offense.

  “I believe you are being impertinent, my lord,” she said with what she hoped was the right amount of sternness.

  He nodded approvingly at her reprimand, although his eyes narrowed. “Quite right. You will forgive me, Mrs. Trent. I am not very respectable, you see.” He eyed her mournfully and took her hand, squeezing it lightly in an unconvincing imitation of a polite handshake.

  Sarah’s palm tingled as it met his cool, dry fingers. Her own skin was excessively warm, even damp — to her great mortification, as she was certain that a proper young bride did not perspire when a man other than her husband touched her palm. Something told her that he took great satisfaction in eliciting such a response.

  “Good Lord, Justin! Leave the girl alone,” commanded Lady Claremont, who approached as Sarah was wondering why she could not seem to pull her hand from his. “Sarah has but just arrived. She must be longing to exchange her traveling clothes for something more comfortable. You must not bombard her with your rakish charm. And do not play all innocent with me,” she admonished as his brows rose in a fair imitation of astonishment, “for I know that you are always looking for trouble.”

  “Not at all, Aunt,” he replied gravely. “In my experience, it is the other way around.” He gave Sarah a glittering smile and bowed deeply. “Adieu, madam, for the nonce.”

  Sarah almost expelled a sigh of relief at his departure. But as he turned to leave, Lord Linton abruptly halted and pulled something from the flapped pocket of his dove-colored tailcoat. “I believe this is yours, Mrs. Trent,” he said.

  Sarah stared. In his hand was her glove. The same glove she had held most securely during their encounter. “How did you ...?” She broke off in utter confusion.

  “Illusion, Mrs. Trent.” He eyed her steadily. “The world is full of it, you see.”

  With that comment, he left the room. The sun came streaming cheerfully through the window again, but Sarah felt decidedly ill.

  ***

  Justin eyed his cousin over the rim of his glass. “Forgive me for not offering my congratulations sooner, Harry. Your bride is a beauty. Most charming.”

  “What? Oh, er, thank you, Justin.” Harry drank deeply of his port but did not meet his gaze. “Yes, Sarah is very talented.”

  Justin arched a brow. “Talented?”

  Snickers were heard from one of the young men at the other end of the table. Harry eyed him blankly. Then a flush spread over his face, and he glared at the culprit. “See here!”

  “Undoubtedly you meant to convey that Mrs. Trent is a master of all the many details of running a home,” Justin put in smoothly. He stroked the stem of his glass. “I assume you are still living in London?”

  “Er, yes.” Harry shifted uncomfortably and took another sip of his port.

  “You have given up your bachelor’s rooms, then?”

  “Not precisely. That is, ah, I have let them to a friend.”

  Justin nodded. “I see. You must give me your new direction. It was considerate of you to spare us the spectacle of a lavish ceremony at St. George’s.” He studied his cousin, intrigued by Harry’s uneasiness with the topic. “How long have you been married, exactly?”

  Harry spilled a drop of wine on the table, and his thumb made rapid, irregular circles as he rubbed the spot absentmindedly. “Two months. The wedding was, ah, very sudden.”

  “Anticipated the vows, eh, Trent?” This knowing comment came from Mr. Horace Throckmorton, Aunt Agatha’s elderly neighbor. “Nothing to feel ashamed of — you married the gel, after all. Often wish I had done the same with my Ellen. That long betrothal nearly drove me mad. Now she is gone these two years and more. What I wouldn’t give to have had those few extra months in her arms.”

  Throckmorton had had too much to drink, Justin decided as he watched tears spring to the older man’s eyes. Throckmorton had always been a mawkish sentimentalist — hanging on to his wife’s sleeve and never bothering to hide his dependence on his lady’s affection. God save a man from such a fate. It was embarrassing enough to watch, never mind the mortification of enduring such a lowering condition.

  Justin doubted very much that Harry was in similar thrall to the lovely Mrs. Trent. Harry was not the sort of man to feel deeply about any woman — even if she came with an extraordinary pair of emerald eyes. His cousin might be enamored of his wife’s indisputable charms, but his heart almost certainly had not been touched.

  That was fortunate for Harry, as Mrs. Trent’s affections did not seem overly engaged either. Oh, Justin had seen the warm smiles and affectionate glances she shot Harry over dinner. And when the ladies had withdrawn, she bestowed a look of tender regret on her husband. These gestures seemed completely genuine. But his senses had given him other signals as well: the rapid intake of her breath and widening of her pupils when Justin greeted her, the dampness of her skin when he had taken her hand, and the air of distraction that had made her such an easy target for his parlor trick with the glove.

  Those were not the responses of a woman who only had eyes for her husband. Curiosity filled him. Perhaps Harry had not satisfied her. He could not imagine that his cousin was a terribly skilled lover. And though she dressed demurely enough, with her auburn hair tamed into a sedate knot at her neck and tonight quite an ugly lace cap covering most of it, Justin had a notion that Sarah Trent was a woman of passion.

  Perhaps Throckmorton was right and that passion had once gotten out
of hand. Perhaps she regretted being shackled for life because of that momentary indiscretion. Or perhaps she simply had hopes of becoming a viscountess. Justin smiled grimly. If all went as planned, she might get her wish rather quickly. For a few days, anyway. He tried to imagine her with the Linton emeralds draped around her swanlike neck, then frowned as he realized the dazzling sight would be wasted on Harry’s untrained eyes.

  The lovely Mrs. Trent was an intriguing mystery. His senses tingled at the thought of unraveling her secrets. Whether she knew it or not, she was sending out signals that ordinarily he would have seized upon. But even a man of his repute would not stoop so low as to seduce his cousin’s wife, no matter that the woman might not be the chaste young bride she appeared. None knew better than he that appearances could be deceiving, especially when it came to women; some women, however, were best left alone.

  Justin drank deeply from his glass. She was a luscious eyeful. As long as he restricted his thoughts to the simple acknowledgment of that fact, everything would be fine.

  ***

  Nighttime in Lady Claremont’s house was quiet — too quiet, for it meant that every noise came to Sarah’s attention with startling clarity. She and Harry had been given a room that had a large dressing room separate from the sleeping area, and it was there that Harry bedded down. There was a door between the two rooms that Sarah was careful to shut to ensure her privacy. The sleeping alcove had its own door that opened onto the hall, which he used for his comings and goings, so she and Harry rarely crossed paths. They were in the family wing, while the other guests had rooms on the opposite side of the house.