A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  That was unfortunate, but it was none of her concern now. With renewed energy, Sarah threw herself into the task of cleaning her small room, which had accumulated a fair amount of dust in her absence. A pile of sewing awaited in the corner — costumes that needed repair. Sarah shared the space with Molly, one of the other actresses in the company, who was not one to exert herself with a broom or mop, no matter that it was the tiniest of rooms to clean. There was only space for a small pallet, which they shared — though often Molly did not come home for the night and Sarah had the pallet all to herself.

  At last Sarah sat down at the solitary little table and began to compose a letter to her brother. She did not bother to try to bring the tiny fireplace to life, as it would merely fill the room with smoke and precious little warmth. Slowly, as she wrote, her headache began to ease.

  The peremptory knock at the door fractured the peaceful quiet. With irritation, Sarah rose from her chair. It was probably Mr. Stinson informing her of her new role and the paltry sum he intended to pay her for it.

  She threw open the door.

  Lord Linton stood there, his mouth curved in a sardonic smile.

  “Mrs. Trent. Or should I say Miss Armistead? Allow me to say how very much I enjoyed your recent performance. I, for one, found it most inspiring.”

  And with those daunting words, he crossed the threshold into her room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Anger settled over Justin like a well-worn cloak, its familiar touch keeping more dangerous emotions at bay. Chief among them was disappointment, he realized in chagrin.

  Why should he taste disappointment at this proof of her perfidy? He had suspected all along that Sarah Trent was hiding something beneath her demure, respectable exterior. His imagination had supplied tantalizing images of a woman who — despite her married state — still waited to be fully awakened to the passionate side of her nature.

  But he had been wrong, about that part, anyway. The charming Mrs. Trent was merely a fraud. That was her secret — not some burning, unquenched desire. The only secret desire Sarah Armistead possessed was for money. She had taken them all in.

  Even now, she had the temerity to stare at him as if he had committed some grave impropriety by invading her room — as if she had the slightest notion of what constituted proper behavior. She was an actress, all right, and a damned good one. Moreover, her natural assets aided her immeasurably. Looking at that dusting of freckles on her nose and the errant auburn tendrils curling around her heart-shaped face, Justin found it difficult to believe that she was an impostor.

  But she was. And he was an idiot for allowing himself to be taken in. For wishing, even for an instant, that it was not so. For wishing he had not followed her, not noticed the small card on the table outside her room with her name plainly signed in a delicate female hand, a name that most assuredly was not Sarah Trent.

  He closed the door with a resounding thud and rounded on her. Vengeance sharpened his senses, staving off all else.

  Except for one sudden, arresting thought that brought him up short: Could Sarah Armistead be the diabolical answer to his prayer? His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. It was no worse than he deserved.

  ***

  “Do tell me again how much you value the truth, Miss Armistead,” Lord Linton snarled. “It was one of your most effective lines.”

  Involuntarily, Sarah took a step backward. The viscount filled the space around him like an actor with the knack of consuming an entire stage. His long, billowing great coat further amplified the physical space he occupied. Lady Claremont’s large rooms had not allowed her to fully appreciate the way his imposing form could dominate his surroundings. Then again, perhaps it was merely his eyes that gave him such presence, as they gleamed with the fury of an avenging angel — a dark angel, at that, with a gaze as hard as perdition.

  “I knew actresses were mercenary creatures, but I thought it was customary for them to ply their talents with the masculine sex.” His voice was hard, brittle, like the fractured veneer that poorly contained his all-too-evident rage. “Tell me, Miss Armistead: When did you turn to bamboozling elderly ladies? How much did my foolish cousin pay you for that charming little masquerade?”

  “Not enough to put up with your theatrics, sir,” she retorted, indignation at his high-handed invasion of her little sanctuary giving her courage. “And I do not recall inviting you in.”

  Smoky anger darkened his eyes, making her wish she had not been so impudent. He stepped closer, and Sarah felt as if she were going to suffocate from the fury he radiated.

  “Who are you, little minx?” he demanded softly. “Other than an enticing bit of muslin without sense enough to know when the game is up?”

  Sarah flushed. “I will not have you calling me names. I am as well-bred as you — I have never bamboozled anyone.”

  His dark brows arched skyward. “Do I look the fool, Miss Armistead? I assure you I am not.”

  “Very well, sir. You are not a fool. You merely behave like one.” Sarah’s chin tilted mulishly. She was sorely over-matched in this game of wits, but her own temper had made her reckless. Bit of muslin, indeed!

  A muscle tightened in his jaw. For a moment he said nothing. Then an intriguing light appeared in his eyes.

  “I ought to summon the magistrate.”

  “Magistrate?” Sarah’s eyes widened in alarm. “You have no grounds!”

  “On the contrary,” he said coolly. “You have conspired to fool a wealthy widow into believing that you are her nephew’s wife, a condition that would make you a beneficiary of her considerable largesse. Did Harry tell you he is not really her nephew, by the way? She prefers to call him that, but Aunt Agatha is my mother’s sister. Harry has no rightful claim to her fortune. But she has taken him under her wing with the hope of reforming him, dangling the promise of a wealthy inheritance as bait. Indeed, she was beyond pleased that he had taken a respectable wife.”

  He paused to allow his words to sink in. “My aunt will be heartbroken to learn of your deception. Who knows what it will do to her fragile health?”

  “Fragile health?” Sarah was incredulous. “Harry had me believing that tarradiddle for a time, but you will no more persuade me that Lady Claremont is frail than you will tell me the moon is made of green cheese.”

  “You miss the point.” His smile held no mirth. “It is not necessary to persuade you. It is only necessary to persuade the magistrate. Whom do you think he will believe? A peer of the realm or a second-rate actress of dubious repute?”

  In the silence that followed this bald statement, Sarah realized the truth. All was lost.

  Helplessly, she eyed his stern features, willing tears not to come. He was right. There was no charitable interpretation to place on her behavior. They would throw her in jail. She would lose everything, even the self-respect that had kept her sane. William would have to leave school, and he would learn the sordid truth about the sister he adored. She should never have agreed to Harry’s ill-conceived plan, nor believed his blithe assurances that it could do no harm. Slowly, she sank into her chair.

  “What do you want?” she said tonelessly. “I warn you, I shall languish in Newgate before I submit to your advances.”

  “An intriguing notion — but quite beside the point. I have a plan, you see.”

  Sarah eyed him suspiciously. “A plan?”

  Lord Linton wandered over to the tiny fireplace and poked a log with the toe of his burnished leather boot. “Yes, indeed, Miss Armistead. And unlike my cousin, I am willing to advance you a substantial sum before the job is completed.”

  Sarah reddened. “How did you know that Harry — ”

  “My cousin is always under the hatches,” he said dismissively. “You will be fortunate to see even a farthing of what he has promised you.”

  “His allowance is due within days.” Sarah tried to stem her rising panic. She must have that money. William’s education depended upon it. “He will pay me in full.”

 
The viscount yawned. “Before he settles his gambling debts and mollifies his tailor?” He shook his head in mock pity. “Tsk. Tsk. I believe you now stand bamboozled, Miss Armistead.”

  “I shall tell Harry that I will go to Lady Claremont and tell her the whole,” Sarah said defiantly.

  “Blackmail?” He nodded, as if he had expected as much. “You see? I knew you were a conniving bit of muslin.”

  Mortification swept her from head to toe. How could she have entertained such a thought, even for a moment? Thoroughly dejected, Sarah stared at her writing table, where the letter to William lay unfinished. She had behaved despicably. Proclaiming her virtue when she had fallen to such a deplorable state was laughable.

  “Perhaps you ought to tell me about your plan,” she said quietly.

  The devil himself could not have looked at her with as much demonic glee.

  “It is very simple.” He moved closer, hovering over her chair. “And what’s more, it is perfect.”

  He extended his hand, as if to help her rise.

  Stiffly, Sarah held herself away from him, pretending not to notice his hand. “There is no need to be arrogant, Lord Linton. I am certain that if you have devised a plan, it must be very nigh perfect. But perfect or no, will you simply spit it out?”

  His brows drew together. He looked fearsome enough, but Sarah reasoned that if he was going to do her violence, he would have done so already. Indeed, his next words removed all such thoughts from her head.

  “I have the perfect role for you, Miss Armistead. One that will not be too much of a stretch, I imagine.” His gaze narrowed. “I wish you to play the part of my mistress.”

  Now she did rise, her face pink with embarrassment. “As I told you, sir, I would rather take my chances in Newgate — ”

  “And you will get your wish rather soon,” he put in smoothly, “if you do not agree to my proposal. But it is not what you think. You need only pretend. And say a few lines that I will write for you.”

  Sarah stared at him. “That is all?”

  “Not quite.”

  She waited, but instead of explaining he regarded her with an assessing gaze, as if weighing whether she was up to whatever nefarious plan he had concocted.

  “Well?” Sarah said at last.

  A slow smile spread over his features. “The final act of my little play requires you to kill me. I imagine you will enjoy that.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You are a Bedlamite.”

  “On the contrary. I know precisely what I am doing.” His voice was cool, dispassionate. “I have planned everything, right down to the words that will fall from your mouth as you pull the trigger of one of my best Mantons.”

  Sarah stared at him, aghast.

  “Do not despair,” he continued. “You will not be charged with murder. I shall see to it that you disappear.”

  “But — ”

  “And, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I will not really be dead.”

  “There must be something terribly wrong with my hearing.” Sarah rubbed her temple. “I am to kill you, but you will not be dead?”

  “It will be an illusion, Miss Armistead. Do not worry. Illusion is an art at which I excel. I am merely asking you to play a small part.”

  “To what end?”

  For the first time, Lord Linton looked away. He walked over to the solitary window in her room and stared through the cracked pane. He did this for so long that Sarah wondered whether he had forgotten her question. At last, however, he spoke. “I do not explain myself to those in my employ.”

  “I understand that a man of your arrogance is loath to explain himself under any conditions,” she replied evenly. “Nevertheless, I must insist.”

  His swift, sharp glance revealed that he was not pleased by her defiance. But his next words surprised her. “’Tis a good thing you are not Harry’s wife. He could never keep you in line.”

  “How impertinent.”

  The wicked curve to his mouth told her she would get no apology. “Impertinence is not a hanging offense. Miss Armistead.”

  “No, but murder is.”

  He studied her intently. “You wish to know why I stage my little drama? Very well. I am trying to catch a killer. If you agree to take the job, I will tell you the rest. That is all I care to divulge at the moment. What is your answer?”

  Nothing he said made any sense. Sarah’s head pounded. She wanted nothing so much as to drink a comforting cup of tea and take to her bed.

  “I cannot think,” she said wearily. “I must have time.”

  “I see I have failed to mention the most important fact,” he said, his gaze narrowing to slits. “I will pay you one thousand pounds.”

  She stared at him. “One thousand pounds?” She had never seen such a sum in her life.

  “Fifty pounds immediately, the rest after the job is done. But you must follow my instructions completely. I am most particular about the way this part is to be played. There will be no room for error, nor improvisation. The stakes are too high.”

  William’s education would be taken care of. She could set up her own establishment, even hire a companion to give her countenance. His offer seemed too good to be true.

  It probably was.

  What did she know of Lord Linton, other than that he had a gift for artifice? She would be a fool to trust such a man. Did he think she was naive enough to believe that he only meant her to “pretend” to be his mistress? She might be poor as a church mouse, but she was undoubtedly better off than as one of Lord Linton’s cast-off women. The man had a cruel streak, she was certain. Who could believe that Banbury tale about catching a killer?

  And yet, what was the alternative? The magistrate? Newgate? Sarah sighed. “I must have time to consider.”

  “Very well. I will expect your answer tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” She eyed him in alarm. “But I cannot —”

  A loud knocking at the door made her jump.

  “Now what?” Sarah groaned. The afternoon was all but gone, and with it that cup of tea she so craved. With a heavy sigh, she threw open the door.

  “About time you got back from your little holiday.” Mr. Stinson’s impatient gaze settled into a knowing smirk as he spied Lord Linton. “Smart girl. Held out for a plum, did you?”

  Sarah blushed. “What did you wish to see me about, Mr. Stinson?”

  “Rose has tumbled down the stairs. You must come right away.”

  Sarah stared at him blankly. “I will do what I can, but I am no doctor. Perhaps you ought to summon one.”

  There was a momentary silence. Then he slapped his knee. “Damn it, woman. It’s no quack I need — it’s you. You must play Ophelia tonight.” He stared at her in sudden horror. “Never say you have forgotten your lines?”

  “N-no,” Sarah said slowly. “That is, I do not think so.”

  “The noise in the pits will cover your mistakes. Tell your gentleman friend here he can have the first box. Good for business to have quality in attendance.”

  “He is not my — ”

  “No time for chitchat, girl.” Mr. Stinson grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door. “I have got a performance to put on. And the devil of a headache, to boot.”

  Sarah hastened after him, leaving Lord Linton alone in her room. Presumably, the dreadful man would show himself out.

  “I know precisely what you mean,” she muttered.

  ***

  Why did it have to be this play? It was enough to live and breathe revenge. Must he partake of it for entertainment?

  Justin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The Chester Playhouse was not a luxurious facility, nor did its intimate size make up for the lack of amenities. The shabby furnishings gave off a faint smoky smell, as if they had been salvaged from some recent fire. A tattered green curtain framed the stage, its drabness entirely fitting for such a ramshackle endeavor.

  The stage scenery had been painted by someone with no apparent artistic skills. W
obbly chandeliers provided the lighting, the unevenly placed candles dripping wax onto those unfortunate performers who found themselves beneath it. And while one could easily hear the actors onstage, it was also possible to discern practically every remark made by the denizens of the pits.

  Those, however, were minor inconveniences. What was deuced hard to take was the sight of a half-foxed company of players making a mockery out of lines he had no wish to hear in the first place. That fellow Hamlet was too much of a ditherer, and he entertained far too much criticism.

  “Your father lost a father, that father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound in filial obligation for some term to do obsequious sorrow,” admonished the King, whose bulbous red nose owed nothing to an actor’s paintbox, “but to persevere in obstinate condolement is a course of impious stubbornness.”

  Hamlet did not deserve a scolding from that drunken sot, Justin thought glumly. Death spawned many sorrows. Who could say how long it would take to put them to rest?

  Cheers went up from the pit when the Ghost finally arrived to proclaim in a sonorous voice: “I am thy father’s spirit; doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away.”

  Though he’d always taken a certain perverse liking to the Ghost’s speech — it did, after all, mirror certain elements of his own life, chief of them being the degree to which he was haunted by his own filial obligation — Justin was leery of this particular Ghost. He, like many of the actors, appeared to have imbibed freely before taking the stage. The Ghost hovered precariously near the edge of the platform, and several young lads in the pits occupied themselves with reaching for his robes to see if they could topple him. Though the actor dodged them manfully, despite his castaway state, Justin knew it would be only a matter of time before his lack of balance worked in their favor.