His cause, perhaps, was just. No one should be permitted to get away with murder, not even a member of the ton. But Lady Greywood’s wrong could not be undone by destroying her.
The viscount was engaged in a single-minded and ruthless pursuit of a woman who had doubtless suffered much over the years for her crime. He had imposed a relentless, merciless mission upon himself — and now, upon Sarah.
“Are you certain, my lord, that Lady Greywood was the person who killed your father?” But she already knew the answer, for there was no hint of doubt in his implacable gaze.
“It was well-known that Lady Greywood was my father’s mistress,” he said matter-of-factly, as if reciting a familiar story he had told himself over the years. “He spent many hours at her London town house, until he was discovered there by Lord Greywood, her husband. There was a duel. Greywood missed, and my father deloped. That was exceedingly unlike him, for he was a skilled shot, and could have killed Greywood if he chose. As it was, the affair caused quite a scandal.”
“But are you certain that Lady Greywood was the woman dressed as Marie Antoinette?” Sarah persisted. “If she fled, how can you be sure?”
“Greywood found the blood-soaked costume in his wife’s chamber. It is a mark of his own foolishness that he did not turn her over to the authorities then and there. I would have washed my hands of a woman who had played me false and made me the laughingstock of London.”
He paused. “No, that is not quite the truth,” he added slowly. “I would have killed her with my bare hands.”
Who was this unforgiving man who dared take so much upon himself? Sarah thought. Who was he to mete out such deadly justice?
“I am certain no wife of yours would dare to commit such a transgression,” she said coolly.
A black gaze met hers, and Sarah found she could no longer bear it. She turned her back on that dark visage and the vengeful soul it betrayed. This time she left the room, carrying with her other burning questions left unasked. Chief among them, this: Had his desire for revenge thoroughly destroyed him? Or merely sent him part way down the road to perdition?
Sarah had seen enough of Lord Linton to know that he was a man of contradictory impulses. He had no obligation to protect her, yet he had arranged for a chaperon during her visit. He said he never intervened in marital disputes, yet he had rescued her from Harry’s advances. He claimed he never apologized, and yet he had done so three times when he believed her to be Harry’s wife. He was bent on destroying an enfeebled woman, and yet Sarah sensed he was not altogether unfeeling. Surely, within him warred opposing forces. That which sought revenge, and that which was capable of some charity.
What would it take to upset the balance, to free that weighted soul of its dark bindings, to send it soaring beyond its shackles and into the light?
***
Aunt Clarissa had been discovered in the kitchen, talking to the pots and pans. She claimed she was showing Justin’s modern new oven to Silvester, but there was no mollifying Cook, who did not take kindly to an invasion of her realm by a woman who was, as she put it, “as queer as Henry’s hat.”
To Justin’s knowledge, there was no Henry in his household, but dinner was ruined nevertheless, Cook being too distraught to manage the tasks necessary to produce a meal following such a disturbing event. Miss Simms launched a harangue about servants being allowed to rule the household.
All in all, Justin found himself wishing he were elsewhere. His aunt was batty, his aunt’s companion was a crosspatch. Cook was on a rampage, and the actress he had hired to complete his revenge had the temerity to tell him his lines would not fadge.
That was what happened when a man turned his house over to women.
At least they had not invaded his library — at the moment, anyway — Justin thought morosely as he accepted the brandy Anh silently offered him later that night. The man always exuded a serene air, no matter what the crisis.
“You are fortunate to have escaped having women interfere in your life,” Justin said, idly shuffling a deck of cards.
Anh bowed, watching his employer start to deal the cards face down in four columns in what had become a nightly ritual for them. “I am accustomed to the solitary life, my lord. Your premise that it is by choice is erroneous.”
Justin nearly misdealt, so rare was it to hear such a confession from the man. Anh’s life before entering Justin’s employ had been a bit of a mystery, and Justin had never pressed him for details. He’d met Anh on his travels in Asia years ago and had been mesmerized by the man’s knowledge of a variety of enigmatic arts. Small in stature, Anh had an uncanny knack for all but disappearing into the shadows when he did not wish to attract notice — which was most of the time.
He had hired Anh to guide him during a three-day trek up Mount Fansipan in the eastern Himalayas at a time in Justin’s life when travel was far preferable to London and the ancient tomb of a house that held only reminders of a painful childhood. Justin had been twenty, an age when a man is certain the world is his without limits but unsure of what he will do with such a prize. For Justin, the answer had been to travel and to test himself in every way possible.
The climb was grueling and rocky, suitable for only the fittest. Anh’s form was so slight that Justin at first doubted him capable of such a rigorous undertaking, but the man had quickly proved him wrong. Moreover, having grown up in the region, Anh showed Justin all manner of waterfalls and caves, inaccessible to all but those who knew their location. Despite the many hours they spent in one another’s company, Anh had shared almost nothing of his background. He was rumored to be related to the royal family — the land’s French-backed emperor had the same given name — but Anh had turned aside each of Justin’s queries, even a simple one as to his age, with an indifferent shrug.
Justin had learned a great deal from that trip about his own limitations — altitude sickness, chief among them. And although he knew precious little about his companion, he learned enough to know that he wanted to keep him in his employ. When Anh readily agreed to come to England, Justin had not asked why it was so easy for him to suddenly move a world away to a country he had never seen.
He had never known Anh to seek female companionship. The man seemed to prefer a monkish existence. Justin always assumed it had to do with Anh’s religion, an Eastern philosophy that appeared grounded in stoicism. And though they had been together nearly a decade, Justin still knew very little about his history.
Justin had, however, learned never to underestimate the man. Those times when Anh appeared the quietest, he was almost certainly engaged in multiple mental activities surpassing that of most men.
Cards, for instant, were never merely stiffened pieces of paper with printed designs. Each one had a meaning, each game a purpose. Justin knew to pay attention to each of Anh’s movements when the man was dealing, for even the slightest trick hinged on motion that seemed inconsequential at the time.
Years of studying Anh had also taught him about the particular brand of Eastern magic the man practiced, often hand in hand with his skill with cards. Early on, Justin assumed he’d be able to duplicate each of Anh’s tricks, but that had not proven the case. So he had filled his library with books about magic, spells and trickery — and yes, he had learned a few tricks of his own. Eventually, Anh had taken pity on him and taught him a bit about his own peculiar skills. But only a bit.
Which is why Justin now placed a new card face down on each of the columns he had just dealt, endeavoring to look as if the arrangement was of no consequence. Anh did not appear to be studying the arrangement, but Justin knew better; he’d also learned a thing or two about the art of distraction.
“You will not persuade me that you allowed a woman to get the best of you,” Justin said lightly. “I have never known you to permit anything to jeopardize your judgment — and certainly not an excess of feeling.”
Anh’s face was impassive. “Perhaps when you reach my age, my lord, you will realize that there is much
you do not know.”
Justin suppressed a grin. He did not mind the setdown. They had played this game of cat and mouse before. It only whetted his appetite for information about his butler’s mysterious past.
“And what age is that?” he asked in a bored tone, as if it was of no great curiosity.
Anh’s response was a shrug.
In spite of himself, Justin laughed. “You cannot blame a man for asking,” he said. “Best way to find out something.”
“One way,” Anh corrected. “And only if the other person wishes you to know the thing which you seek. Perhaps you should ask a different question.”
Justin regarded him in surprise. That was an opening, if ever he’d heard one, from his normally taciturn butler.
And so he set the rest of the card deck on the table. “Very well,” he said, giving Anh his undivided attention. “There is something you wish me to know, and it involves your past. And a woman. Would you care to tell me before I expire from impatience?”
Anh’s eyes followed Justin’s hands as they left the deck. “Impatience has always been your weakest suit, my lord. A little more discipline would serve you well.”
“Damnation, man,” Justin growled. “Out with it.”
Anh pushed the deck to one side of the table and regarded his employer calmly. “Long ago there was a woman. I loved her, but I was not of her class. Her parents — and mine — did not approve of the match. She sent me away.”
Thunderstruck, Justin stared at the man. Nothing in their acquaintance had prepared him for such a star-crossed tale. Nor had Anh ever opened his budget on such a personal matter. Justin waited, wondering if he would continue.
Anh tapped the deck of cards lightly and brushed a speck of dust from the table. Then he sat back, and said nothing more.
The silence lengthened, broken only by the steady tapping of Justin’s fingers on the table — until he could wait no more. “Is that all?”
Anh’s brows rose almost imperceptibly. “Not quite all. She grew sick and died.” He spoke without emotion, as if he had been discussing the contents of Cook’s pantry.
“That is tragic, to be sure, but —” Justin broke off.
The butler regarded him silently, waiting.
“But I fail to understand why you allowed family to determine your fate,” Justin finished.
Anh was silent for a moment. “No man is entirely the master of his own fate. Or free of his family responsibilities.”
Justin’s gaze narrowed. He had disclosed little to Anh of his own family’s history, and nothing at all of his plan regarding Lady Greywood, so it was quite impossible that Anh was referring to anyone but himself. Still, the man had an uncanny sense of things not spoken.
“It was a lesson in patience that I was privileged to learn,” Anh added.
“I see,” Justin replied.
“Since her death, I have had many years to reflect on that lesson. And on the nature of love.”
Justin frowned. “Just how long ago was this...episode in your past?”
“Thirty years. ”
Justin stared at him. “I trust that you have since moved on to other, er, female companions.”
“No.”
“No?” Justin could scarcely believe his ears. “You have enjoyed no woman since then?”
“I have never known a woman in the way that you mean, my lord,” Anh replied quietly.
Stunned, Justin stared at him. “You have allowed this event to rule you for thirty years? Nay, to ruin your life? Good God, man. One woman is not worth thirty years of misery.”
“I have not been miserable.”
“But her parents — your parents. You must have hated them.”
“Hate is an excessive emotion, my lord. I do not experience hate.”
“You said you loved her,” Justin pointed out. “That is an excessive emotion if ever there was one.”
Anh bowed his head slightly, a sign that he would speak no more about the matter.
The man was impossible, Justin thought — not for the first time. But it was strange that he had unburdened himself of this secret. Did he intend it as a message, a cautionary tale, for his employer? Surely not.
In one thing at least, Justin would have the upper hand. Anh had been so enmeshed in his story that he had paid no attention to Justin’s card maneuvers. Tonight would be the night he bested Anh with the card trick.
“Very well,” Justin said. “I shall require no more answers if you can find me the queen of diamonds.”
The trick, as both men knew, relied on a deft combination of quickness, memory, and distracting one’s opponent. Tonight, Justin knew he had excelled at all three. Anh would undoubtedly go to the fourth column of cards, where each night this week Justin had hidden the diamond queen in order to set up tonight’s unexpected switch.
Without so much as a blink, Anh ignored the columns, picked up the deck, and plucked a card from the bottom. He flipped the card over to display it, then rose without a word to begin his nightly duties.
Justin stared at the diamond queen and swore. “I did not put it there.”
“No,” Anh agreed.
“It was in the third column, under the ace.” But the ace, Justin quickly discovered, had somehow become the two of clubs. “What in blazes have you done?” he demanded.
“Only confounded your expectations, my lord. And illustrated that there are many different ways of seeing.”
“Every damn night you show me different ways of seeing,” Justin grumbled, thoroughly out of sorts that he had yet to best his teacher in this or any other card trick.
Anh gave a longsuffering sigh. “Yes, my lord. Fortunately, I have hopes that one day you may learn.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah did not know what to make of Lord Linton’s story. It was the stuff of great tragedy, yet so utterly fanciful she wondered whether even Mr. Kean could have produced a believable performance from such a tale. The notion that a lady — mistress or no — would shoot her protector in front of the entire ton was difficult to imagine.
And yet, it had happened to Lord Linton’s father.
Though the day was lovely — and the garden in which she sat on a bench perusing the script doubly so — a frown brought tiny lines to the corners of Sarah’s mouth. Something about the viscount’s story did not ring true. A woman scorned might wish to humiliate a man, but would she commit murder before scores of witnesses whose testimony could send her to the gallows?
If Lady Greywood’s actions were illogical, however, Lord Linton’s plan did not suffer from that flaw. His script detailed in practical and precise fashion the shooting and the events leading up to it. In their first week in London, they were to make the rounds of parties so that everyone knew her as Lord Linton’s latest mistress. He would flirt outrageously with several other women; they would stage a few public arguments over that fact, making it clear to observers that trouble loomed on the horizon.
By the time Lady Hogarth’s masquerade arrived, the ton would be primed for Sarah to pull a pistol from her muff and, in a murderous rage, shoot Lord Linton before the horrified Lady Greywood and scores of other spectators. He would see to it that Sarah escaped being seized and clapped into irons, although he had not shared that particular detail of the plan with her. It seemed that he preferred to reveal only what she needed to know at any given moment.
Such as the fact she was to wear a dampened petticoat for her first society appearance.
Sarah frowned anew as she absorbed this telling fact. The page she was studying began at the point where she and Lord Linton encountered one of his flirts at a party. Sarah wondered which of his female admirers he would choose for this honor. Her own role was to be outrageously provocative in an obvious effort to compete with the society beauty. Once again, he had noted that she was to be certain to wear dampened undergarments.
“What business does he have dictating the condition of my petticoat?” Sarah muttered.
“If you are
referring to Linton, the answer should be obvious.”
Sarah looked up in surprise. Harriet Simms towered over the bench, her disapproving countenance betraying complete condemnation of the young woman before her.
Hurriedly, Sarah scooped up the pages, inwardly bemoaning her foolishness in allowing the view out her window this morning to seduce her into straying from the privacy of her own room while studying her lines. She should not have risked discovery by the suspicious older woman now looking so censoriously down her prim nose.
“Pray, what is that?” Miss Simms said, her beady eyes fixed on the sheaf of papers. As apparently was her custom, she wore her iron-grey hair pulled tightly back in an unforgiving bun. She might have been a few years younger than her friend Miss Porter, but her censorious expression aged her so that it was impossible to judge.
“Good morning, Miss Simms,” Sarah acknowledged, hoping that if she ignored the question the woman would not pursue it. “I did not hear you approach.”
“A woman preoccupied with Lord Linton and the state of her undergarments is undoubtedly unable to manage even a rudimentary awareness of the civilized world around her,” came the acid reply.
So taken aback was Sarah that she could not immediately formulate a response. Undaunted, Miss Simms promptly sat down on the bench and fixed her with a penetrating look.
“You may have fooled Clarissa,” she said, wagging a bony finger at Sarah, “but Harriet Simms is a different kettle of fish.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sarah maintained an air of polite bafflement she hoped was convincing. Despite Miss Simms’s suspicions, the woman could have no solid evidence that anything was afoot.
“Do not play the innocent with me, missy,” Miss Simms said sternly. “I know what is what. Linton thinks to fool everyone by ensconcing his light-o’-love under the very nose of his aunt, but even he cannot turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.”
Had Harriet Simms just called her a pig? Sarah studied the woman closely for the first time. She wore a high-necked cream-colored sprigged muslin dress that did not enhance her rather sallow complexion. Her eyes were a watery shade of pale green that might have been attractive were they not so sharp-set and narrowed with distrust. Sarah was torn between indignation and the need to deflect the woman’s suspicions.
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