A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  After bearing her weight for an awkward moment, Lord Linton set her gingerly on her feet.

  “That was much better,” he said, taking a quick step backward. “Can you manage it on your own?”

  “I will try,” Sarah said, but in truth she was not sure whether she could hit the target, even though it was large enough to be forgiving. It measured twelve feet high and three feet wide and represented a curtain that hung to the side of a tall window. Just to the right of the curtain was a wooden shape cut to resemble a man, which represented Lord Linton. In the scene, Sarah was to point the gun at him but move it slightly, imperceptibly to the left before firing, so that the bullet lodged harmlessly in the wall behind the drapery. No one watching would be the wiser. He would fall to the floor, seemingly mortally wounded. A preparation of pig’s blood hidden in his waistcoat would enhance the scene’s believability.

  “If I thought that you were not up to the task,” he said firmly, “I would not have hired you. You need only practice. You will find that the pistol will grow lighter and the control of your aim greater. Now let us continue.”

  While he occupied himself with priming and reloading the weapon, Sarah could not help but notice that without his coat, the contours of Lord Linton’s muscled arms and broad shoulders were plain through the fabric of his lawn shirt. The man was in excellent physical condition, she thought. Moreover, there was a mesmerizing grace in his performance of a task that required more art than brute strength. Perhaps that was why he was so skilled at those clever card tricks — and at coaxing a woman into revealing a sensual nature she had not dreamed existed.

  Was it her imagination, or was he missing a bit of his customary aplomb this morning? Sarah doubted it had anything to do with those kisses in his library. They would not faze a man like Lord Linton. Rather, he was probably having second thoughts about relying on her dubious marksmanship. Handling a pistol for the first time had made her appreciate the enormity of the task before her, and Sarah wondered at the sort of man who could risk so much on a novice. Then again, Lord Linton left nothing to chance. If he said she was up to it, then she must be. But Sarah eyed the pistol nervously as he handed it to her.

  “I will be beside myself at the ball, knowing that that thing is hidden in my muff,” she said. “What if I am jostled accidentally? The gun might go off.”

  “Leave it at half-cock. It will not fire until you pull the pistol out and draw the hammer back fully.”

  Sarah eyed the little hammer. “What if I cannot do it properly? What if I forget my lines? What if I cannot remember any of this?” She bit her lip.

  At his heavy and longsuffering sigh, Sarah braced herself for a scathing lecture about nervous females. Instead, he set the pistol down on a rock and turned to her.

  “I accept responsibility for the state of your nerves this morning,” he said stiffly. “I apologize for allowing myself to become too...involved with the scene we were rehearsing yesterday. I hope you will forgive the unwarranted and entirely inappropriate liberties —”

  “My lord — ”

  “It will not happen again,” he said. “We must both remember that we are actors performing parts. It is dangerous to allow illusion to supplant reality.”

  “Yes. Of course,” Sarah said quickly. He was telling her that there was nothing intimate or personal in his kiss, nothing real about the moment they had shared in the library. It was all an illusion, a scene they were acting out with the larger goal of capturing a killer.

  “Now, as to the task at hand,” he continued. “Surely you have dealt with stage fright on other occasions.”

  Sarah nodded, accepting his change of subject. “Sometimes I feel nervous before going on stage — especially if it is a new role. But the moment I begin to speak my lines, the fright goes away. I have no reason to believe this will be different, only —” She broke off.

  “Only the stakes are higher.”

  Sarah bit her lip. “If I forget a line onstage, another actor rushes into the breach. Or the noise from the pits is such that it does not matter. But what if I make a mistake that night? What if my aim is off? What if I do not hit the curtain and — ”

  “Kill me instead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am afraid it will fall to you to hear Lady Greywood’s confession, for I shall not be in a position to do so.”

  “That is not amusing.”

  “Do not concern yourself. I have faced more deadly opponents than you and lived to tell the tale. Shall we continue the lesson?”

  ***

  For nearly two hours, Justin watched her lift the pistol with both hands, aim at the target, and squeeze the trigger. The first few times she tried it alone, the report propelled her backward and onto the ground. Although he went to her assistance, she quickly scrambled to her feet, dusted herself off, and waited patiently until he reloaded.

  Her determination was impressive. Sarah — somehow he now thought of her as Sarah, not Miss Armistead — had grit, that much was certain. She complained of a hand cramp, but that would vanish with practice. Each time she fired, she got better at absorbing the force of the explosion and resisting its backward thrust.

  All in all, Justin could see definite progress today. That was a relief. For a few long moments he had wondered whether it was foolish to entrust his life to a woman who had never before handled a firearm.

  Sarah was a fine actress, willing to work hard. She would shine in the role of his mistress. She would pull it off. Revenge would be his. He could almost taste it.

  Oddly, it did not taste as satisfying as her lips had yesterday afternoon, but that had been a momentary lapse. Revenge was sweeter by far than anything else — even a woman’s charms. But he had learned yesterday that he must keep her at arm’s length if he were to fully concentrate on his plan. Considering the time they must spend together, that might prove difficult, but Justin never doubted his supreme control. Just because she looked perfectly charming at the moment with dust on her hands and smudges on her face, nothing about her could challenge the iron grip he had on his will.

  He watched her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she brought the gun up. Squinting against the midday sun, she aimed his father’s pistol and gently squeezed the trigger.

  For the first time, she hit the target dead-on.

  At her whoop of joy, Justin could not stifle a broad smile. It was the most natural thing in the world to pat her shoulders in congratulations, and most unnatural to suddenly pull his hands away and stuff them in his pockets.

  “That is enough for today,” he heard himself say gruffly. At her look of disappointment, he added more gently, “It is quite acceptable to rest on one’s laurels for a bit.”

  Her quick smile was so captivating that Justin thought nothing of offering her his arm as they made their way back toward the house. It was the merest contact, perfectly proper and not at all provocative. She had understood and quickly agreed when he explained earlier that the attraction between them was mere illusion. Sarah appreciated plain-speaking. They would deal well with each other now that the matter of those kisses was out of the way.

  Justin found himself caught up in her natural enthusiasm as they strolled back to the house. Her hand nestled in the crook of his arm, a perfect fit. He realized that he had never felt more comfortable in her presence. That alarmed him. It would not do to get too close to a woman like Sarah.

  “I am almost ready to charge out and fight a duel myself,” she was saying with an exuberant little laugh. “How satisfying it would be to put some nasty boor in his place.”

  Then she halted in her tracks. “How could I say such a thing? No, that would be utterly barbaric.”

  “Ah. It seems you do believe in justice,” he said.

  She frowned. “There is a difference, my lord, between putting a drunken sot in his place and exacting revenge for a long-ago crime.”

  “Justice does not discriminate,” he said sharply. “An accounting must be had. It i
s a matter of honor.”

  A forgotten bitterness rose in his throat. Unbidden, the image appeared in his mind of a green lad foolishly demanding satisfaction from a man too mean and drunk to do anything but play deadly games with the boy’s youthful conscience.

  “Honor?” she repeated. “Nay, my lord. Dueling is the purview of fools and bullies. It permits men of breeding to kill each other politely and thereby protect some incomprehensible code of honor inaccessible to those deemed of lesser breeding.”

  He stared at her.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said quickly. “I should not have spoken so bluntly. Especially since you have...fought duels yourself”

  From a very early age, as it happened, Justin thought bitterly. His muscles tensed at the memory of that long-ago scene in his father’s study. But he shook off the image.

  “Lord Greywood challenged me after discovering that I had a somewhat intimate acquaintance with his wife.”

  Confusion swept her features — along with a disconcerting blush. “You fought over Lady Greywood, the woman you are trying to trap?”

  “Not the dowager,” he corrected. “Her wayward daughter-in-law. My opponent was the dowager’s son, the present earl.”

  Silently, she absorbed this information. “You, er, did not kill him?”

  “I deloped. As did he. The duel was a formality, intended only to allow the earl to salvage his reputation by appearing to avenge a wrong done him by the miscreant who dared take his property.”

  “His property?”

  Justin turned a sardonic gaze on her. “Surely you are aware that society views a man’s wife as his property as much as his cattle? Until the integrity of the line is assured, she belongs to her husband. The young countess has only produced one child — a girl. The heir has yet to come forth, and I assume the earl will want one or two to spare. Until then, I imagine Greywood will be forced to fight a great many duels, for he is cursed with a wife who cannot curb her wayward appetites. I advised him to take her away to the country, but he is the sort to eschew advice from his wife’s lover.”

  This speech was intended to shock her — and to forestall further questions about a subject he did not care to discuss. But as she studied him, he could see by the intent look in her eye that her mind was a whirlwind of activity.

  “It can be no coincidence that you fought with the son of the woman who is your sworn enemy,” she persisted. “Everything you do is part of your plan, is it not?”

  Her persistence irritated him. “I believe I have already mentioned that the dowager’s husband — the late Lord Greywood — fought a duel with my father under similar circumstances,” Justin said.

  “And since you are attempting to duplicate everything about that time,” she said slowly, “you managed to get the present Lord Greywood to challenge you. Yes, I see now. The dowager must have been beside herself.”

  Justin merely shrugged.

  She looked horrified. “The extent of your single-minded pursuit of revenge is appalling.”

  Strangely, her condemnation stung. To his chagrin, Justin realized that he wanted her approval.

  “Not to mention the fact that you could have been killed,” she added.

  “I am a passable shot. It is more likely that Greywood would have cocked up his toes. But as I say, we both deloped.”

  She shook her head.

  “What?” he demanded.

  She looked away. “Revenge is a dangerous thing, my lord. It can turn in on itself.”

  “Spare me your homilies, Miss Armistead. I am in perfect control of the situation.” Justin frowned. Why did he feel the need to explain himself to her?

  “A man bent on revenge can find he has created in himself a monster,” she said softly.

  Angered, he rounded on her. What did she know of him, his past, his character? Had her father ever handed her a pistol and demanded that she blow her brains out?

  “No more monster than a woman who would trade her favors for a thousand pounds,” he snapped.

  She halted. “If you are referring to what happened yesterday in your library, be assured that the money you are paying me had nothing to do with what occurred between us.”

  “No,” he agreed smoothly. “I could have had you for free, could I not?”

  Justin had been consigned to the devil before, but never with such eloquent contempt as Sarah’s green eyes possessed before she whirled away from him and marched steadfastly toward the house. But there had been more than anger in those eyes, he realized. There had been pain.

  That knowledge pierced his gut like a well-aimed shot from his father’s Manton.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cruelty had been his father’s coin, but Justin had never fallen prey to that brutal madness. Now, however, a terrible thought seized him: was cruelty his blood legacy, his father’s final joke on his hated offspring? Even in Justin’s brandy-induced haze, such a conclusion was inescapable.

  Sarah had done nothing to earn his enmity, yet he had lashed out at her with words deliberately designed to wound. He had not meant merely to put her in her place. No, for one awful moment he had meant to destroy her.

  Why? She was just an actress, a woman who had put herself beyond the pale by taking to the stage. She belonged to a decadent world where women had their price, and it was nowhere near a thousand pounds. In a way, he had merely acknowledged that fact. But he had hurt her deeply.

  He knew she would never allow him or anyone else to see those wounds. Indeed, she had put on a performance tonight at dinner that he would not soon forget. Dressed in a demure gown cut from a pink fabric that lent a rosy innocence to her features, Sarah had orchestrated her every move to proclaim her virtue. The single strand of pearls around her neck looked as delicate and pure as the pearls seeded in a baby’s christening dress. She was solicitous to Aunt Clarissa, amiable to Harriet Simms, complimentary to Cook.

  And he could find no fault with her treatment of him. Her deferential manner might have disarmed him, had he not seen the militant spark in her eyes that the actress in her could not entirely suppress.

  Her bravado performance had thrown the matter firmly back into his face. He owed her an apology.

  Again.

  Justin sighed. How had he come to such a pass? He had been at great pains to appear to be everything his father had been, knowing it was that uncanny resemblance that would help wring a confession from Lady Greywood’s tormented conscience. Yet he had tried to separate himself from the role, to be scrupulous in a way that his father was not. He had seduced no innocents, nor trifled with any woman who wished for more than a spirited interlude. He wanted no woman’s tears on his conscience. His father’s careless debauchery had spawned grief and broken hearts, but Justin had harmed no one.

  Until now. The disbelief and pain in Sarah’s eyes today provided all the proof he needed.

  Tossing off the remainder of his brandy, Justin surveyed the contents of his bookshelves. His gaze lit upon Marlowe’s Faustus. Had he indeed sold his soul to the devil? Had the prospect of revenge driven all sensibility from him? Had it turned him into...his father?

  Perhaps the masquerade had become more than a role. Perhaps he had played the cynical rake too long. How long could one live an illusion before it became all too real?

  Anh had spoken of changes. Justin had laughed at the divining rods. He was not laughing now.

  ***

  “Oh, my dear, a letter! It could only be news about your family!” Aunt Clarissa clapped her hands eagerly, while Miss Simms looked up with a suspicious frown.

  Sarah stared at the missive on Anh’s silver salver. It was addressed to her, in care of “Lady Justine Linton.” She met the butler’s eyes. They gave no sign that there was anything unusual about correspondence addressed to her in care of a fictitious person; nor did they hint at why Anh had brought the letter directly to her this afternoon instead of his employer.

  “Thank you,” she said politely, hoping her expression did not betray
her alarm at receiving a communique from her brother. Sarah had always kept William informed of her whereabouts, inventing a number of genteel employers as she moved around the theater circuit. With her move to Lintonwood, Sarah had invented “Lady Justine” to replace her last employer, who — she had written William — had, alas, gone to meet her Maker. All of Sarah’s “employers,” in fact, had gone on to their final reward. It made matters much less complicated.

  Filled with foreboding about what William would deem so important as to break his longstanding abhorrence of writing, Sarah tucked the letter into the folds of her dress. The two ladies stared at her expectantly.

  “Do not stand on ceremony, Sarah,” Aunt Clarissa said. “You will not slight us by reading your letter now, as I am certain you must be eager to do. We are not in the least offended, are we, Harriet?”

  “No, indeed,” Miss Simms agreed, and Sarah did not miss the keen light of curiosity in her pale eyes.

  “Who knows, but this is communication from your long-lost relatives?” Aunt Clarissa trilled happily.

  “Indeed,” echoed Miss Simms, focusing her beady eyes on Sarah. “You must read it now.”

  Sarah cleared her throat. “Very well, then.” She broke the sealing wax and opened the envelope. Straining over her brother’s uneven scrawl, Sarah was aware that the two women watched her closely. It seemed that William had had some dispute at school with a fellow student who had heretofore been his most amiable of friends. The result was that, rather than traveling to Yorkshire with his friend for next month’s holiday, he had decided to visit her at Lintonwood instead.

  “Oh, my!” Sarah exclaimed in dismay.

  “What is it, dear?” Aunt Clarissa’s eyes filled with concern. “Perhaps we can help.”

  By next month, Sarah and Lord Linton would be in London. She could write William that her employer was traveling to town, but that news would likely make him even more eager to visit, for he had longed to explore the delights of London. Sarah would have to think of something else, but for now there was a pressing need to answer Aunt Clarissa’s question. Her usually agile mind went blank.