A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  Justin needed no medieval alchemist to tell him that he was playing with fire.

  ***

  “It is very strange the way they go off like that, shooting at targets all morning.”

  Aunt Clarissa looked up from her knitting. “I think it is very kind of Justin to school Sarah in the handling of a weapon. Times have changed, Harriet. Sarah is alone in England, without her family. Who knows but one day she may need such skills to protect herself?”

  Miss Simms’s eyes narrowed above her long, pointed nose. “Alone? How can you say that, Clarissa? She is with Linton most of the day. If they are not shooting in the meadow, they are huddled in the library examining mysterious papers. Any chaperon worth her salt would not allow it. Miss Armistead would be compromised beyond redemption if such a thing should be known.”

  “I trust that it will not become known,” Aunt Clarissa said sharply, prompting a surprised look from her companion. “Justin has Sarah’s best interests at heart, of that you may be certain.”

  “The only thing of which I am certain is that the apple never falls very far from the tree,” Miss Simms retorted. “You have only to recall the father to see that it would be prudent to fear for Miss Armistead’s fate.”

  Aunt Clarissa’s knitting slipped to the floor. “Silvester does not like to hear such talk about Justin’s father,” she said in a strained voice. “It upsets him greatly.”

  “Silvester is the most thin-skinned spirit I have ever encountered,” Miss Simms muttered.

  “You can be remarkably cruel sometimes, Harriet.” Clarissa’s eyes shimmered with moisture. “You ought not denigrate Silvester. You know how important he is to me.” At that, she buried her face in her handkerchief.

  Instantly Miss Simms left her chair and sat on the divan next to her friend. “I did not mean to hurt you, Clarissa.” Somewhat awkwardly, she took the other woman’s hand.

  “’Tis not me you have hurt, but Silvester,” she said plaintively.

  Miss Simms sighed. “I did not intend to hurt Silvester, either. Though sometimes, dear,” she added gently, “I think you rely too much on his opinion.”

  “He is all I have to rely on,” Clarissa said softly.

  “That is not so,” Miss Simms protested. “You have Linton. And Agatha, if you would ever speak to her.”

  At Clarissa’s sharp intake of breath, she hastened to add, “I know that you do not like to think of her, but one day things might change.”

  “Never,” Clarissa pronounced.

  “And,” Miss Simms added gruffly, “you have me, of course.”

  “I know,” Clarissa murmured. “Thank you, Harriet.” She touched Miss Simms’s hand.

  A speck of dust in her eye caused Miss Simms to reach for her own handkerchief and rub the offending particle so violently that it left her eyes quite red. With a small cough, she returned to her own chair.

  “I have always been grateful to you for taking me in,” she said stiffly. “I was but a governess, after all. You asked no questions, and for that I owe you much.”

  “You have long satisfied any obligation to me.” Clarissa dabbed at her eyes. “You need not remain in this position out of a sense of duty.”

  “It is not against my wishes to continue as your companion, Clarissa,” Miss Simms said quickly. “And now, let us have no more of that. Or we will both turn into watering pots.”

  “Silvester has always liked you, you know,” Clarissa confided, an impish look in her eyes.

  A heavy sigh was Miss Simms’s only reply.

  ***

  Sarah had dreaded this day, for they were to rehearse the shooting scene. In the last weeks, they had honed her shooting skills until she could manage the pistol. They had talked about how she would pull the weapon from her muff and fire it, and she had practiced the move. Never had they actually played out the scene, however, or said the vengeful words he had written for them. Now it was time.

  What frayed Sarah’s nerves was not the knowledge that the final stage of Lord Linton’s plan was about to begin, and that they would soon go to London. It was the prospect of facing him alone in his library, playing the part of a woman so overcome with angry passion for the man she loved that she killed him in her rage.

  No, she mentally corrected. Her character did not love him. This was a relationship based on carnal desire — not love. Lord Linton had been very clear about that, and perhaps he had a point, for a woman truly in love would not kill her lover. Only a woman who had endured humiliation and scorn at his hands — who perhaps had loved him once but had been so ill-used that hate had taken love’s place — would do such a thing. Perhaps Lord Linton’s father had inspired such emotions, but it was difficult to imagine that any mistress of Justin Trent’s would come to hate him, or, indeed, that he would treat any woman so basely as to earn her enmity.

  No matter that Lord Linton was reputed to be a hardened rake, no matter that he could be most scornful — and even insulting. Sarah did not hate him. She was now certain that the darkness that sat so heavily upon his soul did not stem from an evil nature. To be sure, he was cunning and manipulative and had a disconcerting number of books in his library on rather mysterious arts, which he must have studied. But he was no demon, only a man pursued by one: revenge. And revenge, if unchecked, would ultimately destroy him.

  But not yet.

  Only a man who still possessed some redeeming nature could have offered that heartfelt apology in his library. Only a man with a glimmer of light in his soul could have assigned his butler to occupy William rather than giving orders to turn him away from Lintonwood. Only a man with good in him could have tolerated Aunt Clarissa’s addled wits with gentle affection, as Sarah had seen him do.

  Perhaps there was hope for Lord Linton yet, a chance that the glimmer of light in him would prevail over the darkness. But not if he carried out his plan to destroy Lady Greywood, not if he allowed his thirst for vengeance to drive away all compassion for an aging woman who surely must be filled with regret for her long-ago actions.

  Sadness overwhelmed Sarah as she pushed open the library door. She did not know how to reach that sliver of goodness in Lord Linton’s heart. Since his apology, he had been as distant as the far horizon.

  Now she was to hurl accusations at this unreachable man and do so with the fury of a woman scorned. She was to pretend an intimacy with him that she had never shared with any man. And while her profession required her to exercise a great deal of imagination, Sarah found it impossible to imagine what it would be like to know Lord Linton intimately. His kiss, his searing touch — they had not been enough to allow her to imagine the rest. Not nearly enough.

  And yet...Sarah’s pulse quickened as she hesitated on the threshold. If ever there was a man who could tempt what virtue she had left, it was Lord Linton. Justin. It was a strong name, a fitting name for such a fierce, strong man. A man any woman would be proud to call her lover.

  But not her love, Sarah reminded herself. Never that.

  He looked up from his desk. “Good afternoon.”

  Sarah clutched the pages he had written, although she knew her lines by heart now.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  She nodded, hoping he did not see the lie in her eyes.

  He rose. Briskly, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about his actions, he took the dueling pistol from its case and inserted it into the large muff she was to carry that night. He handed it to her and proceeded to block out the scene, positioning himself near the library window meant to represent the large window in Lady Hogarth’s ballroom. The bookshelves behind her would stand for the dozens of onlookers who would witness the drama unfold.

  “How do you know that Lady Greywood will be in attendance at Lady Hogarth’s ball?” Sarah asked.

  “Lady Hogarth is one of the few who did not cut her following the shooting,” he replied. “Thanks to that lady’s efforts, Lady Greywood’s reputation was eventually rehabilitated. I imagine it is a combination o
f gratitude and bravado that keeps the dowager countess returning each year to the site of her lover’s demise.”

  Sarah paled. “I see. You have thought of all the details. Everything will be exactly as it was the night of your father’s death.”

  “Yes. And our little scene will take place exactly as it occurred fifteen years ago — as everyone is gathering for the presentation of honors for best costume. You can be sure Lady Greywood will be among the onlookers.”

  Sarah turned away from that disquieting anticipation in his eyes. “I still do not understand how Lady Greywood and your father could flaunt their relationship so publicly. Were not their spouses in attendance that evening?”

  “My mother was at home, ill with the ague, or perhaps the strains of her pregnancy. She did not often go into company, even when she was well. Lord Greywood was there, but he and my father had kept their distance after the duel. At all events, an affair can be conducted under a spouse’s nose, with circumspection.”

  “If circumspection was paramount, then I do not understand why Lady Greywood would have a public argument with your father and shoot him with the whole world looking on.”

  “Rage will cause almost anyone to forget their society manners,” he replied, continuing to mark off their positions. “I believe Lady Greywood was enraged that my father had the temerity to cast her off. I believe she even held out hope he would marry her one day.”

  If I cannot have you no other woman can. Those were the mistress’s words in the script. But a woman who uttered those words would not have hated her lover. She would have been desperately in love with him. Sarah frowned. Nothing made sense.

  “Did Lady Greywood hope your father would divorce your mother?”

  He shrugged. “It was quite impossible, of course. My father would never have troubled to leave my mother, although he held her in no great affection and was incapable of fidelity to any one woman.”

  “Then why would Lady Greywood hope for a divorce?” Sarah persisted. “Especially since it would undoubtedly cause a scandal.”

  “My father was not above twisting the truth. He may have made her promises.”

  “That does not sound very honorable.”

  “My father was not an honorable man.”

  Sarah stared at him. “Then why avenge him?”

  “It is my duty.” The bitter twist of his mouth told her it was best to leave this subject.

  Sarah decided to approach it from a different direction. “You would have been a youth at the time. How do you know enough about what happened that night to duplicate it?”

  “It was not easy,” he acknowledged. “No one in the family was particularly eager to share the details.”

  He fell silent.

  “It must have been very difficult for you,” Sarah said.

  He looked up. “Not for me. My mother was the one who suffered. The next day she tied a bed sheet to the balcony of her chamber and around her neck, and jumped.”

  Sarah inhaled sharply.

  “Clarissa was the one who found her. She has not been the same since.”

  “I am sorry,” she said softly.

  Straightening a pile of papers on his desk, he did not meet her gaze. “It was not easy to ferret out the details of my father’s death, given my family’s silence on the subject. Fortunately, the event was deemed sufficiently scandalous to have been written up in the newspaper.”

  He opened a desk drawer and pulled something out. “Here,” he said, handing it to her.

  It was a yellowed clipping from The Times. The account was obviously incomplete, although the writer had done his best to fill in as many details as possible. Sarah studied it.

  A shocking event occurred at Lady Hogarth’s masquerade ball on Thursday night, which resulted in the unfortunate demise of Lord Linton. His lordship, attired in a black domino, was noted by several of those at the ball to be engaged in heated words with a Lady costumed as the infamous Marie Antoinette. The Lady’s true identity was impossible to discern, as she was wearing a wig and mask that effectively obscured her features. Witnesses who had gathered for the midnight unmasking and awarding of prizes for most creative costume reported that the Lady was overwrought, to the point of throwing her colorful corsage at his feet and declaring that his lordship had wholly misled her as to his intentions. It was after the next declaration, which various witnesses reported the Lady to state she would not allow his lordship to bestow his affections upon any woman other than herself, that the shooting occurred.

  The Lady was reported to have pulled a pistol from her muff, although the witnesses were not certain at first whether the weapon might not have been a stiletto. The shot that followed provided further illumination, however, and Lord Linton immediately collapsed in a pool of blood, mortally wounded. Dr. Aloysius Quincy was in attendance and immediately went to his aid. The Lady fled through the terrace door and has not been located, the onlookers being so occupied with tending to Lord Linton’s wounds that no one thought to restrain his Assailant. One of Lord Linton’s dueling pistols, later determined to be the work of esteemed gunsmith Joseph Manton, was later discovered in some bushes. It seems that his lordship was felled by his own weapon.

  Stunned, Sarah looked up from the clipping. “It is exactly as you have written in your script.”

  “Yes.” He replaced the clipping in the drawer, his eyes glittering darkly.

  I am interested in many things, Miss Armistead. I am consumed, however, by only one. Revenge went deep in him, Sarah realized, deeper than she had thought. There, on that yellowed page, the crime was laid out from start to finish. He kept the clipping in his desk, where he could read and reread it at will. He had inscribed the words in his script, immortalized them in his soul.

  “Now.” His voice was lower than usual. “I do believe it is time to stage our scene.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Looking down the barrel of a gun wielded by a furious female had a way of riveting a man’s attention. Fortunately the pistol held no bullet, and Sarah’s rage was only pretense. Justin was pleased to see that she gripped the weapon easily with both hands and that her aim did not waver.

  He had trained her well.

  How easily she inhabited the role of a woman scorned. Intrigued, Justin stared at her blazing emerald eyes. What color were Lady Greywood’s eyes? he wondered idly. His father must have known. He had had time enough to study them from the wrong end of the pistol before his jealous mistress sent him to his Maker.

  Justin never understood how a man like his father could drive a woman to commit such a desperate act. What prompted a woman to give herself to a debauched scapegrace to begin with? Hope of bringing the scoundrel to heel, if only for a time? The urge to reform him? To tame him with her feminine power? Whatever Lady Greywood’s motive, it was a dangerous game. Even Persephone, who had captured the heart of Hades himself, had to spend her time in hell. Was it worth it? Justin couldn’t see how.

  Any woman who thought to tame his father was doomed to fail. Oscar Trent cared only for cards, a willing woman, and a bottle of spirits. Indifference was the kindest emotion he ever expressed, and Justin had always sensed that his father felt something much more akin to hate for him. Clearly, his father had no wish for a son. Never had he seen a father’s proud smile upon his lips; never had he known a father’s affection or delight. Well, almost never.

  More than once over the years a hazy childhood memory had intruded, giving him the image of a father whose face bore no lines of dissipation, no scowl of cynicism, no bloodshot eyes narrowed in scorn. Long ago, he had taught Justin to swim, to ride, to shoot. In those early days his father was merely distant, not the jaded and scornful man he would become. What had happened to turn his father against him?

  Perhaps he would never know. He supposed the real question was why he felt it necessary to avenge the death of a man who left no real mourners. His mother had shed tears aplenty the night he died, but Justin could not imagine why. The long nights when soun
ds of the beatings and her muffled cries floated through the house had left him no doubt that she was better off without her husband.

  An eye for an eye...See that justice is done. It is your duty.

  Yes, it was his duty to avenge his father. But there was more to it than that — something drifting just beyond the vision of his mind’s eye, something lurking offstage waiting for the proper moment to make its entrance. Something dark and forbidden, as elusive as that magic bird of Magnus’s, as compelling as the pull of yin and yang.

  Justin closed his eyes, letting the sensation take him into that dark corner of his mind where a pistol lay facing him across the table and the devil himself smiled his encouragement from within his father’s deep blue eyes. “I am dead. By your hand, in a duel...that means you must now die.”

  “Pull the trigger.” The jeering command, the wild laughter as Justin ran for the door, dropping the pistol like a hot coal.

  “Pull the trigger.” His father’s whispered taunt as he left for Lady Hogarth’s masquerade, the black domino a mantle of demonic splendor over his shoulders.

  “Pull the trigger.” The battle cry echoing in Justin’s brain hours after that mock duel, for deep down he had wanted to use that weapon.

  But, God help him, not on himself, as his father’s code demanded.

  No, he wanted to use it on the man who had given him life, the man who had hated him, the man he had never been able to please. That very man whose death now must be avenged. For that was the son’s duty — and deep down, Justin knew it was the only way to absolve his younger self of guilt for wishing, even for a moment, that he could pull that trigger and end his father’s life. And here was the rub: Justin knew that if he had been older, if he’d had a few more years than that green lad, he might have pulled the trigger after all. That was his everlasting, unthinkable guilt, the root of his burning need for revenge.

  Lady Greywood had much to answer for: not only his father’s life, but also his mother’s could be laid at her feet. His father would have approved of Justin’s settling the score. But the approval of a man long dead mattered little. It was his own guilt that festered and fomented deep within him. Would this desperate, meticulously planned last act satisfy? He sure as hell hoped so. And if it did not, what then?