“My goodness! Have you no sense of the theatrical? This will never work if you simply stand here staring like a statue.”
“What?” Justin tried to bring himself back to the present. He saw that Sarah was eyeing him in exasperation.
“I shall say it again, my lord: When do you wish me to pull the trigger?”
“As you are finishing your speech, of course.”
She sighed. “’Tis clear you have no stage experience. If I shoot as I speak the final words, the gun’s report will drown them out. I could wait a second or two after the speech, but that might allow an onlooker time to seize the pistol and prevent me from firing it.”
“I take your point,” Justin said. “It is best not to let it go too long.”
“The timing must be perfect,” she said, regarding the muff warily. “I am not certain my nerves will be very steady.”
“Your nerves?” Justin shot her a wry look. “Think of mine, standing there wondering whether you will remember to avert your aim at the last.”
Her eyes widened. “I shall not forget. You may depend upon it.”
“Good. Shall we try it again?”
“Only if you promise to pay attention this time.” She removed the pistol from the muff and pointed it at his chest.
Justin smiled. “Now you have my undivided attention.”
Carefully, she placed the gun back into its hiding place and frowned. “I must have something to use for the corsage.”
He plucked one of the daisies from the vase on his desk. “Use this for now. I have arranged for the florist who provided them that night to create an exact duplicate from their records.”
Sarah accepted the flower, cleared her throat and drew herself up. “You dare to trifle with my affections, sir,” she said in a brittle voice. “Well, I am not to be trifled with!” She took a step forward, eyes flashing. Then she hurled the daisy at him.
Justin could not suppress a grin. He had chosen well. Sarah would take on Satan himself. She was a fireball.
“You take too much upon yourself, madam,” he said sternly, repeating the words he had written. “You read too much into a casual flirtation.”
“A casual flirtation?” Incredulous, she stared at him. Then a look of cunning swept her features. Justin was mesmerized as slowly, almost imperceptibly, she eased the pistol from her muff. He liked that she made the motion a small one, so as not to attract the attention of the others who would be in the room.
Pointing the unloaded pistol at his heart, she moved the hammer to full cock.
“I will give you this, my lord, for your casual flirtation,” she said in a low voice, “and bid you take it to your grave so that no other woman may be similarly misled.” She paused for a heartbeat. “For if I cannot have you,” she said, her voice rising, “I vow that no other woman can.”
As she spoke the final words, Sarah shifted the pistol almost imperceptibly to the left. Justin saw the movement of the trigger and heard the click of the hammer as it met the flashpan. Instantly, he dropped to the floor.
A sudden giggle assaulted his ears. He opened one eye and regarded Sarah, who was nearly doubled over with laughter. “What, pray, is so amusing?”
“I am afraid you do not look the least bit convincing, my lord. Especially when you take care to fall so that you do not crash into the desk.”
“I will manage to die credibly, never fear. If I were you, I would occupy myself with fleeing. Otherwise, you will soon find yourself clapped in irons. And do not forget to drop the pistol in the bushes as you leave.”
Instantly, she sobered. With nimble grace she raced to the wall that was serving as Lady Hogarth’s terrace door and carefully placed the pistol at the base of a lamp that was meant to represent a bush. Then she turned, waiting for his reaction. “Well? Did we manage it?”
Justin picked himself up from the floor. “Yes. I believe we did. Well done.”
Flushed from her exertions, she grinned at the compliment. In that moment, Justin realized to his very great amazement that he had never seen anything so attractive as Sarah Armistead’s pure, wholehearted smile. Her pleasure gave her cheeks a pinkish cast that reminded him of spring tulips. Her eyes sparkled; her lips parted in carefree delight. Her hair framed her face like petals of some rare, exotic flower. She was a portrait of spring in full bloom.
Persephone, Justin thought darkly. Why the devil did Sarah suddenly remind him of Persephone?
***
“We leave for London tomorrow to meet with Miss Armistead’s solicitors. They have assured us that they can provide information about her relatives.”
Justin’s declaration following dinner sent an excited Aunt Clarissa into a whirl of chatter about packing and the like. Miss Simms merely arched a brow.
“You are taking her to London without a chaperon?” Miss Simms said in a censorious tone.
“We are taking one of the village girls to serve as Miss Armistead’s maid,” Justin replied.
“I do not think a serving girl — ”
“Oh, Harriet, do leave off,” Aunt Clarissa interrupted. “Justin will take good care of Sarah. Let us not waste time on trivialities.”
“Trivialities!” Miss Simms was incredulous. “I hardly think the lack of a chaperon is a trivial matter.”
Impatiently, Justin waved a dismissive hand. “It is little more than two hours to London. The presence of a maid is sufficient to protect Miss Armistead’s reputation for such a short time.”
“But where will she stay?” Miss Simms demanded. “Surely you do not mean to keep her at your house?”
“Certainly not,” Justin replied easily. “Miss Armistead will have her own establishment. It has all been arranged. Her reputation will be safeguarded.”
How easily he manipulates the truth, Sarah thought in grudging half-admiration. She would indeed have her own establishment — as mistress of a wealthy and powerful peer — and it would buttress her reputation, but not in a way that would do her credit.
“Her own establishment?” Miss Simms said. “That is just as bad as not having a chaperon. Worse. Why, people will think her a —”
“Are you sure you do not wish us to come?” Aunt Clarissa put in. “Silvester does not mind London in the least.”
Lord Linton deposited a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I deeply appreciate your coming to Lintonwood on such short notice. You will be wishing to return to your own home.”
Miss Simms looked as though she had much more to say on this subject, but he quickly strode from the room, depriving her of an audience. Instead, she turned her attention to Sarah.
“Do not say I did not warn you, missy,” Miss Simms said grimly. “Men have only one thing on their minds — and it has nothing to do with finding your relatives.”
Aunt Clarissa pursed her lips but did not speak, and the remainder of the evening passed without incident.
Later, Sarah stared at the walls of her chamber for what she supposed was the last time. It was hard to believe that tomorrow she would be in London, playing the part of Lord Linton’s mistress in earnest. Never had she thought to find herself ensconced in a love nest and paraded before the ton in what amounted to a public declaration of the fact that he was her protector.
With a sigh, Sarah began readying herself for bed. She was used to managing for herself and did not know what she would do with the maid and dresser he had hired to turn her out in the style expected of one of his women. All of these changes were unsettling, but Sarah reminded herself that this was just a role like any other. She would wear the costumes that suited the character she was playing in the setting of Lord Linton’s choosing. There was no shame in her actions; it was simply acting. She would not really be Lord Linton’s mistress. Still, everyone would think otherwise. Perhaps there was shame enough in that.
For the first time she would be living a role. Acting and real life would mingle in a dizzying complexity. Could she separate the two?
Did she wish to?
A tap at her door ended her disturbing reverie. Aunt Clarissa poked her head in the room and smiled.
“I want to wish you good fortune, my dear,” she said, seating herself in the chair near Sarah’s bed. “And to give you this.” She opened her hand to reveal a small, round locket.
“It is beautiful,” Sarah whispered as Aunt Clarissa pressed the necklace into her hand. “Thank you.”
“My sister Arabella — Justin’s mother — gave it to me a long time ago. Shortly after she married, in fact. It was a token of her affection. ’Tis a pity you could not know her. We shared a special bond. Each of us had rather solitary lives, even among family. Circumstances made us outcasts, you might say.” A troubled look appeared in the violet eyes. “I was a disappointment to her, I am afraid.”
Sarah was not sure what that meant, but she was too polite to ask. She opened the locket to reveal miniatures of the two sisters. Though time had faded the portraits, the young Clarissa’s eyes still bore their startling violet hue. Justin’s mother was a pretty woman with somber grey eyes that, like her son’s, appeared to hold secrets. The murky currents in this family apparently ran deep. Sarah noted that Agatha, Lady Claremont, the third sister, was not in the portrait.
Sarah suspected that the locket meant a great deal to Aunt Clarissa, especially since Justin’s mother was long dead and she was evidently at odds with her only remaining sister, Agatha.
“I cannot take a family keepsake,” Sarah protested. “You must keep it.”
“No.” Aunt Clarissa smiled through the moisture in her eyes. “Silvester agrees with me. It is time to let it go.” She motioned for Sarah to turn, and fastened the locket around Sarah’s neck. “It is meant for you, I think. Since you have no immediate family, perhaps you can think of this as one sister’s token of affection. Mine for you.”
Sarah swallowed hard, thinking that Aunt Clarissa would never give her such a treasure if she knew Sarah was about to take up the scandalous role of her nephew’s mistress. “I do not deserve this, ma’am.”
Shaking her head, Aunt Clarissa brought her fingertips to Sarah’s lips. “Shhh, my dear. None of us deserves what we get in life, but we cannot control our fate. When we try, we muddle it terribly.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “There was a time, before Silvester, that I thought otherwise.”
Aunt Clarissa was still greatly affected by Justin’s mother’s suicide, Sarah realized, which made her feel doubly guilty for accepting the locket. “Ma’am, are you certain you do not wish to keep this? I would not deprive you of your only memento of your departed sister.”
“Oh, I have others,” Aunt Clarissa said, patting Sarah’s shoulder. “I have the best of all, in fact” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “She left me Silvester, you see.”
Still smiling, Aunt Clarissa left the room.
***
The sedate little house on Brook Street exuded respectability, but it was here that Lord Linton’s father had kept his mistresses, Sarah knew. She wondered about the other women who had lived here. Had they been pleased with the grey stone and brick house, its windows sparkling clean, its masonry in top repair, its brass fittings in gleaming splendor? Had they nodded regally to the respectful servant at the door who betrayed no sign that there was anything sordid about a woman accepting her living from a peer of the realm? Had they trilled in delight at the inviting bedchamber, decorated in warmest peach and melon?
None of them, Sarah was certain, had quailed in trepidation at this tangible evidence of the enormity of the step they were taking. None had viewed those sparkling windows and gleaming brass as bars on a prison of her own foolish making. None had taken two steps back from the enormous bed, scarlet with thoughts of what activities took place in this chamber of delights.
“Is everything satisfactory?” Lord Linton asked as Sarah studied the vibrant furnishings in what was now her bedchamber. That Sarah had permitted him to personally show her this room proved that her internal compass had spun drastically awry. Her mother would have been shocked beyond speech.
“Yes.” Sarah’s voice was not entirely steady.
“Excellent.” He did not seem to notice anything amiss in her demeanor.
Although Sarah had told herself repeatedly in the carriage that this job was merely the means to a respectable and perfectly ordinary life, seeing the house provided a sobering antidote to her rationalization. The reality was that she would have to live and breathe the part of Lord Linton’s mistress, even in the presence of the servants here. Servants gossiped, he had reminded her, and it would not do to raise their suspicions.
Sarah had quickly agreed. But she had not thought through exactly what that would mean.
Thus she let out a little shriek when, as they stood in the foyer, Lord Linton casually pulled her into his arms within view of the footmen scurrying past with her trunks. He made the embrace seem natural, as if they were longtime lovers, rather than strangers whose only previous intimate encounter had horrified them both.
At her cry his gaze narrowed, and Sarah saw the warning in his eyes. She turned the cry into a girlish giggle that was, alas, only a slight improvement. He did not look mollified, but pulled her close nevertheless.
“I will see you tonight,” he said, promise in his eyes and passion in his voice — all for the servants’ benefit, of course. He brushed her lips lightly, but long enough as to leave any observers with little doubt as to what activities were planned for the evening.
Sarah knew she must appear to welcome the intimacy. She placed her arms around his neck, as if unwilling to let him leave for even a moment. The unaccustomed position seemed strained at first — she could not relax and her arms were stiff as they encircled him. But Sarah soon discovered that she liked being enclosed by that solid, masculine warmth. When she rose on tiptoes to kiss him, she saw surprise and approval in his eyes in the moment before their lips touched.
This kiss bore more warmth, though Sarah suspected that was a calculated effect so as to reinforce in front of any onlooker that further activities of this nature would be continued in a more private time and place.
It was a very practiced, professional kiss, Sarah decided. Why it should leave her weak-kneed was unfathomable. She fought the urge to lean into him, to draw on his strength. After what she supposed was an appropriate period, he withdrew with a reluctance that undoubtedly was also all for show.
To her dismay, Sarah felt keenly disappointed that it was over.
As he took the steps down into the street, she touched her lips, tasting bitter disappointment.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Justin expected, Lady Devon’s ball proved to be the perfect place for Sarah to plunge into the London whirl. A bit of a hellion in her day, the countess delighted in lively entertainment and a scintillating mix of guests. To be sure, stiff-necked dowagers and prim society matrons were in attendance, but Lady Devon herself was no high stickler. The waltzes were plentiful, the ratafia and other spirits flowed freely, and a merry round-game table for both sexes had been set up in a parlor adjacent to the ballroom.
Sarah had quickly taken the measure of the crowd and played to it with such ease that Justin was again forced to congratulate himself on his brilliance in hiring her. He had introduced her as Lady Manwaring, widow of a reclusive baronet gone to his eternal rest in the vague past. And she looked the part of a woman rather relishing her merry widowhood. Her hair was swept dramatically upward, exposing the length of her ivory neck, adorned with a gold and diamond necklace he had presented her. Her gown — a deep salmon color — was cut daringly low, exposing the rise of her breasts to the extent that Justin had seen several society matrons eyeing her in disapproval.
Precisely the effect he had intended. Satisfaction filled him, along with another sensation he could not identify, and which he ruthlessly pushed away.
Her glittering attire and gay demeanor, coupled with the fact that she was on the arm of a known rake, l
eft no doubt that she was indeed his mistress. He was the envy of every man at the ball.
Even as he registered that triumph, Justin could not stop himself from inspecting her more closely. Gold combs were anchored in her auburn hair, and one carefully coiled tendril had been permitted to cascade down to grace her bare shoulders. He had never quite noticed the elegant line of her neck, and rather enjoyed the opportunity for lingering inspection of the soft blush of skin laid bare by her décolletage.
In contrast to that dewy blush, which summoned images of virginal maids stepping lightly in the allemande, Sarah radiated a fiery heat that was most definitely not virginal. Her vividly colored gown easily eclipsed the insipid pastels of the debutante set. Its neckline seemed to defy gravity as it took a breathtaking dip between her breasts. The product of one of London’s most fashionable modistes, the gown stopped short of being truly scandalous. Still, Justin felt unexpectedly irritated each time Sarah fluttered her ivory fan, drawing attention to the tantalizing view. Were women born knowing such skills? She played the coquette effortlessly.
Compliments fell around her like rain. She accepted them gracefully, her flushed cheeks and sparkling emerald eyes a cornucopia of riches that beckoned all eyes. Justin could not decide whether it was the actress in her or the woman herself who bloomed tonight like some exotic flower. As mistress of a man whose appetite for pleasure was notorious, Sarah evoked images of unfettered carnal delight; yet something in the way she conducted herself commanded respect. It was not difficult to guess what was on the minds of the gentlemen, yet their frankly admiring looks bore no outright lechery. Sarah was enticing, mesmerizing even, but there was an air about her that said she would brook no insult. She had insisted that his mistress would display no hint of coarseness, and her instincts had proven true.
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