Although no one could fault her gown — Lord Linton saw fit to costume her in creations as elegant as any duchess’s — Sarah nevertheless looked every inch his mistress. Her high color owed as much to her paint box as to her feverish spirits. Her eyes were a shade too knowing, her laugh too provocative. Her neck was laden with an emerald and diamond necklace, the stones of a size to draw all eyes. Once again, her gown — this one was green, but they were all beginning to blur in Sarah’s mind — dipped in a deep décolletage that left her feeling nearly naked.
No matter that the man purported to be a jaded rake had taken no liberties beyond those intended for public consumption. No matter that he left Brook Street each night without so much as touching her once the servants had gone to bed. The fact remained that he had provided her with a house, clothing, carriage, and generous living allowance. No one knew that Sarah was not what she seemed. She could pretend to herself that she still had her self-respect, but she was not entirely certain of that now. How long could one play at a part before it became real?
Moreover, she thoroughly enjoyed her protector’s company. Not now, at these society parties where they performed the combative roles he had created for them. But afterward, in the confines of her drawing room, as the evening stretched into morning and he became the magician, the sorcerer who could control fate with a deck of cards and clever hands.
Each night Sarah sat spellbound, watching his dazzling tricks and sleights of hand. The Hindu shuffle, which he said was the most elementary of tricks, was quite beyond her, as it required grasping the side of the deck with the tip of the thumb and middle finger and shuffling rapidly, which her hands proved incapable of doing in a way that did not betray the trick. Lord Linton, on the other hand, did the maneuver seamlessly.
He attempted to teach her the double lift — taking two cards off the top of a deck while appearing to take only one — a move that was the basis of hundreds of tricks. But no matter how hard she tried, Sarah could not master any of the techniques; her attempts sent them both into laughing fits. And in those magical hours before dawn, as they sat bleary-eyed and weary from the long evening behind them, a kinship formed.
It was the kinship of two performers whiling away the time backstage between acts, waiting for the last line of the night to be spoken and the audience to make its boisterous way home. It was a kinship Sarah had experienced many times in the theater, never in her private life. Yet somehow this new bond between them was not just between two actors. It was more personal, more intimate in a way that eroded some of the barriers between them.
On stage, they played battling lovers before a rapt audience eager for the next explosive scene. In public, Lord Linton grew more peremptory with his “mistress,” relishing Lady Amanda’s attentions and often setting the two women against each other. Yet there was a strange possessiveness in his manner toward Sarah, a tension in him she could not explain. For her part, Sarah grew more and more brittle as Lady Amanda’s slyly assessing gaze said it was only a matter of time before she lured him away.
Lady Greywood must have faced similar trials, Sarah decided. Caring for a libertine who cared only for his own pleasure could leave a woman with a raw, festering wound.
But within the privacy of the house on Brook Street, she and Lord Linton were not those people who played out their private turmoil in such a public fashion. In that house there was no jealousy, no possessiveness, no brittle anger. There were only the two of them, a deck of cards, and the occasional glass of brandy. The masquerade required that he remain long into the night for appearances’ sake, but in all other respects they were offstage, freed from the enslavement of their roles.
With that freedom, the tension left her. Similarly, Lord Linton seemed almost carefree, taking a boyish delight in her fascination with his skill. In this manner they had passed a fortnight, and it now seemed as natural as breathing to walk him to the door as dawn filtered through the fog and to feel a genuine pang of regret that was very close to longing. The more time she spent with him, the more Sarah yearned to know more of the man behind the mask.
Now, as she stared in the cheval glass in the ladies’ withdrawing room, the wistful sigh that escaped her lips was not worldly or wise, as one would expect from the celebrated mistress of London’s most scandalous rake. No, this sigh belonged to a woman who knew, deep down, that she was out of her element.
Sarah looked around quickly to ascertain whether anyone had witnessed her lapse.
One woman had. She sat on a chair near the doorway, watching her. Sarah had not heard her enter.
“You are Lady Manwaring.” The voice betrayed no warmth, only curiosity. The woman was much older than Sarah. She looked tired and slightly pained, as if she had the headache. Her hand rested on a cane.
“Yes.” Sarah forced a smile, but the woman’s stoic expression did not alter.
“I am Lady Evangeline Greywood,” she said. “You may have heard of me from Lord Linton. But perhaps he does not confide in you?”
Lady Greywood. The woman they would bring to justice. Despite herself, Sarah stared. Fatigue was etched in the lines of the woman’s face, and something in her brown eyes reminded Sarah of a hunted animal. The drab biscuit-colored gown did nothing for her complexion, which bore the mottled tones of age. Her frame was bent slightly, as if with untold burdens, and her hair had long since gone to grey. Frail and small, she bore no resemblance to a woman who might have murdered her lover in a spirited rage.
“If you have any influence over him at all, you must make him stop this madness,” Lady Greywood said softly. “It will end badly, I assure you.”
Summoning all her professional artistry, Sarah schooled her expression to one of mild curiosity. “I do not know what you mean,” she said in a neutral tone.
Lady Greywood studied her. “No, perhaps you do not. I am not sure myself what he is about. I only know that Linton is a dangerous man, like his father, but perhaps even more ruthless. You must stop him.”
“I have little influence over the viscount.”
The dull gaze sharpened. “I have seen him look at you. You possess more power than you think.”
Was that true? Sarah shook her head to deny the kernel of hope that rose inside her. It would not do to confuse pretense with reality.
“I do not know what Linton is planning,” the dowager countess continued, “but already it has gone too far. Innocent lives have been damaged.”
Was she referring to the duel between Lord Linton and her son? But the viscount had given her to understand that the dowager’s son was not wounded. Perhaps she meant her daughter-in-law, though surely that young lady could not be considered innocent if Lord Linton’s description of her proclivity for liaisons was to be believed.
Still, Lady Greywood must have feared that Lord Linton would force Lord Greywood to pay for his mother’s sins with his life. When the viscount deloped instead, as his father had done before him, she must have begun to realize that the past was repeating itself.
A thousand questions came to Sarah’s mind. Had Lady Greywood loved Lord Linton’s father or hated him? How had she borne the fact that she had caused his death? What of her own husband, whose cuckolding had, as a result, become so very public? How had she endured his fury?
Feeling sorry for the woman was a mistake, Sarah told herself. She had gotten away with murder. But somehow, looking at Lady Greywood’s frail form, Sarah felt nothing but pity. Oddly, the woman was looking at her with something akin to the same emotion.
“I can see that you do not know what Linton is,” Lady Greywood said. “You are blinded by his cleverness. He uses women, as his father did before him.”
“Perhaps you have misread him,” Sarah put in, hoping to bring this exceedingly uncomfortable conversation to a close.
“The megrims have been known to distort one’s perception,” Lady Greywood conceded, rubbing her forehead wearily. “But there is one thing I know: The Trents are incapable of love.”
S
he rose, a bit unsteadily, leaning heavily on her cane. “And that is what you truly want, is it not? Your eyes give you away, poor child.”
With an almost painful dignity, the woman made her way from the room, leaving Sarah reeling in shock. The Trents are incapable of love. And that is what you truly want, is it not?
Love? No, Lady Greywood was wrong. All Sarah wanted from him was the money he had promised to pay her. Not in a hundred years would she expect Lord Linton to feel anything other than perhaps that special kinship that had sprung up between them during the card lessons — though it was likely he did not even feel that. She was simply an actress he had hired. He was beyond the touch of a woman like her. Was he incapable of love, as Lady Greywood said? Had she hoped to engender such feelings in him? Had she hoped, foolishly, for love? Surely not.
Sometimes, though, Sarah allowed herself to wonder how it might be to climb the stairs with him to her chamber rather than remain in the drawing room with cards and brandy. Remembering that sudden, overwhelming kiss they’d shared at Lintonwood brought a sudden flush to her face. What would it be like to be Lord Linton’s mistress in earnest? Not that she would ever consider such an arrangement.
Anyway, the kisses he bestowed on her each night for the servants’ benefit were restrained, practiced gestures devoid of passion. Clearly, he saw her only as a means to an end. She was in his employ, as much as his butler or her maid. If he seemed overly possessive and tense at these parties, it had nothing to do with his feelings for her. He, too, was playing a part.
Preparing to rejoin the party, Sarah practiced her smile in the mirror, making sure it was convincing. Lady Greywood had misread her, so obviously her acting still needed work.
How could she think Sarah wished for Lord Linton’s love? Nothing could be farther from the truth.
***
“If you tire of her, I trust you will let me know.”
Justin held Pembroke in no great charity, but he could not explain the sudden urge to rearrange the man’s features. “I assume you are speaking of Lady Manwaring?” he replied evenly.
Pembroke did not conceal the admiring gaze in his eyes as Sarah crossed the ballroom toward them. “You surprise me, Linton. Your previous mistresses have been rather bland creatures, without an independent thought in their heads. Not that I like a woman who is overly interfering, but Lady Manwaring has spunk. She leads you a merry dance, does she not? I warrant it is never dull.”
Dull? No, that was not a word that applied to Sarah. The more time Justin spent in her company, the more he wondered how he had done without her. Indeed, her very absence from the room provoked a strange uneasiness within him. It would not do to confess such a thing to Pembroke. As far as all London was concerned, Sarah Manwaring was merely his latest mistress, with whom he was rapidly becoming disenchanted.
“I prefer a more complacent woman,” Justin said in a bored voice. “Lady Manwaring’s temperament is rather volatile for my tastes. She is the sort who takes a man’s attentions too seriously. I believe she has expectations beyond her station.”
Pembroke nodded sympathetically but added, “I have more patience than you, perhaps. Putting up with female hysterics is not an especially burdensome price for having a woman like that in one’s bed.”
The image of Sarah in Pembroke’s bed jarred him. As she moved toward them, Justin marveled at how perfect that green gown looked on her. The seamstress had concocted a near-perfect copy of the gown in the dream he’d had at Lintonwood weeks ago. He’d been unable to banish the image — Sarah reclining on a satin comforter atop a featherbed. On a whim, Justin had commissioned this gown, giving the modiste a detailed description. He’d also commissioned a Bond Street jeweler to craft the diamond ornament she now wore in her hair, which also resembled the one in his dream. Justin did not know why he had done those things. Perhaps he’d gone mad.
Sarah would not end up in Pembroke’s bed if Justin had anything to say about it. Perhaps when this business was over he would pay her a little extra to ensure that she need never be dependent on a man’s protection. It would be worth it to banish the image of Pembroke rutting over her like a sweating pig. For now, however, Justin had to play the part he had written for himself.
“I am not yet weary of Lady Manwaring’s charms,” he said in a warning tone.
Pembroke laughed. “That is high praise indeed, Linton, for I have never known you to stay with a woman who tried your temper. But I am a patient man. I can wait.”
Until hell freezes over, Justin thought darkly as Sarah rejoined them. The dazzling smile she bestowed on Pembroke would have blinded most men. It lost a bit of its luster, however, when she turned to him and saw his expression.
“Come,” Justin ordered. “It is time to leave.”
“But we only arrived an hour ago,” she replied, puzzled.
Pembroke arched a brow, but the telltale gleam in his eyes betrayed him. Undoubtedly Pembroke thought his interest in Sarah had kindled Justin’s jealousy and provoked him into withdrawing from the party in favor of more private activities.
“Do not quibble, madam,” Justin commanded, irritated at Pembroke’s assumption that he would succumb to such a ridiculous emotion as jealousy. “I have decided we will depart.”
“But I wish to stay,” Sarah retorted in a game bit of improvisation Justin could only admire. “Have you no concern, sir, for my pleasure?”
They had planned to create yet another tempestuous scene in the ballroom, and Justin knew that Sarah was trying to salvage something of the spirit of that planned scene so the opportunity would not be entirely lost by their departure. He mentally applauded her nimbleness — until she shot an arch look at Pembroke that instantly made his blood boil.
“You seem to have forgotten that your pleasure is to see to mine,” Justin drawled. “I see that I must spend the next hours refreshing your memory.” With that, he propelled her out of the room as Pembroke’s laughter followed them.
“That was very bold, my lord,” Sarah whispered, her face scarlet. “I hardly think it necessary to hold me up to such ridicule.”
“Ridicule?” he echoed, no longer certain as they swept out into the night air whether either of them was playing a part. “I do not take your meaning.”
Sarah gave him a fulminating look. “You might as well have announced to all that we were going to spend the rest of the night in...in lascivious pursuits. Would a man treat his mistress so?”
“A man may treat his mistress any way he pleases.”
“A ruffian might,” she corrected. “But a gentleman would —”
“Do not mistake me for that miserable breed.” He extended a hand to help her into the waiting carriage.
But Sarah stepped away from him and into the carriage on her own, leaving Justin to follow. She glared at him as he settled himself opposite her.
“Perhaps you are right,” she said. “A gentleman would hardly devise a scheme to destroy a frail elderly lady who is clearly more miserable than you could ever make her.”
Justin stilled. “You will explain yourself.”
“I have met Lady Greywood. She does not seem anything like the horrible creature you have made her out to be.”
“You know nothing of her.”
“I know that she is tired and afraid.”
“She is a venal woman who has escaped being called to account for her considerable crimes,” Justin said coldly. “She killed my father. Her actions were also responsible for the death of my mother.”
Wearily, Sarah leaned back against the squabs. “One cannot excuse your father’s death, of course. But it seems harsh to also blame her for your mother’s suicide. Who really knows what drives people to take their own lives? You were a youth at the time. Perhaps you do not know the whole truth.” She sighed heavily. “Can you not reconsider this madness?”
Cold steel wrapped around his heart, keeping him impervious to her pleas, feeding the anger that had driven him to end their evening prematurely. “Th
e only thing I am reconsidering,” he said coolly, “is whether I made a mistake in hiring you.”
She flinched as if she had been hit. Justin wanted to withdraw the words. But he did not. She sat stiffly on the seat until they reached the town house.
***
For the butler’s benefit she had touched his arm as usual when they entered the house and managed the semblance of a flirtatious smile.
But the anger she could not fully restrain lent her cheeks a flush that no one would mistake for desire. Her eyes had a feverish gleam. Her lips trembled slightly.
Anger, Justin thought darkly, was a powerful aphrodisiac.
How else to explain the answering desire that shot through him as he sat across from her, seething at her temerity to challenge his judgment of Lady Greywood? What would it take, he wondered, to erase that condemnation in her eyes?
Mentally, Justin gave himself a shake. Why should he care what Sarah thought of him?
When the butler had seen to their comfort and finally closed the door behind him, her brittle smile had dissolved. Such a look of determination followed that Justin suspected she had resolved to endure the next hour or so in his presence only because she was being paid to do so.
Sighing, she plucked a card, studied it, then half-heartedly inserted it elsewhere in the deck. She did not speak, but her wounded air projected her thoughts clearly enough. Damned if he would apologize. She had no right to criticize his plan. He had purchased her cooperation and he would have it
Surreptitiously, Justin used his left little finger to create a slight break between the card she had chosen and the rest of the deck. He had performed the trick so often he no longer thought of the motions required. Though she watched his hands, Justin knew Sarah detected nothing amiss in the triple cut that brought her card to the bottom of the pile. When he turned the deck over and displayed her card, she shot him a look of grudging admiration.
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