A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  “I see.” Sarah felt his gaze on her. Perhaps he was assessing her resolve. The black domino he wore — an exact copy of his father’s — added a sinister touch.

  “Afterwards, he will send word of my death,” he continued. “I do not expect the countess to confess on the spot, although perhaps she will be unnerved enough to do so. When I present myself to her two days hence, I fully expect that she will be so troubled as to thoroughly unburden herself of her crimes.”

  “She will no doubt have endured two sleepless nights since the ball,” Sarah said in a dull voice.

  “Precisely,” he agreed. “She will be more than ready to confess.”

  They lapsed into silence. Sarah stared at the large muff on the carriage seat. The dueling pistol was inside, primed and in the half-cocked position. Although she did not look up, Sarah felt the force of his gaze. She fingered her mask.

  “If you are even considering not going through with this,” he warned, a dangerous edge to his voice, “you are most unwise.”

  “I am afraid wisdom has always eluded me, my lord,” Sarah replied softly.

  He put one hand on her shoulder and with the other tilted her chin upward so that she had to look directly at him. What Sarah saw in his eyes made her recoil. There was blackness there, the devil’s own fury.

  “You made a bargain,” he growled. “You will keep it.”

  Sarah did not reply.

  “I have waited too long for this to allow you to jeopardize my plan,” he warned.

  “Your plan is unworthy of you, my lord,” she said. “It is unworthy of both of us.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop at Lady Hogarth’s mansion. His finger gently brushed her lips. “Sarah.”

  She looked up at him in surprise.

  “I never claimed to be worthy,” he said.

  ***

  Everything was perfect, just as Justin knew it would be. Sarah had given him a few moments’ doubt in the carriage, and she had barely composed herself before it was time to greet their hostess. He should not have worried. He should have guessed that the actress in her would triumph.

  She was a flawless Marie Antoinette. The blond wig she wore was an enormous construction of pomaded curls and ostrich feathers. Her elaborate claret and lace gown plunged from a dramatic décolleté into a cinched waist before flaring out again into a panniered skirt adorned with rich brocade and voluminous lace. It was a precise duplicate of the gown his father’s assailant had worn fifteen years ago. It was also heavy and difficult to maneuver, he realized. What had possessed Lady Greywood to think she could shoot a man and flee unscathed in such a gown? She had been exceedingly fortunate, in that she did not have far to run — her home was but two houses from Lady Hogarth’s.

  A nagging doubt plagued him. His coachman had been instructed to wait discreetly for Sarah at the next corner, ready to spirit her to a respectable inn miles away with a change of clothes and the balance of her money. But she would have to cover a greater distance than Lady Greywood had fifteen years ago. Justin had not thought of the difficulties the gown could pose. What if it weighed her down? What if she were caught before she reached the carriage?

  He took a deep breath. Nothing would go wrong. Lady Greywood was in attendance, as he had known she would be. He had seen the countess gasp in horror at Sarah’s costume and knew a moment of deep satisfaction. Soon his father’s killer — the woman also responsible for his mother’s death — would be brought to justice. Revenge would be his. It was exactly as he had planned.

  Why, then, this bitter taste in his mouth? Why the sudden pang when he looked at Sarah gamely managing her voluminous gown, muff, and wig like the skilled actress she was? Why the sorrow inside him at the knowledge that after tonight, he would never see her again?

  The answers, if they existed, lay in some recess of his brain that he could not afford to explore. Not tonight, anyway. The curtain was about to go up.

  ***

  It was Lord Pembroke who made the evening bearable. Had he not flirted with her and been kind enough to fetch her punch, Sarah would have crumpled under the weight of her gown and the pressure of the task ahead. Every time she looked at Lord Linton, his brooding grey eyes impaled her with a raw intensity that underscored the importance of this night. Lady Amanda was often at his side, flirting outrageously, and once even gaily wrapping herself in the folds of his black domino.

  Like a badly written play, the evening plodded along. Sarah made sure to call attention to Lady Manwaring’s brittle state by laughing too loudly, shooting fuming looks in the direction of Lord Linton and Lady Amanda, and flirting shamelessly with every man in attendance. She wore the requisite demi-mask, but her behavior tonight — and indeed, these past weeks — was calculated to provide onlookers with little doubt as to the identity of the woman behind it.

  She had played her part. And now it was time for the unmasking — and the climax of Lord Linton’s scheme.

  Guests packed the area near the windows that sent cool breezes in from the terrace. Lady Hogarth prepared to announce the costume awards. Lady Greywood stood nearby, a haunted look on her face. She was not in costume — though she held a small mask halfheartedly in one hand, the other clutching her cane. Sarah’s heart lurched in her breast. The woman did not deserve what was to happen this night.

  Without drawing notice, Lord Linton moved toward one of the windows, positioning himself next to the thick, velvet curtains. Sarah stood a short distance away, facing him, as they had planned. The terrace door was to her left, exactly as they had rehearsed. It would be a simple matter to shift her aim slightly to the left when she fired the weapon, sending the bullet harmlessly through the curtain to lodge in the wall or pass through the window. She would run outside and drop the pistol in one of the bushes, then be on her way, as they had practiced dozens of times. She waited for Lord Linton’s sign that he was ready to begin.

  At the moment, however, she could see that he had his hands full with Lady Amanda, who had followed him and, doubtless spurred on by an extra glass of Lady Hogarth’s quince ratafia, was practically falling over his person. For a duke’s daughter, she was behaving more like a Covent Garden wench.

  She would never get a clear shot with Lady Amanda in the way. Worse, the woman now had planted herself in front of the window curtain. Not that Sarah would have minded grazing her with a bullet, she thought grimly as the woman tilted her face up to Lord Linton’s, her lips formed into an inviting pucker. The encroaching creature expected him to kiss her — here, in front of his mistress and the guests at Lady Hogarth’s ball. Had the woman no sense of propriety?

  Lord Linton caught Sarah’s eye and shrugged. Already Lady Hogarth had signaled the orchestra to quiet. They would not get a better moment, his gaze said. It was time to proceed, Lady Amanda or no. He had obviously decided to turn the situation to advantage.

  As the woman’s arms snaked around his neck, Lord Linton allowed her to pull him toward her. In the next moment, his lips were on Lady Amanda’s, kissing her quite publicly as Sarah stood not ten feet away.

  Around her, the guests who had gathered for the unmasking stopped their conversations to watch the scandalous embrace. Sarah felt their eyes on her, gauging Lady Manwaring’s reaction, speculating on her next move. In a way, it was perfect for their plan. Sarah mentally congratulated Lord Linton for his improvisation.

  When at last he pulled away from the kiss, Lady Amanda gave an audible, pleasurable sigh — no doubt filled with anticipation of more activity along those lines. She emitted a giggle that sounded rather loud in the awkward silence that filled the room.

  Yes, Lord Linton had certainly set the stage for the climax of his scheme. All eyes were riveted on them. Putting her hand into the muff, Sarah allowed the pistol’s cold metal to sooth her growing temper.

  Bestowing her haughtiest gaze on Lord Linton and his giddy companion, Sarah took a step forward.

  “How dare you?” Her tone was brittle, her eyes flashing.

&nb
sp; She heard a collective intake of breath as Lady Hogarth’s guests realized the evening was on the verge of descending into histrionics. Lady Amanda giggled again, but her eyes widened as Sarah took another step forward.

  “You dare to trifle with my affections, my lord,” Sarah said in an accusing but unsteady voice intended to signal the fragility of her control. “I assure you this is no trifling matter.”

  But turmoil filled her, and Sarah struggled to suppress it so she could focus on her performance. Usually stage fright vanished the moment a scene began, but this time was different. What were her lines? Sarah fought for calm. She stroked the hammer of the pistol and found that the cool metal drew her back into the scene. Her other hand touched the corsage. Was now the time to throw it? She struggled to recall.

  Lord Linton arched one contemptuous eyebrow, but Sarah read the command in his gaze. He put his arms on Lady Amanda’s waist and firmly set her away from him. The inebriated woman was forced to steady herself on a nearby potted plant. She reeled slightly before regaining her balance.

  It was time. They would not have a better moment.

  “You forget yourself, madam,” he drawled, eyeing Sarah with contempt. “You read too much into a casual flirtation.”

  “Now see here,” Lady Amanda said indignantly, but Lord Pembroke hastily stepped forward to propel her toward a nearby chair.

  Now there were only two players.

  “A casual flirtation?” Sarah’s voice dripped with scorn. She pulled the pistol from her muff and moved the hammer to the full-cock position. “I will give you this, my lord, for your casual flirtation.”

  Gasps went up from the crowd, but no one moved. Sarah thought she recognized Lady Greywood’s shocked cry. The moment seemed suspended in time. Locked in the pages of Lord Linton’s script, Sarah was powerless to do aught but follow it. Between the actress and the woman, she could find no distinction. She had somehow become her role, the spurned mistress in love with a ruthless cad.

  Love?

  Who said anything about love, Miss Armistead? This is a relationship based on carnal instinct, not love. You must not make the mistake of confusing one with the other.

  Subtly, Lord Linton touched the curtain, indicating his readiness for the climax of their scene.

  Not love. Never love. He had been quite clear about that. But he had been wrong. And suddenly, Sarah knew she could not let him do this to his mortal soul.

  Her lines vanished from her memory as surely as if someone had blotted them out. Sarah stood center stage in her climactic moment with no recollection of the words she was to speak. The audience was frozen, the moment suspended in time. Lord Linton stared at her. But the lines were gone.

  All that remained were the words in her heart.

  “Let it go, my lord,” she said softly. “Give up this disastrous plan before it paints your soul as black as the night, before you fall into an abyss from which there is no escape.”

  He frowned, his eyes commanding her to pick up the threads of the scene. A cramp shot through Sarah’s fingers as she clutched the pistol, heavy and immobile, like the unbearable weight it had now become. Pain shot through her hand and she could no longer feel the gunmetal.

  “Do not do this,” she pleaded. “It will not restore your father’s life. It will only destroy yours and the lives of others. If there is any compassion in you, let it save you.”

  But those grey eyes were implacable. Again he touched the curtain, a playwright’s impatient cue to an actress stumbling out of control.

  Sarah shook her head, and he stared at her in angry disbelief as he realized the import of her rejection. His eyes darkened with rage.

  “God’s blood,” he rasped. “I have come too far — ”

  A mighty trembling began inside her. Sorrow welled deep in her heart and sprang to her eyes as tears. They streamed down her face, blinding her. A sob ripped from her throat.

  And in that pivotal moment, his words were abruptly silenced, for the cramp that had frozen Sarah’s fingers suddenly released them against the trigger of his father’s Manton pistol.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  All had been proceeding precisely as Justin had planned. Even Lady Amanda had played into his hands, her giggling tipsiness the perfect spark for the ugly scene.

  People were motionless, their faces frozen in shock and horror as Sarah pointed the pistol at him. Every eye was riveted on her, so they did not notice him surreptitiously pat the bag of pig’s blood under his waistcoat and edge closer to the heavy drapery. Inhaling the cool night air that wafted through the window, Justin waited calmly, making no move to escape his fate.

  He had not expected such a compelling performance. Twin blotches of angry passion appeared on Sarah’s cheeks, visible even through the dusting of talc over her luminous skin. Through the mask, her eyes blazed emerald fire. Emotion pulsed like a fiery aura around her. Even that perfectly styled wig she wore had begun to curl erratically, as if it, too, were permeated with passion.

  Justin congratulated himself. He had chosen her. He had choreographed her every move, put every word in her mouth, lifted her from the obscurity of the circuit to the central role in a drama no one would soon forget.

  Their arduous rehearsals had paid off, although for some reason she had not yet thrown the corsage. Her delivery was brilliant, her timing so impeccable that he would not hold that lapse against her. Now she would shift the pistol imperceptibly to her left, training the barrel on the curtain.

  She was speaking again. The words were not those he had given her. Something about an abyss and his soul.

  Why was she improvising, the little minx? Did she hope to pry another guinea from him for her trouble? In the art of illusion, there was no room for error. She would ruin everything.

  Watching her with a mixture of irritation and amazement, Justin could not tell whether her theatrics were genuine or contrived. He hoped she had herself under control, for her aim had to be sure and true. He caught her gaze and pointedly directed his own toward the curtain. He hoped she could read his silent message.

  Her mouth curved upward in an expression that was anything but mirthful. Unbidden, Justin recalled the last time he had had claimed those lips. He would regret not having the opportunity to do so again. But there would be other women.

  Thank God this one could shoot straight.

  She said something else, something about compassion, about his father. What the hell did she know about his father? Her finger hovered on the trigger. He hoped she remembered his warning not to apply pressure prematurely.

  Inhaling deeply, Justin tried to control his rising anger. Again he touched the curtain, signaling her. To his utter amazement, she shook her head. Disbelief shot through him. She was not going through with it. She was sabotaging his plan, everything he had worked for.

  Rage erupted within him. He roared in fury.

  As if from afar, he registered the sound of gunfire and the force of the report. A plume of smoke spiraled upward from the pistol in her hand. There was a strange ringing in his head, an odd warmth stealing over him. He felt unaccountably weak as he clutched the curtain for support.

  It occurred to him that she had not shifted her aim.

  Something warm trickled over his skin. Not pig’s blood. His blood. That was his last thought as he fell to the floor.

  ***

  Lord Linton was dead, as far as anyone in London knew. Dr. Quincy had done his part and trumpeted the doleful news, only belatedly realizing after ferrying the viscount to his townhome that his patient had actually been shot. The next day brought no improvement in Lord Linton’s condition. He had not awakened, nor seemed likely to. The bleeding had stopped, but the doctor just shook his head when Sarah had asked whether Lord Linton was improving. He hesitated when Sarah asked if she might remove him to Lintonwood, but finally conceded that the country air could hardly do him more harm than she already had.

  Dr. Quincy maintained that the wound in Lord Linton’s shoulder w
as not in itself life-threatening. But fever was always a possibility, and the doctor warned her of the grievous consequences should the move to Lintonwood provoke an increase in the viscount’s bodily temperature.

  “You must keep him warm and bathe the wound thrice daily,” he told her. “There is an elixir I have found useful for fever, but I cannot guarantee it. There is the devil to pay, madam, when people like you and Linton take fate into their own hands. I cannot answer for the consequences.”

  With this dire condemnation ringing in her ears, Sarah decided to take the viscount home, for that is how she had come to think of Lintonwood. And so, under the cover of night, she had commandeered the viscount’s sturdy traveling coach, his burliest footmen, and a coachman who gave no sign that there was anything out of the ordinary in sneaking a man who was supposed to be dead past the watchful eyes of London and Bow Street, which was greatly occupied in trying to locate one Lady Manwaring, last seen costumed as Marie Antoinette.

  Now, as Anh stood by Lord Linton’s bedside, murmuring strange, incomprehensible words and forcing an exotic potion through his lips, Sarah knew she had made the correct decision. If anyone could bring him about, it was this mysterious little man. He did not seem to be surprised that Lord Linton had not yet awakened, even though Dr. Quincy had removed the ball from his shoulder straight away.

  “His body is healing, but his soul is locked in disharmony,” Anh said. “I have prescribed a diet according to the five tastes. The shen potion must be drunk every five hours. If he is unable to drink, a small piece of the shen must be placed under the tongue and allowed to dissolve. But I cannot say whether that will bring him about.”

  “I see.” Sarah bit her lip, willing despair away. It was a struggle to do so. She had not left Lord Linton’s side and had slept very little. How could she, when she was the cause of his dire condition?

  Anh studied her closely. “I will tend his lordship now. I urge you to see your own rest.”