“It would appear that my resurrection provokes more grief than my demise,” Justin observed.
“Not at all,” Harry quickly responded. “Happy to learn that you ain’t dead. Aunt Agatha will be overjoyed. Word of your death put her in a green melancholy.”
Justin’s composed expression faltered, and Sarah wondered whether he had second thoughts about the fact that his plan had caused his aunt to suffer.
“Perhaps she is feeling better,” Harry amended, “now that Lady Greywood has come to comfort her.”
Justin stilled. “Lady Greywood has joined my aunt?”
Harry nodded. “Always were the best of friends.” He eyed Justin uncertainly. “I suppose I should continue on to Cheshire and spread the, er, joyous news.”
Justin’s thoughtful expression gave Sarah a moment of dread that was not in the least eased by his next words. “You will continue on to Cheshire, cousin. But as far as anyone there is concerned, I am still dead.”
“What?” Harry was appalled. “Can’t keep a secret like that!”
Justin’s slow smile was chilling. “Yes, you will, Harry. Upon peril of having all of your considerable and pressing debts instantly called to account.”
Harry swallowed hard. “All of them, you say?”
Justin’s steely gaze never left Harry’s stricken features. “Join us for dinner, Harry,” he said. “Anh, take my cousin’s hat — and have a care for the feather. It would not do for my cousin to suffer two losses in one evening.”
A stunned Harry handed over his hat and allowed himself to be led away. Sarah remained motionless as the burgeoning hope within her died. She looked at Justin, whose eyes no longer held any hint of vulnerability.
“You are not going to give it up, are you?” Sarah said. “You mean to hunt Lady Greywood down, to finish it.”
He offered no denial. For a long moment he simply stared at her, and in that mute exchange lay a volume of meaning. “I have breathed revenge for half a lifetime, Sarah,” he said at last. “I cannot let it go.”
I am interested in many things. I am consumed, however, by only one.
Revenge.
It was too late, Sarah realized.
She had not been able to save him.
***
Beside Sarah in the carriage, snoring blissfully, sat Harry, who for all his flaws could never be accused of bargaining with the devil. Only Lord Linton played that game. And he would never relent until he thoroughly destroyed the woman who had killed his father and whom he blamed for his mother’s death as well. Was it justice that drove him? Perhaps. Or was it madness?
“‘O what a noble mind is here o’erthrown’,” Sarah murmured.
Harry opened one eye and frowned. “Let a man rest, Sarah. Hard enough to pull this off without being fagged out. I did not sleep a wink last night for thinking about it.”
Sarah doubted that was the case, but she kept silent. Her own sleep had been horribly fitful. She’d thought of nothing but Justin. Last night had opened another gulf between them, or perhaps merely illuminated the one that had always existed.
Her notion that perhaps he held her in some regard had been wrong-headed. His desire for revenge was clearly more important than whatever he might feel for her. Sarah had never felt more lonely.
Her loneliness only deepened with the knowledge that they were barreling down the road toward Aunt Agatha’s and a tragic conclusion that Justin was orchestrating like some dark, avenging angel.
Even though Sarah had vowed never again to pose as Harry’s wife, she knew she had no choice. For better or worse, she meant to be with Justin at the conclusion of his devil-driven scheme. Perhaps it was not too late to forestall disaster. Could she yet persuade him to call it off? Or was he beyond all reach?
As the carriage rounded a particularly sharp corner, Sarah held on for dear life. Straightening her bonnet as the vehicle regained its balance, she thought only heaven could help them now.
Unfortunately, heaven had never been partial to dark angels.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“My dear child. Welcome.” Aunt Agatha’s voice was tinged with sadness as she rose to greet them. “Harry, your bride is lovelier than ever.” She placed a kiss on Sarah’s cheek.
Sarah managed a game smile, but she knew herself unworthy of this grand lady’s affection. Eventually Aunt Agatha would learn the shameful truth about her. For now, Sarah could only hope that Lady Greywood would not recognize Harry’s fresh-faced, freckled bride as the elaborately coiffed and bejeweled creature who had graced Justin’s arm at those magnificent London parties.
Indeed, Lady Greywood wore a sad, distracted air as she glanced at them, leaning heavily on her cane, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when the countess displayed no sign of recognition.
“I am so sorry, ma’am,” Sarah told Aunt Agatha, ashamed of offering condolences for the lie perpetrated by the very nephew she mourned. No help came from Harry, who stared guiltily at the floor in his aunt’s parlor. The man was an abysmal actor. He would give everything away if he did not absent himself soon.
Aunt Agatha squeezed her hand. “I suppose it was to be expected that he would come to such a terrible end,” she said in an unsteady voice. “Poor Justin! He tried so hard to please his father. If he had only known the truth...but that was my fault. I am to blame.”
“Now, Agatha,” Lady Greywood protested.
“There is no use in pretending, Evangeline.” Aunt Agatha shook her head and sank into a sturdy chair. “At first, I wished to protect him. Later, I did not wish to dredge up the past. And now, history has repeated itself. I will go to my grave thinking I could have prevented this.”
Her words made little sense to Sarah, but perhaps that was to be expected. Clearly the lady was not herself, for Sarah had never seen those steely eyes filled with tears or that regal carriage marred by slumping shoulders. Her heart cried out to end this sham, to confess that Justin was alive after all. How could he be so heedless of the grief he was inflicting on those he loved?
There could be no stronger proof that he was incapable of love than this proud woman, broken by a sorrow that did not need to be.
“Come, Harry,” Sarah said softly as she pulled Harry away from the two women. “Your aunt will wish to compose herself in private.”
Glumly, Harry nodded, and for the first time Sarah felt a glimmer of respect for him. If even Harry could see the wrong in this charade, why could not Justin?
A sudden commotion of voices at the door heralded visitors. A moment later, Clarissa Porter’s sudden appearance in the parlor of the sister she had not seen or spoken to in years threw the room into complete and profound silence.
The two sisters stared at each other. Harriet Simms stood stiffly behind Clarissa, watching intently.
Sarah’s heart sank, and not just from the sight of Miss Porter’s sad features. It was inevitable that they would now recognize her as the American “orphan” whom they had chaperoned and Justin had taken to London. Eventually, Lady Greywood would recognize her as Lady Manwaring. Aunt Agatha would realize that she was not Harry’s wife. Harry himself would probably confess all, including the fact that Justin was not truly dead. As well he should. This was all so very wrong.
But for now, all eyes were on the sisters, not Sarah. Clarissa took a tremulous step forward. Slowly and with great effort, Agatha rose.
“Clarissa,” she said, her voice breaking.
With a heartrending sob, Clarissa walked straight into her sister’s arms.
“Our poor boy,” she cried. “Our poor, poor boy. It is all our fault, Agatha. Silvester tried to tell me it was not, but it is. Truly it is.”
Gently, Agatha stroked her sister’s back. Her gnarled hand moved uncertainly, as if unaccustomed to offering such comfort. But gradually the stroking turned into an iron embrace as she held her sister tightly. “There, there, Clarissa,” she murmured. “Do not turn into a watering pot. You will bring on one of your crying attacks.”
Lady Greywood rose unsteadily, her cane falling to the floor, and joined the sisters. Soon all three of them were sobbing their guilt and grief like a trio of Fates mourning their handiwork. Hairpins tumbled from greying locks onto the floor.
In the commotion, Harry slunk out of the room, no doubt seeking the comfort of his aunt’s brandy. Left alone at the table, Sarah stared at the women in confusion. Why did they blame themselves for Justin’s death?
Even Miss Simms’s eyes were moist with tears. Fumbling for her handkerchief, she averted her gaze from the women and, in that moment, spotted Sarah. Instantly the softness in her expression vanished, supplanted by hard suspicion.
Would Miss Simms accuse her here and now? If not now, then surely she would the moment Aunt Agatha introduced her as Harry’s wife. Would she unmask her for the raw opportunist she believed Sarah to be and the liar she obviously was? The sharp gaze moved quickly to the three women locked in each other’s arms. When Miss Simms again looked at Sarah, there was defeat in her eyes. Even Harriet Simms would not intervene in the tearful reconciliation taking place. Sarah said a silent prayer that whatever Justin was plotting, it would be over soon.
***
It was important to feel nothing. Certainly not regret for his actions, nor guilt at the grief that permeated this house. His aunts were together for the first time in years, so apparently his “death” had had some beneficial effect. Justin had listened in amazement to Harry’s account of the scene in the dining room. He had never known his Aunt Agatha to shed so much as a tear in anyone’s presence, nor could he ever have imagined that Aunt Clarissa would take it upon herself to initiate a reconciliation.
That his aunts had been united in their sorrow at his death touched something deep inside him, no matter how hard he tried to bury the emotions that threatened his ability to carry his plan to conclusion. Revenge had never seemed so empty as it did now, as he moved silently through the hallway to find Lady Greywood’s room.
He had sent Harry and Sarah on ahead in the carriage, with a promise that he would soon follow. Sarah had not wanted to be a part of this new charade. He had only won her assent by promising that tonight all masquerades would end. The truth would out at last. It was what he wanted above all else. And yet, there was something unsettling that inserted itself into his awareness. It hovered at the edges, not truly in focus, lurking in the shadows. He willed the thought aside.
Unseen, Justin had slipped into his aunt’s house and gone straight to Harry’s room, where his cousin described the day’s events on his way to getting thoroughly foxed. It was strange, entering the house clandestinely, without greeting Sidney and performing some silly bit of magic. But he could not risk discovery too soon.
And now, it wanted only the final confrontation with Lady Greywood. He was certain she would confess. He would summon a magistrate. Justice would be done.
Justin wrapped the black domino around him, the copy of the one his father had worn. If the shock of seeing him led her to mistake him for his father, all the better. Guilt would rip the words from her, for guilt was a burden that could not be borne forever. It ate away at the soul until there was nothing left but the burning need to break free from the heaviness of that load.
Tonight it would all end.
Or not.
He halted in his tracks. It was no use. The uneasiness that had been growing in him all day — and perhaps for much longer — suddenly crystalized. He’d tried to ignore it. But now, in this house where the people he loved most in the world were united by grief over what they believed to be his fate, regret and guilt threatened to crush him with their weight.
He had lived and breathed revenge. But why? His father had never spared him a moment’s affection. Even so, Justin had tried to be worthy, to earn his father’s love. He had not succeeded during his father’s life. By avenging his death, he had sought to do so once and for all, to silence the cruel voice that had tormented him — it is a son’s duty to exact revenge for his father’s death — the voice that had always found him wanting. And there was the other voice, the one inside Justin that knew he had wanted to pull the trigger so many years ago as he faced his father.
Guilt. Duty. Revenge. He had thought to finally make peace with it all, with the path he’d forged toward vengeance. Instead, that path had led him to Sarah.
The day of the picnic, with only the two of them there on the blanket, he had glimpsed the possibility of a different fate. Maybe even yearned for it.
And now, standing in the darkened hallway, Justin realized he no longer had the will for the thing that had consumed him. Enough lives had been ruined by his father’s dark cruelty. His mother’s. His.
But perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps there was one who could save him, who even yet believed in him, despite everything.
In the dark, Justin could not judge which chamber was Sarah’s. She would have insisted on her own room, he guessed — no adjoining sleeping alcove with Harry this time.
Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was to find her. The devil take Lady Greywood. She was no longer his concern.
Two rooms — one directly across from Harry’s, and one a bit further down the hall — were the likeliest possibilities. Justin tried the door across from Harry’s room. To his surprise, it opened soundlessly at his touch. He held his breath. Sarah.
All was still inside. He moved toward the figure lying in the bed. Sarah.
A slight breeze from the open window ruffled the bed canopy. A ray of moonlight painted shifting patterns on the floor.
Drawing closer to the sleeping form, Justin stumbled slightly and silently cursed the cumbersome black domino in which he’d wrapped himself. He’d been at such pains to make it an exact replica of the one his father had worn. Now, though, the details he had meticulously planned seemed cruel and unworthy. He had traveled a fair way down the road toward truly becoming his father, it seemed. Justin fought off the despair that came with that bleak truth.
Almost immediately his brain trumpeted its rejection: No. He was not his father. That truth flung itself at him and with it, came the realization that there might be hope for him yet.
Justin moved closer to the bed, his heart in his throat. Would she have him? What if she did not? Gingerly, he reached for her.
The figure moved, then suddenly sat bolt upright in bed.
“Who the devil are you?” a sharp voice demanded.
Lady Greywood. Worse, she showed no sign of surprise at Justin’s presence at the foot of her bed.
Taken aback, Justin drew his cloak around him, hoping to disappear within its folds. Perhaps she was not truly awake. Perhaps he could slip away into the darkness.
“Are you a ghost?” Now her voice sounded thick, as if still in the throes of sleep. He would hope for that. People had been known to converse from the depths of a dream, hadn’t they?
“Yes,” he whispered.
Silently she stared at him, as if trying to discern his form. “Who are you?”
“Er, I am a spirit doomed for a certain term to walk the night,” he said. Absurdly, the words of Hamlet’s father’s ghost popped into his brain.
She was silent.
“And, ah, for the day confined to fast in fires, ‘til the foul crimes done —” Damnation. What was the rest? Nature. Yes, now he had it. “— in my days of nature are burnt and purged away.” If she was still half-asleep, it might pass.
From the bed came a prolonged silence, then a heavy sigh. “I thought so,” came the acid response.
Justin frowned. Perhaps she was awake, after all.
“Clarissa was right,” Lady Greywood muttered. “This is all our doing.”
The feeble hope that she was still asleep evaporated as she watched him, measuring him with that shrewd gaze.
“You will destroy your aunts,” she stated bluntly. “I tried to persuade that high flyer of yours, but I suppose she was part of your plan. I had hoped otherwise. She seemed like a nice young woman.”
�
��My plan?” he echoed, belatedly realizing he had indeed stumbled into a nightmare — one of his own making.
Reaching for her dressing robe, Lady Greywood eased herself from the bed. “Your plan, Justin Trent,” she repeated sternly, grabbing her cane. “Your miserable, misguided plan.”
Taking the candlestick from the bedside table, she advanced on him. Her eyes gleamed fiercely. “I think,” she said softly, “it is time to pay the piper.”
***
Sarah rubbed her eyes. Something had pulled her from the restless dreams that had plagued her since she retired to her chamber after the sisters’ emotional reunion. She half expected to awaken with Harriet Simms in her chamber, playing the accusing angel.
But it was not Miss Simms who sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her with dazed eyes.
“Justin!” she cried. “What has happened?”
“I am not certain,” he said in a bemused voice. “I have just left Lady Greywood’s chamber. Fled, to be precise.”
Sarah’s eyes widened.
“Lady Greywood is —” he began, but just then the door swung open.
“Dear God!” Aunt Agatha stood in the doorway, flanked by Lady Greywood and Aunt Clarissa. Aunt Agatha took a step forward, then halted and leaned weakly against the door frame. Lady Greywood put an arm around her friend for support.
Aunt Clarissa, meanwhile, stared at Justin for a long moment, then broke into a smile.
“I am not surprised,” she said cheerfully. “I always knew that Justin was fond of Miss Armistead. It is only logical that he would visit her from the Beyond. Silvester says that one’s emotions are capable of living long after the body ceases to exist. That is why ghosts return to haunt a place, you know. They are simply following the dictates of their hearts.”
“That is no ghost, Clarissa,” Lady Greywood snapped. “He is very much of the flesh.”
Bewildered, Aunt Agatha stared at Justin. He rose immediately and moved toward her. “Justin! Is it really you?”
A Passionate Performance Page 24