A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  “Yes,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I cannot express how very much I regret what I have put you through.”

  “I do not understand,” she murmured, shaking her head. For a long moment, she simply remained within the circle of Justin’s arms.

  Suddenly, she turned to her sister. “You called her Miss Armistead.” She gestured toward Sarah in bewilderment. “But this is Harry’s wife — Sarah Trent.”

  For the first time, all eyes turned to Sarah.

  Lady Greywood’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “With a dashing gown and a bit of paint on her face,” she mused, “she might pass for Sarah Manwaring.”

  “I ought to know her,” Aunt Clarissa insisted. “I was her chaperon.” She paused for a moment. “Can you imagine me as a chaperon?”

  “Not in the least,” muttered Lady Greywood.

  Hurried footsteps in the hall signaled the arrival of Miss Simms, who at the sound of a commotion had apparently run the distance from her chamber.

  “I told you she was no orphan from America, Clarissa,” Miss Simms began heatedly, before she was forced to break off and gasp for air.

  Dazed, Aunt Agatha stared from Justin to Sarah and back again. “Justin?” she whispered hoarsely. “What is this about?”

  “I am deeply sorry, Aunt,” Justin said. “Allow me to explain.”

  With a great sigh, Aunt Agatha toppled backward into the outstretched arms of the breathless Miss Simms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “It is not a pleasant story, Justin. But you deserve the truth.”

  Fully revived, Aunt Agatha sipped the French brandy hastily retrieved for the group now assembled in her sitting room. She regarded him steadily as he stood near the fireplace.

  “I was determined to protect you from the truth, and I bent everyone else to my will,” she said with a heavy sigh. “In so doing, I seem to have spawned a monstrous chain of events.”

  Justin glanced uneasily at the others: Aunt Clarissa, huddled in a rocking chair talking quietly to herself — or perhaps to “Silvester” — Lady Greywood, Harriet Simms, Sarah. He sensed that Aunt Agatha’s words would affect them all.

  “Your father had a wild streak,” Aunt Agatha began. “He would abandon Arabella for weeks at a time. She could not accept his waywardness, and I suppose it ate away at her, bit by bit.”

  A faraway look clouded her gaze. “She did not know how to manage Oscar. I was newly widowed, and I thought I knew a bit about men. I advised her to try to make him jealous.”

  “Aunt,” he began, trying to spare them both this telling, but his protest died at the answering pain in her eyes. Whatever this might cost him, it had cost her more. He took a bracing swallow of brandy.

  “Arabella had an ethereal beauty,” she continued. “She never realized the power she could have wielded over men. Even my Henry, before he died — I could see that familiar yearning in his eyes.” She cleared her throat. “But that is neither here nor there, I suppose.”

  Lady Greywood nodded. “There was something otherworldly about Arabella — almost magical, as if she were in touch with spirits that floated on the undercurrents of life. We thought she was fragile, and in a way she was. But not as fragile, as it turned out, as —” She broke off, but Justin did not miss the quick look she shot Aunt Clarissa.

  Aunt Agatha took another sip of brandy. “Oscar never appreciated Arabella. He was always in search of greener pastures. I thought a harmless flirtation would put him in his place, make him realize what he had to lose with his dissolute behavior. That is when Greywood entered the picture.”

  “Yes,” Clarissa murmured, continuing her rocking motion.

  Lady Greywood slanted her a gaze, then cleared her throat. “Frederick and I often quarreled in those days. I do not think Arabella intended to target him, in truth. As Agatha said, she had no understanding of her power. But soon my husband was under her spell. It was not her fault, poor dear.” A wave of sadness swept her features.

  “Arabella had not the skill to manage a flirtation, harmless or otherwise,” Aunt Agatha said, shaking her head. “She had no idea Greywood was besotted, although everyone else could see it. I believe she came to regard Freddie as a friend,” she added, with a sidelong look at Lady Greywood.

  The countess sighed. “I do not blame her for enjoying his company. I am quite certain that his were the kindest words Arabella had heard from a man since her marriage.”

  An awkward silence filled the room. After a moment, Lady Greywood cleared her throat again. “But Oscar saw the state of things right away. He confronted her. Arabella confessed that the flirtation had merely been a ruse to make him jealous. Nothing had happened between her and Frederick. He might have believed her, had she not found herself increasing.”

  From the women’s words, an unthinkable picture began to emerge. Justin’s mouth grew dry. His senses stood at full alert, waiting for a truth one corner of his brain had, perhaps, always suspected.

  Aunt Agatha saw the dawning awareness in him. “Arabella had not conceived after several years of marriage,” she told him bluntly. “When her delicate condition came on the heels of the flirtation with Frederick, Oscar assumed that —” She broke off, her gnarled hands tightly clutching the brandy glass as she held his gaze.

  “That I was Greywood’s get,” Justin finished softly. For the first time, it all made sense — the shouting, the drinking, his mother’s cries in the night. And the ugly hatred in his father’s eyes when he regarded his only son.

  “Oscar would never believe otherwise, no matter that Arabella pleaded and swore to the stars that no other man had touched her,” Aunt Agatha said quietly. “I think he tried to accept you at first, even tried to be a good father. But the belief that she had played him false tormented him. He began to drink more heavily. That, unfortunately, is the father you came to know.”

  Justin closed his eyes. Yes, it made perfect sense.

  “Justin.” His aunt’s tone was pleading, but Justin shook his head in denial.

  “Justin,” Aunt Agatha said more sharply. “God knows, your father deserved betrayal, but your mother was not unfaithful. For better or worse, you are your father’s son.”

  Of course. They had no doubts and, deep inside, neither did he. Aunt Agatha’s tale had given him a fleeting moment of hope that someone else had sired him, but Justin knew in his heart that he was bound by blood to Oscar Trent. No reprieve there.

  “Years went by, but Oscar was incapable of forgetting real — or imagined — wrongs,” Aunt Agatha said. “Eventually, he decided to get even. He always had a thirst for vengeance.”

  She glanced at Clarissa, rocking and talking to her imaginary friend in a corner of the room that might as well have been a world away. Justin followed her gaze.

  A horrible suspicion began to form in his mind. It could not be, and yet he knew, somehow, it was.

  “He went after Aunt Clarissa,” Justin said. His father had repaid his wife in kind — by seducing her sister. The perfect target, without tools to protect herself.

  Aunt Agatha nodded. “Clarissa has always been... susceptible to flights of fancy. She has never possessed the level head that has, unfortunately, plagued me for a lifetime. Oscar knew that he could wound Arabella through Clarissa. He knew they shared a special bond.”

  Pain and anger radiated in her steely gaze. “And he knew how to go about it. He called her ‘Violet’ — for her eyes — sent her flowers and all that nonsense. Clarissa fell in love. I told her he was only toying with her, that it was all a bitter game to him. I only meant to save her, but I suppose I was too harsh. That is when she stopped speaking to me.”

  “And that is when my shameful part in this came about,” Lady Greywood said quietly. “When Clarissa pleaded for my help, I allowed her and Oscar to meet in my house. Though some years had passed since Frederick’s infatuation with Arabella — and Freddie had been very nigh the perfect husband since then — I never forgave him for making a cake of himself over
her. Certainly, he had apologized, and many times over. But I chose not to accept it. I, too, had a thirst for revenge.”

  She leveled a gaze at Justin. “I decided to make him believe that it was I who was seeing Linton.”

  “Stop.” Justin’s head was swimming. “My mother pretended a flirtation with Lord Greywood to gain my father’s attention. Years later my father embarked on a liaison with Aunt Clarissa to repay my mother for the imagined affair with Lord Greywood. Do I have it aright?”

  The women nodded.

  “Lady Greywood, in turn, pretended a liaison with my father to get even with Lord Greywood for having the real or imagined affair with my mother.”

  “Precisely,” Aunt Agatha said.

  “Good God.” Justin turned to Lady Greywood. “And yet, I sense that this tangled web is not yet complete.”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, there is more, and I am not proud of my part in this. It did not escape notice around town that Oscar’s carriage was outside my townhouse for rather long interludes as he entertained Clarissa. Freddie heard the rumors about Oscar and me, and it suited me to further them, for I was then intent on my own revenge. When Clarissa and Oscar were at my house, I would manage to hide something of Oscar’s — a pair of gloves, his cane, any odd piece of his attire so that he would not find it when he left. I would leave the items around for Freddie to discover.” For the first time, her voice faltered. “My foolish pride nearly cost him his life.”

  “The duel,” Justin said softly. Heedless of Oscar Trent’s reputation as a crack shot, Lord Greywood had challenged him.

  “Yes,” Lady Greywood said. “Freddie was a notoriously bad shot. I never understood why Oscar did not kill him.”

  But Justin understood. His father chose to delope, knowing that allowing Greywood to live out his days believing in his wife’s unfaithfulness was a more effective means of destroying the man than killing him outright.

  “The ordeal took something out of Frederick,” the countess said mournfully. “He was never the same after that.”

  Brilliant, Justin thought darkly. His father had hit upon the perfect revenge. In one stroke, he had avenged himself on Justin’s mother by seducing her sister and in turn sent them all down a dangerous road to destroy Greywood and his marriage. Lady Greywood’s revenge — making her husband think she was embroiled in an affair with Oscar — had unwittingly provided the finishing touches on a diabolical plan that could only spell disaster.

  “We were all racing toward some awful conclusion,” Aunt Agatha said. “It came the night of Lady Hogarth’s ball.”

  “Clarissa had grown increasingly.unstable,” Lady Greywood said quietly. “Her emotions were too fragile. She was not capable of protecting her heart. I suppose part of her suspected that Oscar was using her, but it did not matter. None of us knew it at the time — though we should have guessed — but Linton’s callous use of her would prove her undoing.”

  Yes, thought Justin, his father would have been heartless. He would have given Clarissa reason to rely on him, to believe in his affection, and then withheld that very thing she craved — his love — because he knew it would wound. The pattern was heartbreakingly familiar.

  “That night at the ball,” Lady Greywood continued, “Clarissa’s splendid costume gave her confidence. Her laughter became increasingly louder. Indeed, her entire demeanor was flamboyant, not at all in keeping with her character. Lady Hogarth was about to preside over the unmasking and present the costume awards, but Clarissa decided to call Oscar to account then and there in front of the assembled guests. She railed at him, accusing him of other flirtations, blaming him for making her suffer, threatening to make his perfidy known — it was a high-handed performance, entirely worthy of Marie Antoinette. I did not know she was capable of such a performance.”

  Justin stilled. “Aunt Clarissa was costumed as Marie Antoinette?”

  Lady Greywood nodded. “The way she pointed that muff at him and tossed her corsage in his face — it was, in many ways, her finest hour.”

  No. It could not be. But he realized with dawning horror that it was. “So it was Aunt Clarissa who shot my father? Not you?”

  Lady Greywood stared at him for a long moment. “I knew it was something like that,” she said. “That is why you had Lady Manwaring wear that costume. That is why you staged the shooting. You thought I was Marie Antoinette, just as all the world thought I was Oscar’s mistress. You thought recreating the events of that night would force me to confess. Like everyone else, you thought I killed him.”

  “But the bloodied costume was found in your bedchamber,” Justin said in disbelief.

  “Oscar’s blood was on the costume because Clarissa threw herself over him after the shooting, weeping in despair,” Lady Greywood said softly. “She saw that he was dying.”

  Justin shook his head in denial.

  “In the ensuing confusion, I was able to pull her away,” Lady Greywood said. “No one recognized me, for I was masked as well. I took her to my house, hid her bloodied costume, gave her one of my gowns, and sent her home in my carriage. No one even knew she had been at the ball, just as no one ever found the mysterious Marie Antoinette.”

  The countess’s gaze was resolute. “But everyone remembered that Marie Antoinette had tossed that corsage at him,” she continued. “They remembered that she did something with her muff, perhaps fished something from it and pointed it at Oscar just as the fatal shot was fired. As Oscar’s supposed mistress, I was the obvious suspect. The authorities searched my house and found the costume, but Frederick claimed someone had planted it there. He swore he had been with me all evening. There was nothing they could do.”

  She took a deep breath and, finally, fell silent.

  Aunt Agatha picked up the thread. “For a long time, Evangeline has lived with that suspicion clouding her reputation. It was at great cost to herself that she acceded to my request to say nothing that might implicate Clarissa. She did not acknowledge the one thing that would have cleared her own name: the truth.”

  “You have never understood, Agatha,” Lady Greywood put in. “It was the least I could do to atone for my sorry part in all of this. When Freddie swore to my innocence — at the time, probably convinced of my guilt — I realized that he loved me, and always had, even in the throes of his infatuation with Arabella. Later, I did swear to him my innocence, and he understood my reasons for keeping my own counsel. He agreed with me that no more lives should be destroyed because of Oscar.”

  She eyed Aunt Clarissa, still rocking in the corner, but quiet now. “I did not, however, tell him the truth.”

  Her gaze shifted to Aunt Agatha. Something passed between the two women, a look Justin did not miss.

  “Enough,” he growled. “I will have the rest. What happened after Aunt Clarissa shot my father?”

  Aunt Agatha regarded him steadily. “I’m afraid you have made another erroneous assumption, Justin.”

  Justin stared at her. “I do not understand. Did Aunt Clarissa shoot my father, or did she not?”

  “No,” she said.

  Stunned, Justin regarded the women. “Then who the devil did?”

  His question hung in the air. Aunt Agatha and Lady Greywood exchanged another glance. A silent nod passed between them, and both women turned to him.

  “Arabella,” Aunt Agatha said.

  Justin eyed her in disbelief. “My mother?”

  His aunt nodded. “Arabella pretended to be ill that night — she was increasing again and struggled with morning sickness — and did not attend Lady Hogarth’s ball. Instead, she took one of Oscar’s dueling pistols from his study, went to Lady Hogarth’s, and lay in wait for him outside on the terrace.”

  “Outside,” Justin repeated numbly.

  “As Oscar stood at the window quarreling with Clarissa, Arabella shot him. Then she fled. In the commotion, no one realized the shot had come from outside. They only remembered that Clarissa had pointed her muff at him just before the shot was h
eard. Later, that scene was embellished. People thought they must have seen her pull something from it. A gun.”

  His mother had killed his father. Slowly, Justin lowered himself into a chair.

  “You see, I had never fully realized the extent of Oscar’s abuse,” Aunt Agatha said. “The years had left Arabella bitter and angry — and, yes, perhaps a little mad. Oscar made sure Arabella knew about his liaison with Clarissa. Arabella had endured so much at his hands and kept it inside all those years. I believe the knowledge that he had gone after her sister finally drove her over the precipice.”

  Her voice broke on a sob. “He chose to abuse the two sisters who could least defend themselves. Had he chosen me, had I realized the extent of his evil soon enough, I would have done something, of that you can be certain. Fixed it, somehow. I have thought about that these many years. And blamed myself for not acting. I was strong. They were not.”

  “Some things,” Justin said in a ragged voice, “cannot be fixed.”

  Aunt Agatha sighed heavily. “Perhaps. We shall never know. At all events, Arabella confessed everything to me the next day and made me promise to take care of you — she knew I had always wanted children. She was distraught, of course, and I tried to calm her. I feared for the babe she carried. Finally, I gave her some laudanum to help her sleep. I meant to return the next day. But she —” Aunt Agatha broke off.

  He knew, without her saying. Still, he had to hear it. “What?” he whispered.

  But Agatha could only shake her head, unable to speak. Lady Greywood put a hand around her friend’s shoulders. The countess met Justin’s gaze.

  “Arabella was overset, irrational,” Lady Greywood said gently. “After Agatha left, she lost the babe. Such a thing can leave the mind unbalanced. That night...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Was when she hanged herself,” Justin said slowly. “I have never understood why she would take the babe’s life with her own.”

  “She did not,” Lady Greywood said. “After she lost the babe, she must have felt she had nothing else to live for.”