Justin found it easier to occupy his mind with these goings-on than to think about the words that echoed through the playhouse. For all his foibles, the actor playing the Ghost had a forceful voice, and his stentorian tones resonated with authority. Again, Justin shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Ghosts did not exist. They did not walk the night waiting to be avenged. People simply died, and their lives ceased to exist. Their deaths, if unnatural, were sometimes avenged. Usually they were forgotten.
Justin had not forgotten. Every word his father had spoken to him on the day of his death was inscribed in his memory. “It is a son’s duty to exact revenge...” Every tear his mother had shed was imprinted on his brain. Every fiber of the bedsheet that had wrapped around her neck was as vivid to him as the players before him.
Memory was a useful thing. Cleverness was better. His plan was very clever. And the woman who would help him carry it out was even now taking the stage.
“My lord, I have remembrances of yours, that I have longed long to redeliver. I pray you, now receive them.” Her voice was melodic, slightly trembling as her character hailed her lover, uncertain of her reception.
“I never gave you aught,” Hamlet denied.
“My honored lord, you know right well you did,” she replied, startled, “and with them words of so sweet breath composed as made the things more rich...”
She made a perfect Ophelia. A light-colored wig covered her luxurious auburn hair, and she had done something with her complexion, made it paler, such that she radiated an ethereal — albeit disturbing — beauty. And although Miss Armistead had seemed to him in possession of a healthy dose of common sense and sanity, he found himself readily believing in this Ophelia’s burgeoning madness. Her distress at Hamlet’s denial of his love was palpable, despite the fact that few of the audience had ceased chattering long enough to pay attention.
“Get thee to a nunnery,” Hamlet commanded, and Ophelia sank to her knees in anguished despair.
Justin wondered idly whether she would have bruises from the bare wooden floor. He could not imagine her in a nunnery, but the role of mistress would suit her perfectly. She had all the right physical assets — mesmerizing green eyes, flaming hair, freckles that made him wonder whether they covered the parts of her hidden from view — and she used them expertly, especially the eyes. They had their own language. Here, in her most emotional scene, they were limpid pools of sorrow as her “woe is me” rang to the rafters.
She was a superb actress. And she was his. He had no doubt that she would accept his proposition. Any woman who would hire herself out as Harry’s wife would not cavil at the role he had to offer. She might need a bit of polish, but he would train her. He would put every word in her mouth, give her every action. She would be good. Very good.
With supreme satisfaction, he adjusted his position in the rigid wooden chair and listened to Hamlet’s soliloquy. That Danish fellow was not such a poltroon after all. He knew that revenge delayed was revenge denied. He even had a few good ideas. Like using a play to catch a murderer.
Sarah Armistead was perfect. He could not wait to start training her.
***
“I will not do it.”
Incredulous, Justin stared at her. “You must be joking.” But there was no mirth in her features. She stood in the center of her tiny room, her arms crossed like some rebellious termagant. From the looks of her bloodshot eyes, she had not slept well.
“On the contrary, I am quite resolved,” she said firmly. “I will not take part in your havey-cavey plan.”
“You are willing to cast your fortunes with the magistrate? I assure you, Miss Armistead, that would be a mistake. Defrauding an elderly countess is not a charge to take lightly.”
“Summon the magistrate if you wish. There is nothing I can do to stop you. But I do not think you will call him.”
“No? Why not?” he demanded.
“Because it would embarrass your aunt and expose your cousin to public censure, which I am persuaded she would not want. And most of all, because it will not gain you an actress. My decision is final, whether you haul me before a magistrate or no.”
Daring to call his bluff was she? The trollop. Two could play that game. “Your reasoning is fallacious. It is time someone took Harry down a peg, and I will not hesitate to do so. A magistrate it is then. ’Twill be a fitting revenge.”
“Revenge?” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “And that is important to you, is it not?”
Justin saw the disdain in her eyes. “Do not be so quick to judge that of which you know nothing, madam.”
“Do not be so quick to assume that I know nothing of the darker passions, sir. I am an actress, after all.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, “a good one.” Her performance last night had indeed been masterful.
His comment brought an attractive flush to her cheeks, but Justin hardened his heart against the appealing picture she made. “I do not doubt that your knowledge of passion is vast,” he added.
Her flush deepened. “One does not have to experience passion to convey it, Lord Linton.”
“I do not agree.” The darker passions, as she so eloquently put it, had been the one constant in his life, not by his choice. They could never be summoned from the deep well of emotion by someone who had no acquaintance with those depths.
“You may agree or disagree,” she said evenly, “as long as you leave me alone.”
Women could be so difficult. Justin willed himself to be patient. One did not pull in every fish on the first try. “If you are hanging onto hope that Harry will pay his debt to you, you will be sorely disappointed,” he warned. “The man has been an irresponsible fribble since his father was struck dead while listening to one of Mr. Wilberforce’s sermons against slavery. The one thing Harry learned from his father’s death was that nothing is to be gained from virtue. Aunt Agatha thinks she can improve his character by settling on him a portion of her estate, but in that she is wrongheaded.”
“I have thought about your insight into your cousin’s character,” she said calmly. “I have come to believe it would be wise for me to travel to London to collect what is due me. With the extra money I earned for last night’s performance, and again tonight, I have just enough for the Mail.”
“You are a fool.”
Her gaze narrowed. “That may be, my lord,” she said softly, “but at least I am not your mistress — even in pretense.”
He closed the space between them, and had the satisfaction of watching that steely calm vanish from her features.
“There are worse things, Miss Armistead.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “None of my mistresses have ever had cause to complain.”
But although he had clearly unnerved her, she managed a dry smile. “I would undoubtedly be the first, then. Perhaps I should even have call to shoot you in earnest.”
“That is not funny.”
“No. It is not.” She walked over to the door and pointedly held it open for him. “We are done. I do not need your money, Lord Linton. I have every faith in Harry.”
“If Harry Trent is to be your salvation,” he growled, striding through the doorway, “then I shall see you in hell, madam.”
Her quick intake of breath told him his words had hit home.
CHAPTER FIVE
Harry welcomed her about as much as the plague. Or rather, his manservant did. Harry himself was indisposed, Sarah was told, and could not see her.
“I demand that you rouse him,” she told the condescending servant who tried to close the door in her face at Harry’s bachelor quarters just off Oxford Street. It was a seedier location than Sarah had imagined, which added credence to Lord Linton’s dismal assessment of his cousin’s finances.
Harry’s manservant looked her up and down, his disdainful expression eloquently conveying his opinion of unescorted women in dusty travel clothes who had the temerity to demand entry to a gentleman’s private qua
rters.
But Sarah had spent a most uncomfortable two days, traveling first by rackety cart to Gloucester, where she picked up the Mail, then sitting alongside the driver all the way to London, the inside seats being beyond the reach of her meager funds. She had no money to pay for a night’s lodging in town. This business had to be settled now. She returned the man’s contemptuous gaze with an equally haughty one of her own.
“Inform your master that his wife requires a word with him, if you please,” she demanded with a confidence she was far from feeling.
The man’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He disappeared, and within two minutes Harry himself was standing at the door, bloodshot eyes and all. His buff-colored breeches and parrot yellow waistcoat had clearly been slept in.
“Sarah!” he exclaimed with a nervous laugh. “I hope you ain’t telling that clanker all over town. Most indiscreet, you know.”
“I do not have the luxury of discretion at the moment,” Sarah snapped. “Will you invite me in, or must I stand here until I drop?”
Alarmed, Harry shook his head vigorously. “Not the thing to be entertaining females in one’s rooms. Think of your reputation.”
“An actress has no reputation, leastwise not one in danger of being damaged. Especially not after spending two weeks masquerading as your —”
“Hush!” Quickly he pulled her inside. Sarah found herself standing in a dingy parlor with frayed carpets. The draft from the open door sent dust floating up from the windowsills.
“Confound it, Sarah!” Harry admonished. “Are you dicked in the nob? First you send my man into a tizzy claiming to be my wife, then all this loud blabbering about queer masquerades. What will people think?”
“I do not care what people think, Harry,” Sarah retorted, “as long as I get my money. Now, if you please.”
Harry’s sudden pallor said it all. With a sinking heart, Sarah realized that Lord Linton had been right. The man had no intention of paying her. “Did you receive your allowance?” she asked.
“Yes, but you must understand, Sarah. I had some pressing debts.” Harry mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “A man can’t welsh on his vowels, you know.”
“I am one of your pressing debts.” Sarah drew herself up indignantly. “And I demand my money.”
Harry kicked the threadbare rug. “I will pay you as soon as I can, you know that.”
“I know only that I have been a fool to take you at your word.”
“Now just a minute!” He managed a credible expression of outrage. “The word of a Trent is just as good as any man’s.”
Sarah eyed him contemptuously. “Maybe to another man. I imagine the women to whom you have made promises find themselves less than pleased. It seems we are expendable.”
“What does that mean?” he demanded sourly.
“It means that I am leaving.”
“What are you going to do?” The bloodshot eyes suddenly opened wide. “Are you going to Aunt Agatha?”
Sarah sighed. “I have already served your aunt one bad turn, Harry. It would not be an act of kindness to crush her with the news that her younger nephew is a despicable cad. I will allow her to discover that fact in her own time.”
She eyed him sternly. “Perhaps one day you may grow up and spare her the ordeal. Goodbye, Harry.”
As exits go, it was a grand one. Sarah was able to keep her voice steady, and the indignant turn she executed on the way out was perfect. It was only when she reached the street that the tears welled in her eyes. Without money, her situation was dire. She would have to find a way to catch up to the theater company and hope that Mr. Stinson would forgive her latest absence. But how could she do so without funds? She had counted on being able to pry at least a few pounds from Harry.
Pinning her hopes on Harry had been a foolish mistake. The meager sum she had saved for the Mail was gone, thrown away on a fool’s mission. Now she was standing alone on the street like a fallen woman. And she had no place else to go.
Sarah walked slowly, eyes down, trying to ignore the stares and rude calls that came her way. Above, threatening skies loosed their hold on a few drops of rain, adding to her misery. She wondered what William was doing. She hoped it was something fun and carefree. Soon enough, he would have precious few carefree moments.
Her thoughts wandered to the little house in Surrey, where she had spent most of her twenty-two years. Squire Gibbons had promised to find a tenant, but that was ages ago. She had heard nothing from him, despite her repeated entreaties. Either he was pocketing the rent or had allowed the place to go to ruin.
Sorrow turned the sights and sounds of London into a dirge for the placid, decent life she had been forced to abandon to make her own way and provide for William. That little house held memories, good ones, and its loss was symbolic of how her life had deteriorated. Perhaps she ought to have stayed in Surrey, even if it meant that William would never get the proper schooling. She had been wrong to think that she could earn her own way and keep her self-respect. To be sure, she had tried to hold her head high and maintain her honor, but apparently that was also a fool’s mission. What did it matter that she adhered to her standards, when the world thought her a fallen woman, when people like Harry used her so cavalierly, when men on the street taunted and jeered and spoke of things that made her blush?
Respectability was but an illusion for her now. The Honorable Sarah Armistead was only a second-rate actress of dubious repute — just as Lord Linton had said. She could rejoin her company, but nothing would change. Mr. Stinson would stint on her wages, and she would continue to fend off the advances of men who, like Harry and his odious cousin, thought females could be bought and sold.
What would happen to her? She halted, trying to gather her resolve. It would serve nothing to wallow in self-pity.
Sarah did not feel the tears that coursed down her face, so it was a great surprise when a snowy white handkerchief appeared and began to blot them away. Startled, she looked up into eyes the color of the rain.
“Lord Linton.”
That was all the speech she could muster for some time as he dabbed the tears from her cheeks, a somber expression on his face. No man had ever touched her so, and she was surprised by his gentleness. His eyes gave away nothing of his thoughts. Dazed, Sarah studied him, wondering whether she was imagining compassion in that grey gaze.
When he extended his arm, she took it without questioning where he meant to take her. He walked her to a large closed carriage, and the liveried driver respectfully opened the door. With her thoughts in such a muddle, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to allow Lord Linton to hand her in.
“You mustn’t blame Harry, you know,” he said in a surprisingly gentle tone as she settled against the leather and satin. “I learned long ago that some people will never change, no matter how much you wish it.” He hesitated. “Can I take you somewhere?”
Sarah shook her head. “I must return to the company,” she said slowly. “They should be in Shrewsbury by now.”
“It is four o’clock in the afternoon. It will take you two days to make Shrewsbury under the best of circumstances, and as you can see, a storm is brewing.”
He paused to gauge her reaction to this news, but Sarah said nothing. What was there to say?
“It would not be wise to travel alone,” he added softly. “I daresay you must stay in town tonight. Have you a room?”
Her awkward silence spoke for itself, as did the new tears that sprang to her eyes. Turning into a watering pot in front of the viscount was acutely embarrassing. Sarah closed her eyes in mortification against that steady, knowing gaze.
“My offer still stands,” he said at last, his words softly resonant in the confines of the carriage. “’Tis the role of a lifetime, you know.”
Her eyes flew open. Now she understood the reason for his sudden kindness. He meant to take advantage of her destitute condition. “You are despicable, sir.”
Like a curtain descend
ing, hooded lids shuttered his gaze. “So I have been told. But perhaps you can set your feelings aside and accept my proposition even so. The money would come in handy, would it not?”
Sarah did not speak; she merely turned to stare out the window, her mouth set in a bitter line. What he said was no more than the truth, but somehow the truth chafed when it came from him. She felt powerless in the face of his knowledge and wealth, frustrated and helpless in the face of her penury. She wanted to consign him and his offer to perdition, but she dared not. She sighed heavily. How many compromises must she make before all was said and done?
Lord Linton allowed the silence to endure for several minutes, during which Sarah bleakly studied the darkening skies as the raindrops collected on the glass. Abruptly, he tapped on the roof to get the driver’s attention.
“Lintonwood, John. By nightfall, if you please.”
A crack of the whip told Sarah that his orders were being carried out immediately and were not, perhaps, unexpected. She stared at him in surprise. Certain details began to register for the first time. He wore a roomy greatcoat and serviceable plain boots for travel, and their vehicle was no light curricle or jostling stage but a well-sprung coach. The rattling of baggage on the roof as the coach picked up speed down the Oxford Road confirmed her dawning suspicions.
“You knew this would happen,” she said.
He did not respond, nor did he have to. The evidence spoke for itself.
“You followed me to town and lay in wait for me outside Harry’s rooms. You knew he would not pay me, that you would be proven right. Pray, are you some kind of sorcerer?” To Sarah’s dismay, her voice broke on the last sentence.
“There is nothing sinister or magical about my behavior, Miss Armistead,” he replied easily. “I simply predicted the correct turn of events based on my excellent understanding of human nature.”
“Your arrogance is appalling,” she declared.
“One has confidence in what one knows. Being prepared is half the task. The rest is merely successful prediction of human response, which, I might add, is nothing if not predictable.”
A Passionate Performance Page 6
