Sarah blinked rapidly, trying to stem tears of frustration. But when he offered his handkerchief once more, she turned her head away. Gently but firmly, he pressed the cloth into her hand. Shooting him a speaking look, Sarah snatched it and dabbed violently at her eyes.
Lord Linton watched her silently, his steady gaze unreadable. Finally, he spoke again in a voice that was maddeningly complacent.
“If you will but think a moment, you will see that as an actress you do much the same: You learn your lines and deliver them in a manner designed to elicit a predictable response from your audience. So, too, do I orchestrate the events in my life.”
Sarah closed her fist around the tight ball of his handkerchief. “Am I to assume that I am such an ‘event,’ my lord? For it seems I have been orchestrated to a fare-thee-well.”
“At the moment you are the most important event in my life, Miss Armistead.” His lips curved in a half smile. “That puts you precisely at center stage.”
Defeat sapped her remaining energy. Sarah sagged against the exceedingly comfortable satin. “For some reason, Lord Linton, that makes me very uneasy.”
He merely arched a brow and said nothing.
***
Lintonwood stretched out before them like a lazy, well-fed cat, supremely content on its verdant perch atop a gently rolling hill. Even in the encroaching dusk and fog, the house sparkled, its brick and stone polished to perfection, its windows gleaming with lanterns bidding them welcome.
It was a friendly house, Sarah realized in surprise. Somehow she had expected something dark and gloomy, befitting the viscount’s dubious character. Servants busy with an ancient traveling coach in the drive quickly turned to greet them, and watched without a sign of curiosity or speculation as Lord Linton helped Sarah descend. The butler, of some exotic heritage and inscrutable mien, bowed deeply and led the way into a cozy parlor, where two older ladies were in the act of taking tea. Apparently they were newly arrived, for they wore traveling clothes.
“Lady Claremont!” Sarah exclaimed, then bit the words back in embarrassment. One of the women eyed her sharply, but the elder lady in a pink turban who bore an uncanny resemblance to the viscount’s Aunt Agatha did not seem to hear her. Sarah saw that although there was indeed a family likeness, this lady’s features were softer than Lady Claremont’s. Her eyes were a startling shade of violet, and they did not possess the same keenness. She wore an abstracted air as she regarded the newcomers.
“Aunt, allow me to present Miss Sarah Armistead,” Lord Linton said. “Miss Armistead, this is my aunt, Miss Clarissa Porter, and her friend and companion, Miss Harriet Simms.” As Sarah curtsied, he whispered a command in her ear: “Not a word about Aunt Agatha, if you please. They do not speak.”
Before Sarah had a chance to ponder that strange statement. Miss Porter smiled. It was a rather giddy smile, and it was accompanied by a small giggle.
“Will wonders never cease?” she said gaily. “Me, playing chaperon! Miss Armistead, did you know I am the black sheep of the family?”
There seemed no appropriate response to that statement, so Sarah merely smiled politely. She was intrigued — and relieved — by the thought that the viscount had seen fit to have her properly chaperoned. Somehow she had envisioned him keeping her captive in some stark, cheerless room until she learned her lines. The knowledge that she was to have female company heartened her enormously. She wondered what Lord Linton had told his aunt to explain her presence. She did not have to wait long to find out.
“So this is the poor orphan from America, is it? The young woman whose relatives you are endeavoring to find?” Miss Porter eyed her sympathetically. “I must say, Miss Armistead, it was too bad for your uncle to pack you off to England in such a fashion. The thought of a young woman traveling such a long way! And to find that your relatives here have moved without leaving their direction! How dreadful.”
Sarah shot the viscount a sharp look. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said cautiously. “I do not know what I would have done if it had not been for Lord Linton.”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Simms muttered dryly. “Linton is known far and wide for his kindness to young women.” More loudly, she added, “You have not said how you met the girl, Linton.”
“But, Harriet,” interjected Miss Porter, “do you not remember? Justin told us that Miss Armistead’s uncle was a great friend of Oscar’s.”
Oscar? Harry had mentioned the name, Sarah recalled, trying to remember the conversation.
“Her uncle had instructed her to seek out Justin if something was amiss,” Miss Porter continued.
Miss Simms rolled her eyes, and Sarah could not blame her. It was a preposterous story. The viscount obviously had judged that his aunt would not question it. Miss Simms, however, was another matter. Her rather beady eyes were sharp with suspicion, and her mouth was set in an expression of distaste. Each time she spoke, she pointed her long, bony fingers at Sarah as if she were some sort of curious specimen at a museum.
“I daresay that the previous Lord Linton, God rest his black soul, had no friends whatsoever,” Miss Simms declared.
Now Sarah remembered. “Oscar” was Lord Linton’s father.
A cloud swept Miss Porter’s features, but it was supplanted in the next moment by a benign, albeit vague, expression. “Has there been any progress in finding Miss Armistead’s relatives, Justin?” she asked.
“No, Aunt,” he replied easily. “But in the meantime, Miss Armistead will stay with us.”
“But of course,” his aunt murmured, smiling.
Her companion, however, narrowed her gaze. “When you sent word that she was an orphan, Linton, I envisioned a child.” Miss Simms looked Sarah up and down. “If you ask me —.”
“No one did,” he responded.
Evidently accustomed to such treatment from the viscount, Miss Simms merely gave him a speaking look. “A strange business, Clarissa,” she muttered, but Miss Porter was seemingly without any awareness of the fireworks brewing in the room. She smiled beatifically, ignoring her dour companion.
“Charming, simply charming,” she said happily, eyeing Sarah. “I declare, Justin, if you do not find her relatives, you must keep her for yourself.”
Sarah flushed in embarrassment as she met the viscount’s gaze over the head of his aunt. To her surprise, he appeared taken aback.
At that moment, the butler handed him a glass of something, which Lord Linton seemed to welcome and tossed off in a single gulp. He made no reply to his aunt, not even the sort of lighthearted rejoinder one would offer to such an apparent jest, and for the first time Sarah wondered if the woman were not a bit addled in her thinking.
Sarah accepted a glass of sherry from the man and stood uncertainly in the parlor, wondering what her position in this household would be. Lord Linton’s Banbury tale had made her a guest of sorts, and perhaps even a respectable one, but Sarah knew that in reality she was little more than a servant. During the carriage ride, the viscount had, to her amazement, pressed fifty pounds in bank notes into her hand. At least one member of the family was as good as his word.
Honor demanded that she fling the money into his face, but that was only wishful thinking. With no money, Sarah was fast losing all illusions about her respectability. Simply put, she had no choice but to accept Lord Linton’s offer. She could wish that it was otherwise, but wishes would not keep her clothed and fed and William ensconced at Eton.
Was this how it happened, how an honorable woman was corrupted and degraded until she no longer knew what behavior was proper and what was not? Was this how the world conspired to limit women’s choices until they became what everyone assumed they already were? Sarah steeled herself against that unhappy thought. This job would ensure her independence and her future. For that, and for William, she would do it.
Then again, perhaps this job need not truly compromise her values. Perhaps she could view it as but another role she had taken on — one she might not like, but which would pay her b
ills. There was nothing wrong with that — was there? She would be properly chaperoned, and her behavior would be above reproach. She could still face herself in the mirror each morning.
Sarah took a bracing sip of sherry and immediately felt better. It was like any performance. She would memorize her lines and learn to shoot Lord Linton’s pistol. Those things, at least, she could do without compromising her honor.
At least her virtue was not in jeopardy, thanks to the presence of these ladies. In a world of steadily narrowing choices, Sarah was grateful for that. Yet something nagged at her. Lord Linton must have known that while bringing his aunt here would allay Sarah’s concerns about her circumstances, it might make his plans more difficult.
What would happen later, after they carried out that charade of his? Miss Porter and Miss Simms would surely hear of it, and know Sarah was a fraud. Surely there would be a scandal. Then, again, she would never need face them again. She would be safely ensconced in a respectable little cottage in the country somewhere, thanks to the money she would earn from this role.
It could not possibly be that simple. An uneasiness swept over her, akin to the feeling she had had at Lady Claremont’s of being overmatched in this game of wits.
“I wish to thank you for coming at such short notice, Aunt,” Lord Linton was saying. “I trust that Anh has arranged everything to your liking.”
Miss Simms eyed the butler dourly, but Miss Porter positively beamed. “Mr. Anh is the most amazing man, Justin. Why, he can do all sorts of magic tricks, just like you. Did you teach him?”
Amused, the viscount glanced at the silent figure who was clearing the tea tray. “It is the other way around, Aunt. Anh is an exceptional teacher.” He paused. “I did not know he had been entertaining you with his tricks. How interesting.”
“Barbaric, rather,” snapped Miss Simms. “Heathen magic does not belong in a decent English household.”
The look Lord Linton shot Miss Simms would have cowed another woman, but the lady did not look chastened in the least.
“Oh, no, Harriet! It has been delightful,” trilled Miss Porter. “I have been trying to describe the mirror trick to Silvester, but he does not seem to understand. Ghosts have a peculiar loathing for mirrors. Or is that vampires? I do forget these things.”
The room fell into an immediate and profound silence. Miss Simms pursed her lips, but did not say a word. The viscount elected not to deliver whatever reproof he was contemplating to Miss Simms. Only the butler, whom Sarah gathered was the multi-talented Mr. Anh, continued about his activities, smoothly removing the tea tray without a sign that anything out of the ordinary had been said. Sarah tried mightily not to stare at Miss Porter, who was smiling in apparent fond recollection of her recent conversation with the ghost named Silvester.
At last Lord Linton broke the silence. “I will be happy to explain the mirror trick, Aunt. It was one of the first illusions I learned years ago.”
“Yes!” Miss Porter smiled in delight. “You made an elephant disappear.”
Lord Linton smiled. “A tiny one. A child’s toy.”
“You built a tiny cage for it,” she said. “I never forgot the magic of that moment when that puff of smoke cleared and the elephant in that little cage had vanished. How did you do it?”
Miss Simms, Sarah saw, was watching the exchange intently, almost as if she expected Lord Linton to make sport of his aunt. But she was wrong. Sarah had never seen such a kind expression on his face, nor heard from him such a gentle tone.
“In magic, all things are hidden,” he was saying. “That is the only true secret. For the elephant trick, I rigged the cage with mirrors inside. When the smoke begins, I simply pulled a lever and the two mirrors moved to obscure the elephant. After the smoke clears, the spectator sees only an empty cage. But the elephant is still there, hidden behind the mirrors.”
Miss Porter’s smile was wistful. “You will never persuade me that it was nothing short of real magic.”
Lord Linton bowed. “I would never attempt to, Aunt. The ultimate arbiter of magic is always the beholder.”
With that, he turned to Sarah. “You will be wishing to change from your traveling clothes, Miss Armistead. Anh will have someone show you to your room.”
“But I have nothing to wear,” Sarah protested. She had come to London with only a small bandbox and the dress on her back.
“I imagine the maid who has spent the last half hour unpacking your trunks would disagree,” he said.
Trunks? Sarah recalled the rattling of boxes on the roof of the carriage. Had he brought her a wardrobe? Her face flushed in mortification.
“I could not accept —” she began, but he quickly cut her off.
“I believe you will find everything that is necessary for your stay here,” he said pointedly, and Sarah understood that he regarded the garments merely as the essential costumes for her new role. Mr. Stinson made his actors and actresses furnish their own costumes, but Sarah could hardly afford to do so for this particular part. Like Harry, Lord Linton was simply providing her with what she needed for the job. Still, she was embarrassed. How did he know her size? Had he selected intimate clothing for her as well?
Undoubtedly he had. The man thought of everything. And something else suddenly became horribly clear. His aunt and Miss Simms might be at Lintonwood for form’s sake, but Lord Linton would not have invited them if he had thought they would hinder his scheme. Miss Porter was perhaps a bit addled; it was no great challenge to pull the wool over her eyes. Miss Simms was sharper, but as Miss Porter’s companion she had no real power to affect events in the household. The two women were simply window dressing. The viscount would do whatever he wished, and no one would stop him.
Once again, Sarah had the distinct impression that Lord Linton had played her for a fool. She sipped the last of her sherry, wondering why the amber liquid that trickled down her throat gave her no courage. Then she met his gaze over the rim of her glass and knew the answer.
Lord Linton’s expression was impassive — indeed, to the casual observer he appeared almost bored. But in the moment their gazes met, Sarah saw a spark in those grey depths that made her shiver, and not with cold. There was heat there, and an unspoken challenge. The devil himself was looking at her from within those grey depths. And daring her to cross him.
***
Poor Aunt Clarissa had been short a sheet for years, but Justin had forgotten how distracted she could be. He had never known who Silvester was, nor had she seen fit to enlighten him. He — or it, as perhaps was the case — simply slipped into Aunt Clarissa’s conversation at times; indeed, one had the feeling he was always hovering about, perhaps keeping watch over her rather muddled life. A childhood friend? An erstwhile lover? Justin suspected he would never know.
As for that prune-faced Harriet Simms, her only redeeming quality was her devotion to his aunt. He owed her that, however, and made a mental note to try to be more patient.
He slipped into his bed, rather pleased with the way his arrangements had fallen into line. To be sure, the presence of his aunt and Miss Simms would ensure that Miss Armistead’s stay under his roof would have no appearance of impropriety. But he had not made the arrangement just for her sake.
Protecting the reputation of a woman of her occupation was a laughable notion. An actress’s reputation was worth little coin, and Miss Armistead knew it. Moreover, she had entered his carriage freely, readily accepted his money, and traveled alone with him to Lintonwood. She could have no expectations that the proprieties would be observed. Indeed, he had seen the surprise in her face when she realized that his aunt and Harriet Simms were provided for that purpose.
Her reaction had provoked in him an unexpected and unsettling twinge of pity. Her life had not been easy. She could not be much above twenty, an age when most ladies of his circle were settling into the role of pampered bride. She had doubtless never seen the sort of luxury that kept those women in lavish gowns, featherbeds, and wet nurses for the
babes they produced to secure their husbands’ lines. No, Miss Armistead was accustomed to fending for herself.
In truth, Justin had brought in a chaperon more for his benefit than hers. Otherwise, what was to stop Miss Armistead from making a bid for his entire fortune, rather than the thousand pounds he was paying her? Better men than he had been trapped by conniving women crying compromise and demanding a wedding. Not that he would have had to marry an actress — they could be bought off easily enough. But he had a feeling that Miss Armistead’s price would be higher than he cared to pay. The woman had spunk; who knew what hue and cry she would raise?
The thought of marriage under any circumstance made him ill. His parents’ loveless union had wrought nothing but tragedy. Even love, were one so foolish as to believe in that exalted state, was no guarantee of happiness. Justin had seen a number of his friends make cakes of themselves over one infatuation or another. He prided himself on never having succumbed to such an inane state. Marriage was for fools.
There were not enough tricks in Anh’s vast store of knowledge to make him think otherwise, he thought, yawning. Women had little to offer a man besides their physical charms, and any passion after a time grew old. It galled him that he felt the need for female companionship rather more often than he wished.
Like now.
Unbidden, Miss Armistead’s image appeared in his mind’s eye. In it, she looked every inch the grand lady. A diamond ornament nestled in her lush auburn hair, which was piled gracefully upon her head. She wore a shimmering emerald gown, unmistakably the product of a fashionable modiste’s needle. Yet she seemed unconcerned with its fate as she lay on a satin comforter covering a plump featherbed. Her smile was coy, provocative, as someone moved toward her.
Not someone — him.
Justin shook his head violently and his eyes opened wide. The image disappeared. He must have fallen asleep. The closest Sarah Armistead could hope to come to such luxury would be as some well-fixed gentleman’s mistress.
No, he had not been thinking about protecting her reputation when he invited his daft aunt and the eternally miserable Miss Simms to invade his household. He had only intended to prevent her from feathering her nest at his expense.
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