Sonnet to a Dead Contessa Page 2

  “I shall do my best to keep from leaping out of my seat and running up and throwing myself at his feet.”

  Helen laughed. “You’re making fun of me, but you wait and you’ll see!”

  Five minutes later the curtain parted, and the play began. Stephanie had seen Macbeth performed several times, and in all truth had been rather bored with the main character. She had told her husband, “Herbert, that character Macbeth in the play by Shakespeare, he bores me to tears. He has no pluck. His wife has all the courage.”

  Lord Herbert had smiled at her. “His wife loses her courage, remember?”

  “Of course she does. Women always have to bear their husbands’ shortcomings.”

  Herbert had laughed. “I wonder what Shakespeare would say to that.”

  As the play unfolded, Stephanie kept her eye on Dylan Tremayne mostly because of what Helen had told her. She had been prepared to dislike him, for as a rule, pretty men, overly handsome ones, were rather hollow on the inside. But as Dylan Tremayne moved across the stage, there was virility and a strength in his motions, and when he turned to look out over the audience, his eyes were the bluest she had ever seen. Indeed, he was handsome, but as Helen had insisted, Tremayne was more than just a fine-looking man.

  There was one intermission, and both Lady Helen and Lady Stephanie were uncomfortably warm. It was the beginning of summer, and there were no windows to admit a breeze, so each of them had brought a handkerchief to mop her brow.

  “Well, what do you think now?” Helen asked, turning to give Stephanie an enquiring look. “Isn’t he everything I said he would be?”

  “I give you this, he is fine-looking—and he does have a certain flair.”

  “A certain flair? Come now, Stephanie, admit it. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, could you?”

  Stephanie suddenly laughed. “He does have whatever it is that some people have. Women have it sometimes. Men can’t take their eyes off of them. There can be twenty women in a room, but when a woman with this quality appears—every man turns to stare at her.”

  “That’s exactly the way it is with Tremayne, only it’s the women staring.”

  “What do you know about him, his private life, I mean? He’s very successful, isn’t he?”

  “Not really,” Helen said quickly. “Not until recently. Hamlet was his first leading role, and that was awhile back. Before that he was only in minor roles. Of course, he also has an interesting back-ground.”

  “What sort of background?”

  “He was a coal miner in Wales, then he ran away from his master and came to England. He joined the army and served well, I understand, and when he came out he had no profession, so he somehow became attracted to the theatre. He took what he could get, of course, and Hamlet was his first real opportunity, which led to Macbeth. He can have any role he pleases, Stephanie. The city is mad about him.” She turned and whispered, although there was no need for it. “Look down the row in front of us at the end. Do you see that woman?”

  “Yes. Who is she?”

  “She’s the Viscountess Serafina Trent.”

  “I’ve heard of her.”

  “She’s gained quite a reputation as a detective.”

  “A detective?” Stephanie leaned forward and stared at the woman. “Whatever can you mean, Helen? Women aren’t detectives.”

  “Well, she’s not like most women. Her father is a very famous scientist—Septimus Isaac Newton, very well-to-do.”

  “Is he a nobleman?”

  “Oh no. Serafina married a viscount, Charles Trent. It was a short marriage, for he died rather shockingly. There’s some scandal about it.”

  “What sort of scandal?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t say this, for you know how I hate to gossip.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Some say his death wasn’t entirely natural and that his wife had a hand in it.”

  Stephanie turned and studied the face of the woman in question. She was, indeed, an attractive woman with strawberry blonde hair, and when she turned in Stephanie’s direction, it became obvious that she had a wide, sensuous mouth and a squarish face. There was a look of determination on her features that one did not often see in a woman.

  “What does she have to do with Tremayne?”

  “He’s her protégé, you might say. As I say, she’s done some work helping the police solve some crimes, and Dylan Tremayne worked for her. They’re very close, so my information tells me.”

  “Very close? Does that mean they’re having an affair?”

  “Oh, no one actually has any evidence of that, but she’d be a fool if she didn’t,” Helen said, laughing and shaking her head. “And he’d be a fool if he turned her down. Isn’t every day an actor gets the chance to have—a relationship, I might say—with a vis-countess.”

  Stephanie encouraged Lady Helen to talk more about the actor and found her completely willing.

  Finally Helen said, “If you go backstage after the play is over, you’ll find women practically throwing themselves at him! It’s disgraceful!”

  Stephanie suddenly smiled. “Did you throw yourself, Helen?”

  Helen was an honest enough woman. She had a marriage of convenience, and her ways were well known to Stephanie. “Well, I tried, but he had younger women, some of them with titles. Besides, from what I hear, he’s as pure as the driven snow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a religious fellow, so my information goes. He doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t have anything to do with women.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Why, Lady Margaret Acton told me. She’s the best friend of Lady Trent. That’s her sitting beside her now. You see? She said Lady Trent has told her that Tremayne is not interested in those women who clamour after him, but I find that hard to believe.”

  The curtain opened then, and the two women sat through the drama. After the play ended, Dylan Tremayne was brought back five times as the audience, mostly women, applauded until their hands must have ached. Tremayne seemed rather awkward, as if this were something he had to endure as part of his profession. Stephanie studied him. He was at least six feet tall and had coal black hair, glossy, with a slight curl that usually fell over his forehead. He had a wedge-shaped face, a wide mouth, and a cleft chin, and his striking blue eyes were the colour of the cornflowers that one could find in any British field.

  “Isn’t he a dream?” Helen whispered.

  “He can’t be as pure as he’s rumoured to be,” Stephanie said. “I’ll join the adoring women.”

  Helen stared at her, then laughed. “Well, you be sure and let me know how it turns out.”

  Stephanie merely smiled and remained in her seat. The crowd filed out until there were only a few left. She waited still longer, but when she arose and went backstage, she found Tremayne still with a small group of women, only four, but they surrounded him. Stephanie saw at once that he was being patient but would like to end the conversation. She waited as he broke free from the last one and then quickly entered and shut the door of his dressing room. Without delay, Stephanie walked over and tapped on the door. It opened almost at once, and she saw Tremayne frown—but immediately his mobile features formed into a smile of sorts.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “I’m Lady Stephanie Welles, Mr. Tremayne. Could you spare me a few moments?”

  “Why—” Tremayne hesitated and then shrugged. “Come in, Lady Stephanie.”

  Stephanie stepped inside and glanced around the room. It was cluttered with the paraphernalia of the acting trade, costumes hanging from hooks, a large dressing table with a square mirror illuminated the gaslight. She turned suddenly and said, “I know you must be weary of hearing this, but I simply had to come and tell you how much I enjoyed your performance.”

  “Very kind of you to say so.”

  The words were really a dismissal, Stephanie knew, but she was an accomplished woman where men were concerned. There was a way to gain this man’s attention, and sh
e set out to find it. She became aware that he was being patient, that she was just another stagestruck woman to him. This angered her for some reason, but she persisted.

  Finally a knock sounded at the door, and Tremayne said, “Excuse me, Lady Stephanie.” He went to the door, opened it, and began a short conversation with a man about the lighting for the next performance.

  Stephanie saw that he had taken off the belt with the dagger and jewelled scabbard. It was hanging now on a hook almost hidden by his black cloak. Quickly she reached out, removed the knife, and concealed it in her reticule. When he turned back, she said quickly, “I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Tremayne. My congratulations on your success.”

  Relief showed itself in Tremayne’s face. “Very handsome of you to say so. I’m glad you enjoyed the performance. It’s really a fine company.”

  “Yes, it is. Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening.”

  She reached the door, then turned and said, “My husband and I are having a dinner for a few people at our home on Sunday night. Let me invite you.”

  “I would be happy to, Lady Stephanie, but I’m sorry to tell you I already have an engagement.”

  “Well then, perhaps another time.” Stephanie smiled and left the room. She made her way out of the theatre, and she found her carriage waiting. She took the coachman’s hand, got inside, and immediately took the dagger out and looked at it. It was a handsome, rather fancy knife with jewels in the handle. She held it all the way to her home on Park Lane, the most fashionable address in London, bordering Hyde Park. She got out of the carriage and went in the house, and her maid Marie was waiting for her. Marie had orders always to wait up even when her mistress stayed out late.

  “I’m tired, Marie. Help me get ready for bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lady Stephanie climbed the winding stairs and asked as Marie followed her, “Did anyone call?”

  “No, ma’am, not tonight.”

  Going into her bedroom, which was quite overwhelmed with ribbons and laces, velvets, swags, tassels, ruffles, and broaches, she began to undress. She washed her face, and Marie fixed her hair for the night and helped her put on her nightgown. “That’ll be all for tonight, Marie.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I put your sleeping potion there on the table.”

  “Thank you, Marie. You may go now.”

  As soon as the maid left, Lady Stephanie turned and took the knife out of the drawer where she had slipped it. She looked at it for a long time and then smiled. “He’s a man,” she said softly. “He can’t be as holy as Helen says, but I’ll find out, won’t I?” She put the knife down on the dressing table, picked up the sleeping potion, and drank it off. She took it every night, for she did not sleep well.

  Getting into bed, she lay there and waited until finally the potion began to take effect. It was a pleasant sensation, as if she were floating somehow suspended and motionless. She fell asleep, or at least into that twilight zone that precedes sleep, and as she did, a strange dream formed in her mind. She often dreamt, and unlike most people she always remembered her dreams the next morning.

  This dream was about Dylan Tremayne. Her lips turned upward in a smile as she lay between the silken sheets, and she saw Dylan approaching her. She felt a sensuous pleasure as he came forward, his dark eyes gleaming and his mouth wide in a smile. Then she saw a shadow surround Dylan, and it troubled her. It came forward, and she closed her eyes and actually lifted her arm, for the sleep was not complete. She fully expected to dream that he would take her in his arms, but instead, suddenly she felt something on her throat as hot as a branding iron and as cold as ice.

  Lady Stephanie Welles opened her eyes, and when she saw the face close to hers and felt the blood running down her neck and over her shoulders, her last thought was, This is no dream . . . !

  TWO

  The theatre was not one of Serafina Trent’s favourite activities. She would much prefer to be in a laboratory dissecting a corpse. At least, that had been her preference at one time. Since she had met Dylan Tremayne, however, the theatre had taken on a new dimension for her, and now as she sat in the Old Vic watching the play unfold, she wondered at herself. I’ve changed so much since I met Dylan. I never thought a man would be able to have such an effect on me, but he has. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but he’s like no other man I ever met—whatever that means.

  “Look, I think it’s almost time for the second half.” Lady Margaret Acton, who was sitting beside Serafina, was studying the viscountess carefully. Lady Margaret was Serafina’s closest friend. Part of that was due to the fact that she had two children, Charles and Roger, who were favourite playmates of Serafina’s son, David. But Margaret and her boys had been away for a while, visiting Margaret’s ailing mother, and David had sorely missed them. Serafina had missed Margaret even more than she expected. She fondly looked at her friend’s clear brown eyes and thick brown hair. She was very lively and vivacious, far more outgoing than Serafina herself, and Serafina admired her immensely.

  “I’m enjoying this play,” Margaret said, “but I must confess I can’t watch anyone but Dylan. He’s such a handsome fellow!”

  “Oh yes, he is,” Serafina said, nodding her agreement, “but I don’t believe he ever thinks about that.”

  “Well, that’s very rare. Usually good-looking men are proud as peacocks. Can’t pass a mirror without preening.”

  “Dylan doesn’t even think to get his hair cut. I have to remind him sometimes.” Serafina leaned back in her seat and ran her eyes over the audience, then turned back to Margaret. “So nice that we’re able to go out and do this. We owe it all to Irene.”

  “Yes, she’s the best sister anyone could ever have. She’s been so sad—unable to have children and then losing her husband.” Margaret shook her head, and grief passed her eyes briefly. “She’s thrown herself into taking care of Charles and Roger. Sometimes I think she’s more of a mother to them than I am.”

  “Don’t say that,” Serafina said quickly. “You’re just different, that’s all. She likes to stay home, and you like to go out—and you enjoy so many things.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. Too bad that Fredrick doesn’t.”

  Serafina was surprised. Margaret seldom mentioned her husband, Count Fredrick Acton. It was obvious to most that the two did not have a good marriage. Fredrick stayed on long hunting trips to the south of England and often went to France. He was actually home very little, and Serafina was aware that this hurt Margaret. There was nothing to say about it, however, for Fredrick was not about to change his habits nor modify his drinking problem. Margaret moved uncomfortably and looked up. “There’s the Prince of Wales and that American actress with him. He doesn’t have any shame about appearing with his mistresses. Makes no secret of his affairs at all.”

  “I’m sure the Queen and Prince Albert are terribly hurt by him.”

  “I feel sorry for the poor man.”

  “For who?”

  “For the Prince of Wales, of course. Queen Victoria is a young woman. She could live to be an old lady, and until she dies the Prince has really nothing to do.”

  “He could find something useful to do if he wanted to.”

  “I suppose so, but what he’s interested in mostly is gambling and races and fast horses—and faster women.” Margaret winked roguishly. “That’s the sort of man we can look forward to as king one day.”

  Serafina stirred restlessly in her seat. She was enjoying the play. She had read it and had seen it twice performed. She was well aware that Dylan dominated the role and also the audience.

  “It is strange the way you got interested in Tremayne. Half the women in London are chasing around after him now, and you have him all to yourself.”

  A slight flush touched Serafina’s cheeks. Although she had no real beauty, she did somehow have a sensual quality that did not pair with her scientific mind. She was of average height, and at the age of twenty-seven still had the figure of a mu
ch younger woman. She had dressed more carefully than usual, though she cared little for fancy attire. She wore a modest pearl grey skirt and jacket with dark green buttons and accents on the hem of the skirt and the sleeves and lapels of her jacket. A touch of delicate white lace edged with green showed at the opening of the tight-fitting jacket, and she had a peach cameo pinned to the lace at her throat. As she had been dressing that evening, she suddenly realised she had not paid so much attention to her attire in years, and it disturbed her and made her wonder if she had an interest in Dylan Tremayne that went beyond the ordinary.

  “Women fall all over themselves for him. I heard he can’t walk down the street without some brazen hussy making up to him.”

  “I know,” Serafina said, “but he doesn’t have anything to do with them.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “He’s very religious, Margaret. I’m not, as you know, so it’s amazing that the two of us have gotten along so well.”

  “Does he preach at you?”

  “Not exactly. He talks about the things in the Bible, and he’ll say something sometimes like ‘The Lord told me to go to the mission,’ which is a little bit frightening to me.”

  “You think God really talks to him?”

  “Oh, not in an audible voice. He’s got a lot of Methodist friends, although I’m not certain he’s a part of it, but they believe like the Quakers in being led by the Spirit.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look like a preacher.”

  The curtain opened then, and the two women sat through the second half of the play. Lady Margaret was enamoured and insisted on whispering comments to Serafina as the play went on. Serafina disliked this, but she could not afford to offend Margaret, her best friend, so she endured it. Finally the play was over, and Margaret applauded as Dylan came back for several curtain calls. “He’s beautiful, Serafina! Look at those tights! No wonder every woman in London is dreaming of him—and you have him!”

  Serafina could not keep the sharp tone from her voice. “I don’t have him, Margaret!”