Sonnet to a Dead Contessa Read Free Page A

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 she 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