Sonnet to a Dead Contessa Read Free Page B

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
    T he 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.”