Sonnet to a Dead Contessa (2 page)

Three days after the scene with Martha Bingham, Lady Stephanie Welles had almost forgotten it. She had told her husband, Lord Herbert, of the affair and he had grunted. “Old biddy ought to be locked up!”

“I’m going out tonight, Herbert.” Stephanie noted that her husband was not interested enough to ask where she was going, but she was accustomed to this. She dressed and got into her carriage, saying, “Take me to the Old Vic Theatre, Alvin.”

“Yes’m, Lady Stephanie.” He spoke to the horses and soon they were on Drury Lane. As always, the area was bustling with activity even as the sun went down over London. Although it was one of the better sections of the city, Lady Welles was slightly on edge, as always, for even here good and evil mingled. Side by side with noble ladies dressed in the finest of clothing, prostitutes with painted faces and gaudy attire paced in the flow of traffic. One expected to find harlots in the Seven Dials District or London’s notorious St. Jiles District, known as the Rookery, but here in the heart of London, the evil seemed somehow out of place to Lady Welles. The theatre crowd filled the street, all headed toward one of several playhouses. For most the destination was the Old Vic. As her carriage drew up in a line in front of the theatre, Lady Welles waited until the driver hopped down and opened the door for her. “Here we are, ma’am.”

“Very good, Alvin. You’ll have to watch when the crowd comes out and be sure you don’t park too far away.”

“Oh no, ma’am. I’ll be on watch for you.”

Lady Welles reached into her reticule, pulled out a coin, and handed it to him. “Buy yourself a good dinner. It’s rather a long play, I understand.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and moved down the street toward the entrance of the Old Vic. A line was waiting to buy tickets, but she simply walked by them, and when she reached the door, she handed the man a reservation and a one-pound note.

“Yes, ma’am, you’re just in time.” The doorman smiled, a tall, sallow-faced man with badly fitting false teeth. “Shall I show you to your seat?”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

As she joined the flow of people moving through the large foyer, Lady Welles attracted the eyes of both men and women. She was a graceful and strikingly beautiful woman elegantly dressed tonight in a polished blue-and-grey-striped taffeta skirt with a white silk blouse and lace ascot with a small pearl stick pin. She wore a sapphire comb in her hair and a sapphire and diamond necklace that glittered under the gaslight as she moved. Men’s eyes seemed drawn to her, but she paid no heed as she made her way. The theatre was filling rapidly,
but as she moved toward her seat, she was conscious of the chandeliers blazing so brightly one could barely look at them. The women everywhere wore glamourous jewels that sparkled on arms and throats and wrists, and the colourful dresses of silk, taffeta, voile, and velvet, along with the warmth of peach- and rose-tinted costumes, gave a flaring vibrancy to the room.

She took her seat amidst the rustle and the whisper of the fabric of her dress, conscious of the voices and of the bursts of laughter that broke out from time to time. She turned at once to the woman who was seated next to her, and as she sat down, she said with surprise, “Why, Helen, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Lady Helen Maddox was a short, rather dumpy woman but made every attempt to compensate for her lack of graceful figure by expensive dress. She wore a crimson gown that did nothing for her rather ashen complexion, but it was beautifully cut, the full sleeves ostentatiously decorated with blue velvet bows at the shoulders. She had a pair of lively grey eyes, and when she smiled and greeted Lady Welles, there was genuine pleasure in her voice. “Why, it’s you, Stephanie,” she exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise! I was afraid I’d have to sit by a bricklayer or some other impossible being.”

“Then both of us are happy. I was dreading that I might have to sit beside a ranting Methodist and be preached at.”

The two women sat there chatting, for they were old friends. Both of them were of the nobility. Lady Stephanie’s husband, Sir Herbert Welles, was a member of the House of Lords. Lady Maddox’s husband was a mere baronet whose title would cease to exist when he did the same himself. Nevertheless, they were both addressed by the title “Lady.”

“Look over there, Stephanie,” Helen said, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Up there in the first balcony.” Stephanie looked up and at once saw what Helen was so excited about. “The Prince of Wales,” she murmured.

“Yes, and look at that woman with him. One of his mistresses, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

“I think it’s terrible!” Helen exclaimed, not taking her eyes from the heavyset man with the pointed beard and the woman who sat beside him. “The Queen is terribly disappointed in the Prince. He’s nothing but a wastrel.”

“So the gossip goes.”

“Oh, dear me, it’s not gossip! He has all sorts of women, some of them noble, if you can believe it. I think the one with him is an actress.”

Stephanie took a closer look. “She’s attractive. Rather gaudy, I should say, but better than his usual choices, I would guess.”

The two women sat there talking about the royal family, for Queen Victoria and her husband, Prince Albert, were symbols of the solidarity of the British Empire. It was well known that Victoria had fallen madly in love with the German prince, and that even after they had produced a house full of children, she was still as much in love with him as ever. Somehow this union pleased the British public. They were more accustomed to their rulers being either without morals or able to conceal their baser doings adeptly. But Queen Victoria was, indeed, a most moral and upright woman. She had none of the flamboyance of Queen Elizabeth, but she was better at this point in time for England than that redheaded, almost manlike woman had been.

The crowd grew noisier, and nobility and working persons were strewn throughout the audience. True, some of the better seats were more expensive, but many commoners afforded them, and a duke might find himself sitting next to a mere shopkeeper. Stephanie turned to ask, “I suppose you’ve seen
Macbeth
?”

“Oh, indeed, I have! I’ve been to this production three times.”

“Why in the world would you do that?”

Helen shook her head. “You’ll see when the play starts. It’s Dylan Tremayne who plays the leading role. He’s simply
divine
! I do believe he’s the best-looking man in England!”

Stephanie was rather bored and shrugged her shoulders. “That’s part of a stock in trade of actors, isn’t it? They’re supposed to be good-looking.”

“Oh, he’s more than fine-looking!” Helen insisted. She leaned over and talked with excitement. “He has something about him that draws your attention the minute he comes onstage, and he’s exactly the same offstage.”

“You mean he’s sexually alluring?”

Helen stared at Lady Stephanie. “Well, I wouldn’t have put it in exactly those words, but in a way I suppose you’re right. Women just can’t resist him.”

“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.