Sonnet to a Dead Contessa
Praise for Book Two in the Lady Trent Mysteries,
A Conspiracy of Ravens
“With mischief, murder, and blossoming love, this cozy mystery is a delight.”
—
Historical Novels
“The Victorian England setting is made for mystery, family secrets, and murder. Lady Trent is a treat; not your typical English rose, she is forthright and has quite the sense of humor. The main male character is a Prince Charming in an actor’s body.”
—
Romantic Times
OTHER NOVELS BY GILBERT MORRIS INCLUDE
The Lady Trent Mysteries:
The Mermaid in the Basement
A Conspiracy of Ravens
The Creole Series
The Singing River Series
The House of Winslow Series
The Lone Star Legacy Series
Visit your online bookstore for a complete
listing of Gilbert Morris’ books.
© 2009 by Gilbert Morris
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Published in association with the literary agency of Word Serve Literary Group, 10152 Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, Colorado 80130.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morris, Gilbert.
Sonnet to a dead contessa / Gilbert Morris.
p. cm.— (A Lady Trent mystery ; bk. 3)
ISBN 978-1-59554-427-8 (pbk.)
1. Women private investigators—England—Fiction. 2. Aristocracy (Social class)—England—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.O8742S675 2009
813'.54—dc22
2009007875
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
To Gale Towne
Thanks for the memories!
L
ady Stephanie Welles entered the Blue Room, paused, and at once noted that almost every man in the room was looking at her. She was pleased, but not surprised, for she had long known that her ability to draw attention was highly developed. She was wearing a crimson gown with such a breathtakingly wide skirt that it made her waist look as if a man could span it with his hands and overlap his fingers. Her eyes and her lips gave a hint of her will and her pride. She was tall and shapely in a manner that would draw any man’s eyes. Aware of the effect her entrance had on those who watched her, she tilted up her head in an imperious manner and then turned toward the three women who were waiting for her.
Marchioness Rachel Reis rose and moved across the room, her raven black hair framing her face, her Jewish blood evident in her features. She was an attractive woman of twenty-eight, not tall but with a good carriage. She came to stand in front of Lady Welles.
“I’m glad you were able to come, Lady Stephanie. It’s a good cause we’re working for,” she said, smiling, and waited for a reply.
A caustic humour touched Lady Stephanie’s eyes. “Of course—and I’m always anxious to do my bit for a good cause.” She saw the expression on Lady Reis’s face and laughed. “You find that amusing? Well, I have to do some good works, or I won’t get into heaven, will I?”
“You will be able to add your contribution to the London Festival of Arts. The profits will go to help the poor of our city.”
“I’m not sure what I can do to help.”
“There will be work enough for us all—but just your name and your support are greatly appreciated. Come and we’ll get started.”
The two high-society women made their way over to a table where two other women of superior status were seated. “I’m amazed that Stephanie has volunteered to help with the festival,” said Baroness Danielle DeMain, a tall woman with a fine figure and aristocratic features. “She’s not known for her good works, is she, Margaret?”
“Now, Danielle, don’t be harsh.” Countess Margaret Acton was a short, rather well-padded woman of thirty-three. She had a wealth of light brown hair and a pair of warm brown eyes. “She just wants to help, I’m sure.”
Lady DeMain smiled. “You’d speak well of Judas Iscariot—or of the devil himself, Margaret. And I’m not sure that Stephanie isn’t the devil—no, the devil is a male. But Stephanie must be one of his demons.”
“Shh! She’ll hear you, Danielle!” She rose and smiled, saying, “I’m so glad you’ve decided to join us, Lady Stephanie.”
“Why, as I just
remarked to Rachel, I’m always available for good works.” She paused and smiled thinly. “I see skepticism in your faces. Well, you are right. I’m not given to holy causes—if that’s what the festival is. I always thought it was about greedy artists trying to gouge more money out of buyers.”
Lady DeMain laughed. “You are right, Stephanie, to some degree. But as you know, 25 percent of all sales will go to help the poor.”
The four women ordered lunch and discussed ways to entice more influential citizens to join them. Suddenly Lady DeMain exclaimed, “Look at that!” Her three companions turned to see what she meant, and Lady Welles laughed. “I thought this was an exclusive restaurant. What in the world are those women doing here?”
“I know one of them,” Rachel Reis said, her voice strained. “Her name is Martha Bingham. She’s been after me to join her organization. She’s really quite a bore.”
“What organization?” Stephanie asked, eyeing the trio. “Not a crusade to wear the ugliest clothing in England, is it?”
Indeed, the three women advanced toward their table. The leader was a tall, strongly built woman with a squarish face, a prow of a chin, and dark brown hair. She pulled up in front of the seated women and stridently said, “My name is Martha Bingham. I have come to enlist your aid in helping the women of England assume their rightful place in our society. This young woman is my aide. Her name is Miss Jeanne St. Clair. And this is Miss Violet Bates, my secretary. They will be glad to assist you in filling out papers that will enable you to join us. We have a place for each of you.”
“And what is that place, Miss Bingham?” asked Lady DeMain. She was amused at the woman but at the same time annoyed that they had invaded the restaurant.
“I am founder and president of Equality for Women,” Miss Bingham said. “I believe you have all received my invitation?”
“Oh dear, yes,” Lady Welles said. “I think I remember something of the sort. Please send no more. My wastebasket is full of such ‘invitations.’”
A young woman to Miss Bingham’s left suddenly took a step forward. She had blue eyes and reddish-blonde hair. She was wearing a plain black taffeta dress that revealed a trim and rather athletic figure. Her voice was low, but a thread of anger tinted her words. “You call yourselves women? Fah! You’re nothing but slaves to men who bargained with your parents for rights to your bodies! I despise you!”
“Now, that will do!” Lady Welles said angrily. “You know nothing about us! You have no idea what nobility means!”
“Do I not?”
Margaret Acton was shocked at the vehemence in Jeanne St. Clair’s face. There was something almost feral in her expression, and her voice throbbed as she spat out the words, “Noblemen can be full of evil! You don’t know what’s happened to me. A member of Parliament”—she broke off in angry sobs—“he went to church every Sunday . . . It was wrong, I tell you, wrong what he did to me! Is that what nobility is?”
“That will do!” Lady DeMain said loudly. She saw that the manager had approached and said, “Howard, show these women out!”
Mr. Howard, a tall, thin man, had been watching the scene nervously, and now he scurried forward, saying, “I must ask you ladies to leave.”
Martha Bingham’s face reddened. “I will not leave until I have spoken to these women.”
“Howard, get rid of them!” Lady Welles said. “Call a policeman if necessary.”
“I trust that will not be necessary. You must leave.” He nodded to a burly man who had been watching. “Joseph, help these ladies out, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Howard.” The man advanced, reached out, and took the arm of Martha Bingham. Then, at that instant, Miss Bingham’s secretary began to weep. Joseph pulled at Miss Bingham’s arm, but Jeanne St. Clair leapt forward and struck him a powerful blow in the throat. He stepped back, his face crimson, and began to gag.
Chaos took over. Martha Bingham shouted her message; the manager ran from the room but soon returned with a policeman. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, and when Jeanne tried to hit him, he simply shoved her to the floor and took Martha Bingham’s arm. “You’re under arrest for disturbing the peace. Come along now. Don’t make things worse.”
Margaret Acton was shaken by the event. She watched them leave, and when they were at the door, Martha Bingham turned and shouted, “You’re unfit to live! Slaves, that’s all you are! But that will change! We don’t need you or your fancy title . . . !” Margaret then saw the large woman turn and put her arm around the younger secretary. She patted her back and spoke soothingly to her.
“She’s got some affection in her,” Margaret said in a murmur.
“I suppose even wild beasts in the jungle have some sort of tender feelings for their offspring,” Lady DeMain said. “But that other one, she’s as wild as any tiger!”
“What a fine dinner!” Lady Welles said. “The entertainment was very exciting. Well, I must go. Not,” she added, “to enlist in Miss Bingham’s organization. There are ways to master men with-out force. They’re weak creatures, after all.”
