“More important things than keeping your poor lonely mother company?”

“Mummy, there are plenty of other women who would love to sit and gossip with you, I’m sure.”

“They love to gossip in German and I never could get the hang of that language. And I’m not too hot at French either and I do so love to be the center of things, not a hanger-on.”

“You could always find Belinda. She likes all the things you do.”

“Your friend Belinda?” A frown crossed that flawless face. “Darling, one hears she is nothing more than a little tramp. Did you see how she was virtually throwing herself at Anton the other night? And I gather her bed wasn’t slept in after that.” She gave me a knowing wink.

I was amused at the pot calling the kettle black. Little tramp, indeed. So I suspected it was sour grapes, since Mummy had confessed to being attracted to Anton. “Well, you’ll have to find someone else to amuse you, because I’m supposed to be at the fitting for my bridal attendant’s dress,” I said. “You heard that I was one of Matty’s attendants, didn’t you?” I knew that a dress fitting would count as a good reason for my mother.

“Oh, well, then you should hurry off, darling,” Mummy said. “I hear that the princess has brought in Madame Yvonne, of all people. She’s a trifle passé, but she still makes some divine gowns. What’s yours like?”

“Divine,” I said. “You’ll be pleased with me. I actually look elegant.”

“Then we have hope of snaring a prince or a count for you yet,” Mummy said. “Toddle along then. Don’t keep Madame Yvonne waiting.”

I took the opportunity and fled, leaving her sitting with her legs stretched out in front of the fire. When I came out to the vast entrance hall I paused. What should I be doing? Seeking out Nicholas; speaking with Count Dragomir? It all seemed so pointless. Would Nicholas want to know that someone had tried to kill him? And what about Dragomir? Obviously my mother was right and the resemblance to that portrait was purely a coincidence. He hadn’t been alive since 1789—not unless he was one of the undead. That ridiculous thought flashed through my mind and I tried to stifle it. He had all the qualities one would expect of a vampire count—that pale skin, elegant demeanor, strangely staring light eyes, hollow cheeks. Rubbish, I said out loud, having picked up the word from Lady Middlesex. And as I had decided earlier, no undead person would need to administer poison. Poison at a dinner table bore the mark of a desperate, daring human being.