Verse of the Vampyre Read Online Free Page B

presence. The first man went to join him.
    Grace hesitated, but it was not a moment for small talk, and there was apparently nothing she could do to help them. She called good night, which went unanswered, and hurried back to the warmth and safety of her car.
     
    With a ghastly shriek of hinges—suitable to the material to be rehearsed that night—the door to the Innisdale Playhouse opened.
    Unlike Keswick’s Theatre by the Lake (“Home to Cumbria’s Leading Professional Theatre Company!”) or Ulverston’s stately Coronation Hall, where the South Cumbria Music Festival was held annually, the Innisdale Playhouse was small and dilapidated. While some Lake District theaters could boast romantic histories, the Playhouse was merely old. Jazz festivals and touring ballet companies generally declined the opportunity to grace the Playhouse’s weathered boards, and so far no benevolent grand dame of the London stage had bestowed any favors upon its sparsely shingled roof.
    Which, in Grace’s opinion, and despite her earlier comments to Peter, made Lord Ruthven’s interest in a local production of Polidori’s The Vampyre all the odder.
    But then, Grace reflected, letting the heavy side entrance door slam shut behind her, everything about the production was odd. It wasn’t only that Ruthven had voluntarily involved himself in an amateur theater production that seemed unlikely to further his—or anyone else’s career—but Derek Derrick had signed on. Granted, Derrick was a struggling TV actor who believed working with Ruthven would be good for his career.
    As for Grace, she had agreed to help out because she was a firm believer in getting involved. If she was going to live for any length of time in Innisdale (assuming there was any point in staying beyond the run of her sabbatical), she would have to cultivate more friends, discover independent interests, make her own way. And, well, she had thought the play sounded like fun. That had been back in the good old days when she was still under the impression that Byron had written The Vampyre .
    The stage was lit, and the cast and crew of The Vampyre assembled in front of a painted backdrop of Transylvanian-looking landscape complete with cliffs, bats and gloomy castle.
    Tall and strikingly beautiful, Catriona Ruthven sat on a packing crate with her legs boyishly crossed, managing to make jeans and a leather jacket look like haute couture. As Grace made her way through the aisle between velvet-covered tip-up chairs, she heard the other woman drawl, “The time for discussion is past.”
    A rhythmic thudding followed Catriona’s words. Grace was familiar with the sound of Lady Venetia Brougham’s ebony walking stick hitting the stage boards. From a distance, the local Byronic scholar looked like a child; the synthetic gloss of her black bob and the bright blue of her silk dress disguised the fact that she was about eighty years old. The pounding was followed by her imperious, “If I am to finance this spectacle, I believe I should have a say!”
    “You had a say. And then some.” Catriona met the reptilian glint of Lady Vee’s gaze and raised one supercilious eyebrow. It was a very irritating expression, as Grace well knew, because Peter had the same trick.
    “Ladies, please.” Lord Ruthven looked up from his clipboard. He sounded wearier than ever—and no wonder, thought Grace. She was feeling the lack of sleep herself. “We have covered this ground.” The play’s producer and director wore black jeans and a black turtleneck; he generally wore black, reflected Grace. He also wore eyeliner. Perhaps he was a fan of Goth. That might explain his appalling taste in dramatic material.
    “Not to my satisfaction!” snapped Lady Vee. Then her tone changed. “Ah, my deah!” she purred, greeting Grace like an old friend, as Grace joined the enclave on stage. “I know you will see my point.”
    Grace nearly glanced behind, seeking the person Lady Vee addressed, but caught