The Demon Count

by Anne Stuart

  I had a trifle too long to wait. Her slowness was just bordering on the reluctant, and the look in her milky blue eyes was disturbingly sly. Very interesting, I thought.

  "You must be Miss Morrow," she said briskly after a long moment. I nodded, waiting. "I'm Mildred Fenwick."

  I smiled with just the right degree of coolness. "Yes?"

  She appeared flustered, and I relaxed a bit of my haughty demeanor. "I'm Mr. Thornton's assistant."

  "Who, pray, is Mr. Thornton?"

  "The butler, Miss. And the majordomo of this godfor­saken house. Begging your pardon, miss. You took me by surprise—I'm sorry if I seemed rude. I serve as a sort of combination bookkeeper, seamstress, housekeeper . . . "

  "I thought Maddelena was the housekeeper?"

  She sniffed, that long thin nose pinching. "That peasant? She would hardly know how to run a gentleman's estate. She is in charge of the Italian servants, I am in charge of the British ones. Not that there are many left. Standards have become so lax."

  "How very interesting," I murmured, looking vague. "If you would be so kind, Miss . . ."

  "Fenwick," she supplied hastily, suddenly eager to please. "Mildred Fenwick."

  "Ah, yes, Miss Fenwick. As I was saying, if you would be so kind, I would greatly appreciate hearing exactly who are the members of this household. I find it all quite bewil­dering."

  She straightened her thin, overdressed body. I noted for the first time the unlikely red shade of her too-tight curls, the small blue bow attached incongruously to one of the side ringlets. Miss Fenwick was obviously not free from vanity.

  "My dear lady, if you would honor me for tea, I would be delighted to acquaint you with the workings of Eden­tide," she practically gushed.

  "That would be very kind of you, Miss Fenwick," I ac­quiesced. "I really am most curious about this strange place. This is the first time I've ever left England, you know."

  She responded to this ingenuousness with what I sus­pected was a false warmth and put one of her clawlike hands on my arm. "You poor child! It's no wonder you're all at sixes and sevens. I wish I'd never left that sceptered isle for this wretched swamp, indeed I do!" As she moved closer I caught the overpowering scent of cheap perfume, and I barely stopped myself from recoiling. "You come with me, my dear, and I'll ring for tea. Thank God we have an Englishwoman in the kitchens. I don't think I'd survive here if it weren't for a decent cup of tea."

  The small salon she led me to was scarcely cleaner than the abandoned rooms on the third floor. Mildred Fenwick must have caught my uncontrollable reaction, for she quickly dusted off the table with her delicate lace handker­chief, laughing in a highly affected manner. "The servants are disgraceful," she twittered. "If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times, they must dust and sweep every room twice a week, even the deserted ones on the third floor. Oh, I beg your pardon, you're on the third floor, aren't you?"

  I agreed that I was, seating myself gingerly on the frayed silk cushions of an unreliable-looking sofa.

  "That was none of my doing," she announced hastily. "I try and try, but in the end, who does that man listen to but his childhood nursemaid? She should have been pensioned off years ago."

  "I beg your pardon, Miss Fenwick, but you've lost me."

  "Maddelena!" she spat the name. "Nothing more than a filthy, ignorant old peasant. She was the count's nursemaid when he was young, over his dear mother's objections, of course. But in that one area the old count was firm, and poor Contessa del Zaglia couldn't budge him."

  "You knew his mother, then?" A healthy curiosity was perfectly acceptable in an English ninny, and I didn't bother to feign disinterest any more than my companion hesitated in divulging the intimate details of the Del Zaglias.

  "Knew her! My beloved Constance! Why, it was she who brought me here, may God rest her soul. When she married the count and moved to Venice she swore that she would have nothing but English servants around her. It was enough, she used to say, that she was forced to live in such a barbarous place, but she refused to be surrounded by foreigners all the time. There used to be a full com­plement of servants in the old days, of course. When my dear Constance was still alive, and when that poor girl who married Count Luc was here. Three gardeners, four house­maids, a cook, two kitchen maids, butler, valet, two foot­men, various ladies' maids. Only the laundresses and gon­doliers were Italian." She sighed at the unhappy state of things now. "At this poverty-stricken time we have only Mr. Thornton—a most estimable man." I could tell the aging spinster had her milky blue eyes on him. Hence the absurd bow and the too-youthful curls. "He came over as footman and stayed when everyone else left. And Mrs. Wattles is still here, thank the Lord. She's our cook, and heaven only knows she'd be turned out if it weren't that Count del Zag­lia detests Italian cooking."

  "And the Italian servants?"

  "Them!" Mildred Fenwick signaled her contempt with another expressive sniff. "Maddelena, of course. Antonio, the gondolier, who also assists as the count's valet. Several daily maids. And Rosetta."

  "Is that the very pretty girl who brought me my coffee this morning?" I questioned innocently.

  My companion looked at me for a moment, then opened her mouth like a fish, leaning closer to me and drowning me in her heavy scent. Before she could speak, Rosetta her­self appeared, her sandal-shod feet noiseless on the faded and raveled carpet, her carriage far more naturally graceful than I had ever managed.

  She set the heavily laden tea tray down in front of Miss Fenwick with a loud thump. Obviously there was no love lost between the two women. Their conversation, therefore, surprised me.

  "You are having tea with the little English pig, eh?" Rosetta questioned in her guttural Italian. "What good will that do you?"

  "How do you know she doesn't speak Italian?" Mildred questioned sharply, then smiled at me with great inno­cence. "She's probably not as stupid as she looks, you know."

  "Bah, she is an idiot. She won't interfere with either your plans or mine, signorina." She sketched a curtsey and van­ished. Both Mildred and I watched her beautifully formed back till it was out of sight, both sighing for what nature had deprived us of.

  "You were saying, Miss Fenwick?" I prompted.

  "Call me Mildred, my dear," she said absently as she poured me a cup of nice dark tea and then watered it down until it undoubtedly tasted like the canals. "That, of course, was Rosetta. She serves at meals, does a bit of haphazard dusting here and there. That's about all. She's here for very obvious reasons."

  "And those are?" I questioned, nibbling at the thickly buttered toast.

  She cast a suspicious look in my direction, and patted her too-perfect curls. "I hate to be blunt, my dear, but you'll find out soon enough. Rosetta spends a fair amount of her time in the count's bedroom. Because of that, there's no disciplining her, nor forcing her to do a speck of work more than she cares to. I realize it's disgraceful, but we're among foreigners, Miss Charlotte. They aren't like us."

  Amen for that, I thought fervently, disliking this avid little woman more and more the longer I sat with her.

  "But enough of such tawdry stuff. I presume you were on a tour of the palazzo when we met. I would be delighted to show you the rest of the place when we've finished this delicious tea." Mildred's mouth was full as she spoke, and the crumbs tumbled down her brown sateen front.

  This was the last thing I wanted. I much preferred pok­ing and prying by myself, but I could think of no good excuse to get rid of her, so I gave in with good grace, men­tally planning a second tour later. I was bent by many sins, including pride, gullibility, and suspicion. Worst of all was a positively common curiosity that had been the despair of Theresa and led me into worse scrapes than I cared to re­member. At this point I had no one to answer to but my­self, and for not the first time I decided to indulge myself as soon as I got the chance. In the meantime . . .

  "That would be delightful, Miss Fenwick," I said sweetly. "Mildred, then," I amended as she raised one
of her talonlike hands. For the first time I noticed the surpris­ingly beautiful sapphire ring, and I wondered how an émigré servant could own such a fine piece. Her alert eyes caught my expression. Instead of offering an explanation, however, she quickly hid her hand in her lap, away from my prying eyes.

  I was not one to take my proper cues, however. "What a lovely ring, Mildred! Is it a family heirloom, or a token from some admirer?"

  The look she cast me was one of strong dislike, quickly masked by an innocent simper. "A token of affection, Miss Charlotte. I seldom wear it . . . it's too large for my delicate hands." She made no effort to show me her trophy, however.

  "But what a shame! You should have it adjusted. I am persuaded that was a particularly fine sapphire."

  "Oh, heavens, no, my dear," she tittered, beads of ner­vous perspiration breaking out on her lined forehead be­neath the frizz of orange bangs. "Merely a very pretty quartz. What would I be doing with sapphires?" She laughed again, nervously. What indeed? I thought grimly. Something very strange is going on at the Palazzo Eden- tide, and it doesn't all stem from the villainous count.

  The rest of the tour would have been tiresome were it not for the oppressive yet strangely beguiling ornateness of the palazzo. Centuries of Venetian artistic genius had gone into the making of this dainty, elegant mansion, and centu­ries of Venetian love of beauty, art, and music had tem­pered the almost Eastern opulence with a sly charm, rather like a child dressed in its mother's clothes, dignified yet playful. As I wandered through the remainder of the forty rooms of what Mildred stigmatized as a "small dwelling," I found myself responding once more to the enchantment of the Queen of the Adriatic. Were it not for the depressing correctness of my companion, I could have danced down the dust-specked halls, waltzed in the huge abandoned ball­room with the bright Venetian sunlight as my partner and the glorious ceiling (painted by Titian himself, Mildred as­sured me) smiling down on me. As it was I did neither, merely nodded solemnly at Mildred Fenwick's continuing round of plaintive remarks.

  We ended our tour in the bowels of the house, the dark and dank-smelling kitchen. The room was steamy and odor­ous, a combination of oil, boiled mutton, freshly baked bread, and human sweat. Not terribly appetizing, I thought critically, and then turned to greet the cook with surprise and unfeigned warmth.

  Mrs. Wattles was so round, so rosy-cheeked, so good- natured and so very English that I could have thrown my arms around her in sudden delight. Here was something I recognized, a part of England that would never change no matter to what heathenish places it was transplanted. Women like Florence Wattles had been ruling wealthy British kitchens since the time of William the Conqueror and perhaps even before. The very permanence of her sturdy frame and cockney accent set my mind at rest for the first time since I arrived in the strange, enchanted city.

  Apparently I had almost the same effect on Mrs. Wat­tles, for she dabbed at her bespectacled eyes with her spot­less apron with great sentimentality. "Eh, and it's a bit of old England like I thought I'd never see again. You're a blessed sight for these old eyes, miss, that you are. Only a pure young English girl could look like you, with that guinea-gold hair and the kind of skin these Eye-talian love­lies would murder for. It'll be a rare pleasure to serve you, miss."

  For not the first time I wondered how such insipid looks as mine could command such admiration, but I dutifully smiled and blushed and thanked the dear lady.

  "And good English food you'll be having, just like you're used to," she reassured me, shaking her head up and down vigorously so that her chins shook. "Master Luc won't stand for no Eye-talian food. Hates the smell of garlic, he does. Why, I once used just a touch in a pot roast; thought I might spice it up a bit, and do you know what hap­pened?"

  I confessed I didn't, and the voluble creature continued, "He walked right out of the house. Rose up from the din­ner table, threw down his napkin, and stormed out without a word. And him having twenty guests to dinner at the time, mostly Austrians and Frenchies and the like." She sniffed. "Not that they deserved better treatment. Pack of foreigners. But it's a funny thing, miss. I was sure Madde­lena told me to use garlic that day. I must have been mis­taken." She sighed gustily, and I caught the faint trace of gin on her breath.

  "Yes, you must have been," Mildred cut in coldly, and I could see there was little love lost between the two English ladies. We beat a hasty retreat as Mrs. Wattles invited me to stop in anytime and we could have a comfortable coze, but I was caught up in the sinister implications of the strange little episode that had preyed on the cook's doubt­less far from insightful mind. The count had a desperate hatred of garlic, had he? Now why did that ring such an ominous bell in my usually excellent memory?

  "You'll have to excuse Mrs. Wattles," Mildred mur­mured conspiratorially, trying to slip one of her hands through my arm with ingratiating friendliness. With a fair amount of subtlety I evaded her pawing. "She's getting on in years and is prone to fancies. Besides, she drinks."

  "Fancies?" I echoed.

  "About the garlic. She's been listening to the Italian ser­vants and refined too much on it. I do hope you won't be so gullible."

  I stopped still in the middle of the hallway, the dark and gloomy ancestors of the Del Zaglia family staring down at the two English ladies with amused disdain. "What would I have to be gullible about, Miss Fenwick?"

  "Mildred," she corrected coyly.

  I waved that aside impatiently. "What would I have to fee gullible about?"

  "Why, the supposed curse of the Del Zaglias. It's all non­sense, of course. Do you think I'd work here if I believed a word of it?" Nevertheless, the older woman peered over her shoulder with a sudden nervous start.

  "I have no idea what you'd do, Mildred. I scarcely know you. What is the curse of the Del Zaglias?" Some deep- seated cowardly part of me didn't really want to know, and for a moment I considered turning my back on her and running all the way up two flights of stairs to my bedroom before she could frighten me further than my too-believing mind had.

  She lowered her voice ominously. "It is said that the Del Zaglias are . . . are . . . vampiros."

  "Vampiros!" I questioned. My excellent Italian had not encompassed that word, but there could be little question of its English translation.

  "Vampires," she whispered. "The living dead."

  "That's absurd," I lowered my voice also, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

  "Of course it is," she proclaimed stoutly, her slightly protruding eyes darting nervously around in her head. "But still, there are disconcerting coincidences. No one ever sees the count when the sun is up. He never seems to eat any­thing, never attends church. And he hates garlic. You will also notice there are no mirrors in the house, except for your room."

  I pulled myself together. "That's awfully little to con­demn a man on," I snapped. "You should be ashamed of yourself, spreading such rumors."

  "You would have heard them sooner or later," she sniffed indignantly. "Better you heard it from someone who was on the count's side, and not one of his far-too- numerous enemies." She moved closer to me, and her scent was overpowering. "But I swear to you, miss, half of Ven­ice believes it of him. They are all terrified. And sometimes when I see him, looking so much like a . . . a prince of darkness, I can't help but wonder . . ."

  This was too much, even for me. Grimly I fought the thrill of horror that ran along my backbone. "You are a foolish, gossiping woman, Miss Fenwick," I said sharply. "You should be defending your employer, not spreading lies. I have a good mind to mention this to the count." I would do no such thing, but I was horrified by her reac­tion.

  Mildred Fenwick screamed, a shrill, terrified shriek, and clutched at my resisting hand, babbling in her terror, "Oh, please, miss, don't. You wouldn't be so cruel, miss, you wouldn't! He'd kill me as soon as look at me, I know he would. Please, miss. And I'll return the ring, I promise."

  It took surprising strength to pry loose her clinging hands. "Calm yo
urself, Mildred. I promise I won't mention it. But I trust you won't be so foolish as to mention this ever again. It's both absurd and wicked."

  "Oh, yes, miss. Thank you, miss. May God bless you, miss, for your kindness!" The poor woman must be a little mad, I thought with both distaste and pity.

  I turned away and left her, making my way directly back toward the dubious haven of my own room, unable to rid my mind of the sight of Mildred Fenwick staring after me, a haggard expression on her pinched face, a look of fear and . . . was it pity? . . . in her faded blue eyes. Just as I couldn't wipe from my mind the hideous image of Luci- fero, so like the fallen angel, bending over some poor young thing and draining her of her life's blood. It wasn't my fault if in that image he seemed more like a lover than a murderer.

  And I remembered Jean-Baptiste Perrier's ghoul of Ven­ice, and I couldn't help but recall the cold, amused expres­sion on the count's face as he listened to the atrocities. In an upsurge of unreasoning terror, I picked up my skirts and ran the rest of the way to the third floor, locking the heavy door firmly behind me.

  Chapter Eight

  I slept fitfully that night, not to my great surprise. I ate the large, garlicless meal sent up to me by Mrs. Wattles more out of duty than pleasure, ignored the bitter red wine after a tentative sip, and roamed the confines of my room, pacing back and forth while I tried to reason with that base, superstitious, cowardly part of myself that usually re­mained blissfully hidden. For there was no denying that a good part of me was completely and totally terrified, be­lieving in Mildred Fenwick's demon of the night and all the horrors accompanying it. Now I understood the looks, the terror, the horror on so many previously friendly faces when I spoke my guardian's name.

  But that's absurd, I informed myself with a stern good sense that would have pleased cold and practical Theresa. The poor man can't help being desperately romantic- looking, rather like that previous intermittent Venetian, Lord Byron. It was his dark and brooding beauty that gave rise to these foul rumours, coupled with his unfortunately cynical manner. But any number of coincidences do not a fiend from hell make. Pleased with my oratory, I retired to a fitful and dream-tossed sleep. To my horror and displeas­ure, my dreams were of Count Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia, but they did not present him in the guise of a mur­derer. Instead he kept intruding into my somnolence in the most disturbingly romantic fashion, those cynical topaz eyes meeting mine with promises better left unspoken while his elegant white hands stroked me in ways no man had ever attempted. The bloodstone ring gleamed against my pale skin. When I awoke I was hot all over, despite the chill damp of the room, and my hands trembled. Moonlight was streaming in my balcony, calling to me. Nobly I tried to ignore it, shutting my eyes against its silver beams. But the excess of sleep I had enjoyed in the past few days had finally taken its toll, and the night was far from still. Male voices seemed to echo through the ancient walls of Eden­tide, and I wondered whether our neighbors were having a party.