The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  "No," I repeated in a milder tone of voice. "But it doesn't matter what he looks like, as long as we're able to do what I came here for. And you're not to interfere, either of you," I added warningly, placing no reliance on their agreement.

  "How can you expect me not to interfere?" he demanded irritably. "You're putting your head in a noose, and it's my unfortunate duty to protect you.

  "You can protect me," I allowed him graciously, "but you can't interfere. Or I'll have you carted back to England by one of Bones's henchmen."

  "You couldn't!" he harrumphed.

  "Oh, yes, she could," Maggie informed him grimly, recognizing the determined expression on my face. "Best leave her to handle it as she thinks best. In the meantime we have more important problems to deal with."

  "And what problems are those?" I demanded with real curiosity.

  She sniffed at my disavowal of the obvious. "Why, to find out who that devastating fellow was, to meet him again, and to do something about your wretched wardrobe. I wouldn't be caught dead in things you wear."

  Normally I ignored Maggie's constant com­plaints, but for some reason tonight they struck a responsive chord. Perhaps it was the mood of the magic city, the wide expanse of the Grand Canal stretching out around us. Perhaps I had just reached the age to be interested in men. Or per­haps it was that man.

  "May I suggest," Uncle Mark interrupted dryly, having recovered his equilibrium, "that we con­tinue this discussion later? And that in the mean­time we have this villainous-looking gondolier head for the nearest hotel catering to English travelers and plan what we shall do next. I know" —he held up a restraining hand at my bubbling protest—"you want to go directly to Edentide. No doubt we shall pass it on the way. If you do insist on cleaning the old wreck yourself, I will do all I can to assist you. But after a week of traveling I think we all deserve a good night's sleep on clean linen in a rat-free bedroom. Do you not agree?"

  "You promise to let us go to Edentide tomor­row?" I demanded suspiciously.

  "I most solemnly swear," he pledged, holding up his right hand in a theatrical gesture.

  "In that case, an English hotel," I mimicked him, "would be most welcome."

  No sooner had I reached my small, clean, En­glish bedroom than I fell into a long, exhausted sleep, which was only slightly troubled by dreams. Dreams of the mysterious and romantic Venetian spy, Tonetti, who bore a startling resemblance to the scarred Englishman.

  It wasn't until midmorning that I awoke, sun­light streaming in my hotel windows. Still in a stupor of sleep, I stumbled to answer the incessant knocking at my door and in a daze received an armful of flowers from a smirking chambermaid.

  By the time I tipped her and locked the door behind her inquisitive figure, I was wide awake. It took me only a moment to find the note amid the fragrant mimosa blossoms, only another few seconds to scan the scrawled and ill-spelled mes­sage.

  "Sweet Goddess," it began, "I saw you last night and gave to you my heart. Only say I might dare to hope. A brief glimpse of you is all I crave. I will be at the Merceria this morning by the perfume stalls. One small glance is all I ask, my precious pigeon. I live only for that moment. Your devoted slave, Enrico Addonizio Valentino Tonetti."

  The scent wafting from the paper assured me that my admirer had already spent far too much time by the perfume stalls. I hesitated for only a moment. I ordered a brief meal and gobbled it in two minutes flat. Then I wasted another half hour pawing through my meager wardrobe, look­ing in vain for something the slightest bit flattering. Everything was either a muddy brown or a dull, bottle green, four years out of date, and more suited to a governess than a del Zaglia. It was a little past ten when I hammered on Maggie's door, bursting into her room with an excited good morning.

  She eyed me from beneath the covers, a sour expression on her face. "What time is it?" she muttered suspiciously.

  "Incredibly late, my girl. Past ten!" I threw open the shutters and stared out at the canal below me, my nostrils taking in the strong reek of sea water and garbage as it floated by.

  "Miss Luciana," Maggie began in a dangerous tone of voice, tossing back the light covers, "we didn't arrive in Venice until past nine last night.

  We didn't reach our rooms at this bleedin' hotel until after midnight, and we've been traveling hell-bent for the past week, during which I've not had a decent night's sleep the entire time. And you have the bloody nerve to come bouncing in here when I've just begun to catch up on me beauty rest . . ."

  "Botheration!" I dismissed her complaints cheer­fully. "Just look out at this beautiful city and tell me that you want to sleep some more!"

  With great dignity and bedclothes trailing, she stalked to the window, stuck her curl-papered head out, withdrew it, and stalked back to the bed. "Yes I" she said succinctly, sitting down with a plop.

  "With all those so very handsome Venetian men wandering around down there? And me with shopping to do, and no one to come with me and help me deal with them all?" I questioned mourn­fully.

  In a twinkling the bedclothes were on the floor, followed by Maggie's nightgown, curl papers, and chin strap. Another couple of minutes had her turned out in great style in a cherry-red striped gown, which made me appear the gangling ser­vant, towering as I did behind her in my sober green dress.

  "And what shopping have we to do?" she demanded, pulling her reticule over one heavy- boned wrist. Despite my length my bones were delicately shaped, preserving me from looking too much a freak, and every now and then I thanked providence for that small mercy.

  "Cleaning supplies, food, etc. The Merceria should be the place for all that. And I thought. . ." I let it trail off in sudden embarrassment.

  "Yes?" she demanded, casting a knowing eye at my blushes.

  "I thought we . . . we might visit a dressmaker. I've heard a great deal about the Venetian dress­makers," I excused it lamely.

  "Absolutely not!" she said stoutly, striding out into the hallway. "We will buy some lengths of cloth, and I will make some dresses for you. These Eyetalians cannot be trusted when it comes to the dressing of an English lady."

  "But I'm half Italian," I argued. "And besides, I thought you fancied the Venetian men."

  "I do, indeed. But what's good enough for me doesn't come close to being good enough for you, Miss Luciana. We might buy you some Venetian lace," she allowed generously. "But you'll leave it to me to make it up."

  Maggie, when she got the bit between her teeth, was not to be moved, and indeed, in this case, I was just as happy to let her have her way. Having an eye for clothes and limited means, she'd learned to take a natural talent for the needle and turn it into an art, making some of my mother's most elegant dresses, and I had only to exercise the mildest of restraints as we pored over the bolts and bolts of rich fabric.

  "I absolutely won't wear pink," I said firmly, dismissing a pastel silk an eager merchant in the Merceria thrust forward for my maid's exacting eye. The scent stalls were not far away, and I scanned them eagerly, hoping to recognize my partner in crime. I turned back to Maggie after a moment none the wiser. "I need something more subdued." I shifted the huge bundle of soaps and rags that we'd bought earlier, trying to make my point.

  "All your life you've worn subdued clothing, Miss Luciana, and where has it got you? It's time for something more daring. That's it!" She pounced on a length of deep rose, holding it aloft with a cry of triumph.

  "That's still pink," I said mutinously, won over despite myself by the glowing shade of the silk. I couldn't control the eerie sensation that we were being watched, and once more I shifted our purchases, casting a searching eye over the as­sembled shoppers. There was no sign of any devoted admirer, no sign of anyone the least bit suspicious-looking. The bustling, crowded shop­ping area of Venice, with its rich smell of spices, ancient fish, and fresh flowers, was even thankfully void of the bright white-and-gold uniforms of the Austrian invaders. I shook myself nervously. To­netti hadn't promised he'd contact me—he'd said
he only wanted a glimpse. Well, I had the nasty feeling he was getting an eyeful.

  "Perfect," Maggie breathed over the silk, ignor­ing my objections, which were halfhearted any­way. "With a deep flounce in the skirt, a small crinoline. . ." she sighed dreamily, "and lace around the necklace. You'll look a dream, Miss Luciana."

  "I do hope so," I said cynically, dropping soap on my foot. "Not that it matters."

  "Of course it matters," she said stoutly. "And don't think I don't know what prompted this sud­den interest in clothes. I'll tell you what: Each time you see your mysterious gentleman, I'll make you a new dress. That way you could get yourself a husband and a new wardrobe at the same time, the one helping the other, so to speak."

  The rest of the soap followed onto the cobble­stones, accompanied by packets of tea, sugar, gin­ger biscuits, and nectarines. "You'd best pick out some more material, Maggie," I said in a strangled voice. "He's over there." At the sight of the En­glishman, Tonetti fled my mind completely.

  She whirled around, nearly dropping the lovely rose silk into the mud along with our food. "Where?" she demanded.

  "Stop staring," I hissed. "I don't want him to see us." He was quite a way up the alley, his back to us, the dark blond hair glinting in the sunlight that played cruelly on his scarred cheek. Maggie fol­lowed the direction of my gaze, sighing soulfully.

  "I do think that scar is ever so romantic," she breathed. Turning briskly back to the eager ven­der, she pointed toward a bolt of deep blue cotton with tiny white flowers. "We'll take that, too." I turned around to protest, but she merely met my objections with a bland smile. "A bargain is a bar­gain, Miss Luciana."

  My once-bulging reticule was sadly depleted at the end of our bartering. Out of the corner of my eye I had watched the tall Englishman, covertly fascinated by the long, lean strength of him. He seemed to have no particular business in the Merceria, merely wandering from stall to stall, paying no marked attention to anyone or thing. Not even, unfortunately, to me. For a moment I toyed with the idea that he was, in fact, Tonetti, and then reluctantly dismissed it. I had Bones's assurance that Tonetti was Venetian, and the man ahead of me was most definitely British. That, combined with his total lack of interest in me, forced me to abandon the romantic hope that he was my con­federate. Turning to Maggie I suggested in an off­hand whisper, "Why don't we just . . . sort of wander around and look at things?"

  She grinned up at me. "I'm game if you are, Miss Luciana. Wouldn't want to let a live one get away." She trotted pertly off in his direction, leav­ing me to struggle behind, still clutching my myr­iad of parcels, desperate to stop my impulsive maid before she made a spectacle of the both of us. As we neared the Englishman she suddenly disap­peared down a side lane beside a fish stall.

  Rushing after her, I took no notice of the prox­imity of our innocent quarry. Suddenly a foot was stuck in my hurried path, a hand gave me a rough shove, and I ended sprawled on the ground, my poor damaged parcels around me like presents around a Christmas tree.

  Two strong, tanned hands reached down for me, and I was gently, inexorably pulled to my feet to enjoy the quite novel sensation of looking up into the warmest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. I smiled up at him in dazed delight, and those beautifully shaped lips curved into an answering smile, which made the scar on his right cheek stretch and the small, fine fines around his eyes crease. And then, as if it had never been there, the smile disappeared from his face like the sun going behind a cloud, replaced by a look of stiff suspicion.

  "I trust you're all right?" His voice was coolly, beautifully British, deep and rich despite his sud­den, inexplicable dislike of me.

  "Quite," I replied hurriedly. "Thank you so .. Before I could finish my thanks I found my arms filled with my bundles.

  "Think nothing of it," he said brusquely. "But I suggest, miss, that you watch where you're going next time." And with that he disappeared into the curious crowd of shoppers, much as he had the night before.

  "Well, of all the rude . . ." I sputtered, staring after him with indignant fascination. I had never met anyone so impolite in my short, sheltered life. It was both novel and disturbing. Added to the already upsetting effect the man had on me, it took a few moments before I realized that Maggie had reappeared at my side.

  "Are you all right, Miss Luciana?" she inquired anxiously. "I hope I didn't push you too hard."

  I stared at her in amazement. "Damn you, Mag­gie," I cursed when I got my breath back. "What an idiotic idea! I've got bruises from head to toe, a scratch on my face, our food is probably ruined . . ."

  "But you got to meet him, didn't you?" she de­manded, as if that were all that mattered.

  As indeed it was. "I did. And he was abominably rude. I've quite lost interest in the man, I assure you. Mind how you carry that silk, you'll drop it!" I muttered as we threaded our way back toward the hotel. Her answer was a disbelieving laugh.

  So caught up was I with indignant fascination that I failed to pay much heed to the handsome, aging gondolier who stared at us with intense in­terest out of moist, spaniel eyes. With a brief glance I dismissed him as one more hapless male bemused by Maggie's twitching little bottom or her companion's statuesque and overgenerous pro­portions. The scarred Englishman had banished all thought of my mission from my featherbrained little head.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My arrival at Edentide, the ancestral home of the del Zaglias for generations untold, was hardly be­fitting the return of the native. Uncle Mark was up and fuming when we arrived back at the hotel and accompanied us down the wide, dark, green, and crowded expanse of the Grand Canal in a high dudgeon, scarcely replying to my commonplace pleasantries.

  "You would think," he uttered in awful tones at one point, "that one of you would have more brains than a peahen. In a strange city, on a mysterious and dangerous mission, and the two of you run off like giggling schoolgirls and return loaded with dress material and tea! Absurd!"

  "But, Uncle Mark," I protested sweetly, "we needed the tea. And the cleaning supplies. We could hardly set up housekeeping in a filthy dungeon without tea, could we?"

  "You already know my opinion of your intended residence," he growled. "And what do you intend to do with the pink silk . . . scrub floors with it?"

  "Rose silk," I corrected absently, "Maggie's go­ing to make me a dress."

  "Harrumph. So I gathered. Not that you don't sorely need one. Never saw such a shabbily dressed girl in my life. Nevertheless, your first morning in Venice is hardly the time or the place to embark on a new wardrobe."

  "I disagree," Maggie piped up with her usual pertness.

  "You would," he said morosely. "I should have known Luciana would wander off like a curious child, but I thought you would be able to exercise a little more control over her."

  Maggie laughed. "Small chance of that happen­ing, Mr. Ferland. Now or ever."

  We were so busy wrangling I hadn't noticed our large and ancient gondola had pulled along a deserted, moss-coated marble quay. Looking up with a start, I had my first conscious view of Eden­tide in all its gloomy, ancient, marble glory.

  There wasn't much color to her at this point. The last twenty years must have dealt harshly with her, for I could scarcely imagine my fastidious father inhabiting a place anywhere near this state of decrepitude. Gargoyles with chipped and broken noses adorned the corners of the top floor, the wrought-iron balustrades were rusted from the salty sea air, the shutters were closed and angry- looking.

  I must have appeared somewhat daunted, for Uncle Mark let out a sour laugh of triumph. "You see what I mean? This never was a very welcoming place, even when your father made some effort to keep it up. I doubt it's even safe to walk in there anymore. I presume you've thought better of your rash plan?"

  "I most certainly have not!" I climbed out of the gondola with surprising ease and scrambled onto the slippery quay. "I know perfectly well that father has sent regular sums of money to keep Edentide from sinking into the lagoon. Just enough to p
reserve it until the Austrians leave. I have no doubt we'll find it sturdy enough."

  "And you think these villains would actually put the money to its assigned use?" he scoffed.

  I met his gaze calmly. "Do you think they would dare not?" This, of course, was unanswer­able, and Uncle Mark scrambled out of the gon­dola with far less grace than I had managed. Maggie fared worst of all, requiring the strong arms of the handsome gondolier to practically carry her onto the fondamento.

  I kept an expression of curious interest all dur­ing our long and disheartening tour of Edentide. Uncle Mark and I were both right. It was filthy and mildewed and rather horrid. It was also bliss­fully free of rats, thanks to the presence of three rather fat ginger cats with clean habits, and the floors and walls were as solid as when the first piles had been driven into the soft mud of the lagoon.

  I had immediately been attracted to the small salon on the west side of the house. The walls were covered in stained golden silk, the sconces were tarnished, the furniture frayed. But once I flung open the shutters, a great deal of sunlight and fresh sea air poured in, and I was able to view the carnage around me with a bit more equanimity.

  And then began the orgy of cleaning. We de­cided not to bother with any floor but the main one, and Maggie and I spent the next five hours scrubbing, dusting, sweeping, beating rugs, wash­ing windows, beating feather ticks, while poor Uncle Mark was instructed to cart various articles of furniture up and down the dirty marble stairs. By the approach of five o'clock we had gotten the west salon in charming order, with a clean floor, shining sconces, scrubbed upholstery only slightly more frayed than when we had entered the house, and polished tables and desks. I sank onto a par­ticularly inviting chaise longue, feeling incredibly tired and incredibly dirty but very pleased with myself. Maggie plopped into a chair beside me, a streak of soot across her flushed and glowing face.