The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  "And for divorcing that . . . that monster of depravity he's ostracized from society?" I de­manded, outraged.

  Lady Bute shrugged, leaning against the marble balustrade and plucking a bright orange nastur­tium from the flower box. "Such is the way of the world, my dear. There are certain rules, and if we relax them, civilization will topple."

  "Civilization will not topple if people are sym­pathetic to a man who's obviously been through hell," I said crossly.

  "Sympathetic?" she echoed, amused. "He wouldn't thank you for that, my dear. And I have a double reason for not introducing you. He de­tests women. Ever since Amelia he's decided we're all either sluts, teases, deviants, or useless, idle gossips." I could recognize who fell into that last category. "You wouldn't get a decent word out of him."

  "I've already had several."

  My companion sighed gustily. "Perhaps you're the one to convince him he's wrong about our fair sex. I must confess, if I were unmarried and ten years younger, I'd be tempted to give it a try myself. I do so love a rake."

  "A rake! I thought you said he hated women?"

  She smiled, a sly, secret smile. "But those, my dear, are the best kind."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There was no changing Lady Bute's determination not to introduce me to my scarred Englishman. I couldn't help but wonder whether jealousy might be behind it.

  "Well, then, I will simply have to introduce myself," I declared sweetly, heading back toward the gathering.

  "You wouldn't dare!" Lady Bute scurried to catch up with me, dropping the torn petals on the marble terrace, her expression both aghast and amused. "My dear, remember, you're a del Zaglia!"

  "That's exactly what I am remembering," I re­plied stoutly. "My parents would never approve of ignoring a man for such idiotic reasons."

  A note of panic crept into my companion's voice as she placed a restraining, jeweled hand upon my arm. "I'm not saying you should ignore him. If you meet him you should nod pleasantly and walk on. But to actually seek out his com­pany . . ." She shuddered delicately, and I laughed.

  "Never fear, Lady Bute," I reassured her, de­taching her clinging hands with gentle strength, "the Lord protects fools and innocents. And I have it on the best authority that I'm both."

  As I started off toward my quarry I thought I heard her mutter, "No doubt." But I was set upon my course by this time and ignored the carping remark.

  Evan Fitzpatrick was standing in a corner, deep in conversation with a voluptuous blonde lady in an indecently low-cut dress for that hour of the day. As far as I could tell he was completely un­aware of my presence, but instinctively I knew that was untrue. He was as fully aware of me as I was of him, and the thought both frightened and warmed me.

  As I neared his corner of the room some of my bravado had begun to fade. I could scarcely barge into the middle of his seemingly fascinating con­versation, hold out one slender hand, and an­nounce my name. Besides, in some obscure manner he already seemed to know who I was.

  I cast a desperate glance around the room, hop­ing to find Uncle Mark. He could perform the introductions I so desperately wanted. But his graying head was nowhere in sight, nor was there anyone else with whom I was more than casually acquainted.

  From out of nowhere a cup of tea was thrust at me, and unthinkingly I accepted it, not bothering to see who offered it. I took a large gulp out of the strong, peaty stuff, my eyes still upon my quarry.

  Another swallow and absently I glanced down at the saucer in my hand, and the small twist of paper that was rapidly soaking up the slopped- over tea.

  In the blink of an eye I had the damp missive safely tucked in my ever-present reticule, my heart beating faster than usual as I glanced around me with feigned interest. For a moment all thought of Evan Fitzpatrick fled my mind as I searched the crowds for a suspicious face. Everyone seemed intent on their own concerns, and I moved closer to Evan and his obviously Austrian harlot.

  I edged near enough so that I could hear his voice, that cool, clipped, British voice, which for some reason had the power to move me more than any voice I had ever heard. His scarred side was toward me, and once more I wondered at his dis­figurement's ability to render him even more attractive. At that moment his eyes met mine, then passed over me with complete and bone-chilling indifference.

  I stood there in helpless hurt, stunned at his cool disdain. For a moment I imagined how amused Lady Bute would be. Having informed me that it was my duty to give Evan the cut direct, she would be delighted to know that he had taken that prerogative.

  Momentarily downcast, I searched around for a quick exit before I made a complete fool of my­self. A very handsome, somewhat overscented Ve­netian manservant of uncertain age hovered nearby. As my eyes met his he immediately began bearing down on me, a large silver tray full of teacups and cookies balanced precariously. The crowds thinned out in front of him, and he con­tinued forward, obviously with the blissful as­sumption that all would move out of his elegantly graceful way. My evil half took over, my delicate foot slipped out, and the servant, the tray, and all its contents crashed into Evan Fitzpatrick and his companion, covering the sensuous blonde with crumbs and tea, staining her low-cut lavender dress and dowsing her elaborate curls. Evan had moved in time, receiving the dregs of a cup or two, and my own rose silk escaped with only a drop or two on the hem.

  The blonde shrieked in German words no lady should ever use, and I was doubly glad I had managed to inundate both a hated Austrian and an inamorata of my Englishman. I turned sud­denly, and my self-satisfied smirk met his cool, deep blue eyes. Immediately I changed my ex­pression to one of deep concern, but it was too late. A look of reluctant amusement crept into his eyes, and a slight smile curved his molded lips. Grinning back unashamedly, I turned and swept away from the melee, pleased to have survived, and even won, that last encounter.

  Uncle Mark was waiting for me on the side terrace. "What's all that screeching in there?" he demanded. "Never heard such a racket in all my life. These parties are getting damnably under­bred."

  I thought of Evan, and barely controlled my impulse to rise to his defense. Mark had disap­peared so early, he probably hadn't even noticed his presence.

  "Some Austrian lady," I replied calmly. "And I use the term 'lady' very loosely, indeed. A servant spilled a tray of tea and cookies all over her." I smiled.

  Uncle Mark met that smile. "Assisted by a certain young English lady, no doubt?"

  I nodded, descending the polished marble steps. "Do you know, uncle, I feel more and more Venetian the longer I stay here? And yet I also feel more and more British. It's very confusing."

  "I dare say," he replied absently. "That's what comes of intermarriage. Now if your mother had seen fit to marry me . . ." He handed me into the gondola.

  "Then you would have had a nice, placid, blonde English daughter," I completed the sen­tence. "With no such problems to contend with."

  "I would hope," he said sincerely, "that our daughter would have been just like you."

  I was touched, but couldn't help laughing. "I doubt you would, dear uncle. I am very much my father's daughter. If your wife had given birth to me there would be little doubt as to what she'd been doing nine months before."

  "Luciana!" Uncle Mark protested, deeply shocked. His outrage was enough to last the trip back to the slime-covered portal of Edentide, but it also fortunately rescued him from his ever- increasing sentimental moods. It was all I could do to be polite and leisurely with the latest mis­sive burning a hole in my reticule and my patience. By some stroke of fortune he decided to leave me at the door, and it took only a small amount of subterfuge to escape Maggie's watchful eye long enough to untwist the sodden piece of paper and decipher the blurred message.

  "My beloved! I long for a brief word, a glance, a touch! A midnight rendezvous would greatly benefit many people. Be so good as to wear a mask and domino. A gondolier will be waiting by the

  Rio di S. Felice at eleven thirty. Be there,
or I will throw myself into the canals. Your most de­voted servant, Enrico Tonetti."

  The note was poorly spelled as before, and I was more conscious than anything of a feeling of desperate uncertainty. I longed more than any­thing to crumple the thinly veiled instructions and grind them beneath my heelless morocco slippers.

  Quickly I pulled myself together, casting a speaking glance at my misty-eyed reflection in the gilt mirror. "For shame, Luciana!" I scolded in a soft voice. "What would Bones think of you, ready to abandon the future of Venice for the sake of a pair of silver-blue eyes? What would your ances­tors think, one of which was a cousin to a doge? What would Luc think? What would your mother think?"

  Ah, but Carlotta Theresa Sabina Morrow del Zaglia would understand very well, I realized, thinking of my mother with belated fondness. But I knew with a sinking certainty that if I abandoned my quest, even if they all forgave me, I would never forgive myself.

  Crumpling the note slowly, I was brutally aware of how alone and unprotected I was. I wished more than anything that Evan Fitzpatrick would appear as suddenly and mysteriously as he had already in the past two days, watching over me as I entered into the lion's den.

  I dressed once more in one of my bottle-green dresses, hanging the rose silk in the cupboard with meticulous care. Maggie's questions seemed to have no end, and I answered them the best I could as I ate a nervous, scanty meal in the west salon and prepared for my first crack at espionage.

  "Well, then, Miss Luciana," Maggie demanded as she finished the last of the fried eels that some­how failed to excite my appetite, "what do you think of him now? Don't you think you might do better with one of those nice young men from home that have been buzzing around you this past year or more? Johnny Phillips or the Viscount Herington?" She knew the answer before I even spoke it. A lifetime together banishes a lot of sur­prises.

  "Maggie," I said in a quiet, determined voice. "I think you should be the first to know. Once I'm finished here in Venice I intend to marry Evan Fitzpatrick or damned well die trying."

  An unreadable expression passed over Maggie's pert face. "And what do you think your parents will say to that?" she questioned prosaically.

  "I don't care. I think they'll trust my judgment, but if not . . ." I shrugged, signaling my unconcern. "The main person I have to convince is the bridegroom."

  "Yes, well, that might take some doing. You won't get very far without his consent, and, if you don't mind my saying so, you haven't much ex­perience with the ways of the opposite sex. You have to handle them very carefully to get them to do what you want—you have to convince them it was their idea in the first place."

  I shook my head, smiling. "No, Maggie. I have no intention of tricking him. I will simply show him that he can't live without me."

  "And how do you intend to do that? By knock­ing tea trays over his lady friends?"

  I thought back to his amused smile, and my lips curved softly. "Perhaps. I'll simply have to take each day as it comes. Would you care to place a little wager on the outcome?" I questioned in dulcet tones.

  She shook her head. "Never, Miss Luciana. I've seen you with that set expression on your face before, and never in twenty years have I known you to fail at what you set out to do when it came to something you really cared about. No, I have no doubt you'll get what you want. But I'll be mighty interested in how you set about doing it."

  "I'll keep you informed," I promised, glancing at the ornate clock that was miraculously still in working order. Quarter past nine, and I still had to sneak up to the second floor and the cavernous closet where I remembered seeing an ancient mask and domino during our cleaning spree. I yawned hugely. "My, I'm exhausted. I can't imag­ine why I'm so tired all the time, Maggie. Aren't you tired, too?"

  The look she cast me from her heavily fringed brown eyes was just slightly suspicious. "I've never known you to sleep so much in my entire life. Are you sure you're feeling all right, Miss Luciana?"

  "Never been better," I said stoutly, simulating another yawn. "I'm just tired, that's all. Why don't we both go to bed early tonight and start the day at a more reasonable hour?"

  "I think nine o'clock is a very reasonable hour to start the day," Maggie grumbled. "No one's up but milkmaids before then." She shook out the folds of the blue flowered dress. "Besides, I'd rather stay up and finish this. It does me no credit at all to see you wandering around Venice in those ugly old things." She cast a contemptuous eye over my tired old dress.

  "Suit yourself," I said with an excellent show of unconcern, rising from the chaise longue and yawning once more. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

  "Miss Luciana . . Maggie peered up at me. "You're up to something."

  "Up to something? Why, Maggie, how absurd!" I laughed convincingly.

  "I've known you all my life, Miss Luciana," she said in a sober voice. "And I know when you're up to something. And knowing you, it's bound to be dangerous. I just want you to know, Miss Luci­ana, that I've loved every moment I've spent with you. "

  "Humbug!" I said bracingly. "You didn't care at all for the time I ran off with the circus, nor for the time I tried to go on the stage. And I shall continue to lead you a merry dance for as long as you care to follow. It will take more than a pack of Venetian and Austrian scoundrels to make an end of me." I gave her a brisk, bone-cracking hug. "Good night, my dear. And don't worry about me. "

  "How can I help it?" she asked of the room in general. "I wish to God your father was here."

  "To protect me?" I questioned.

  "No," she grumbled. "To beat some sense into your idiotic skull."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It all proved far easier than I would have thought. The domino was right where I remembered it and was only slightly moth-eaten. My escape from Edentide was easily accomplished through the garden door, with no sound from the west salon to worry me about Maggie's surveillance. The gondolier looked vaguely familiar, and I wondered uneasily as I stepped into the gently rocking craft whether he had been dogging our footsteps dur­ing the entire last two days. As we pulled away from the quayside I saw a small, dark figure scuttle into the shadows, and suddenly I felt very small and very alone, surrounded by threatening crea­tures of the night. Surreptitiously I reached down and patted the huge kitchen knife I had secreted in one of my capacious pockets. Having willfully done away with what I assumed was Bones's pro­tection, my hapless Uncle Mark, I would have to rely on myself alone. The thought was not overly reassuring.

  We toured the back waterways at a leisurely pace, and I willed myself to relax. A strange sort of yowl suddenly welled up from the stern of the boat, and I felt my skin crawl in horror. The yowl was followed by another, and then another, and with near hysterical relief I recognized it. It was neither an infant being strangled nor one of those infamous Venetian alley cats. My gondolier had decided to serenade me.

  There was no way I could silence the ghastly sounds of his reedy, nasal tenor with the un­fortunate tendency to aim a little high for his pitch. Gritting my teeth into a semblance of a smile, I leaned back among the shabby cushions and trailed a languid hand in the warm salt water. Surely we would reach Tonetti soon, and he would put a stop to this God-awful caterwauling.

  I still held a trace of hope that Tonetti and the urgency of the situation would send all trace of Evan Fitzpatrick from my fickle mind. I had al­ready an image of Tonetti: tall, broad shouldered with raven dark hair, a cynical, dashing smile on his mobile mouth, strong yet gentle hands, and a charmingly deferential, flattering manner. In looks he would be startlingly like an Italianate version of Evan Fitzpatrick, in manner completely op­posite. I sighed, and then winced, as my gondolier started on a new aria.

  "Saaaaaaantaaaaa Looooooooocheeeeeeyaaaaa," he howled, and my head began to pound. Just when I thought I could bear it no more, the gondola slowed, the voice mercifully stopped, and we pulled alongside a mooring pole outside an ancient pink palazzo, completely dark and de­serted. As a matter of fact the entire wat
erway was devoid of people, and my skin began to prickle. It would be such an easy matter to dis­pose of an innocent, inquisitive young English lady. I watched the gondolier tie up to the moor­ing, once more trying to place the familiar shape of him.

  When we were secure he turned and minced over to me, a difficult task in the rocking boat, and the fitful moonlight illuminated his face.

  "You're the servant from the embassy!" I cried, in mingled relief and disappointment.

  To my amazement he sank down on the cushions beside me, grabbed one hand in his soft, white ones, and pressed a very wet kiss upon it.

  "Savior of Venice!" he declaimed thrillingly. "You see before you your humble slave, Enrico Tonetti! I am ready to lay down my life for you and the cause of a free Venice! I have only lived for this moment!"

  Every word was vibrant with passion, and I stared at him with mingled amazement and dis­taste. "Mr. Tonetti . . . I . . ."

  "No!" He held up one slim white hand, heavy laden with rings. The scent of lilac was strong about him—no, almost overwhelming—and it clashed badly with the Macassar oil that slicked down his thinning brown hair over an obvious bald spot. His eyes were brown and spaniel like and de­liberately full of devotion, his mouth thick lipped and wet, his smile shy, ingratiating, and totally false. "You must call me Enrico, my sweet little pigeon. Or Tonetti, if you must. But none of this formal, English 'Mister' . . ." Once more he kissed my hand. "We are in this together, eh? Two agents with a duty to perform. For you, dear lady, I am . . ."

  "Mr. Tonetti!" I snapped sternly, nettled. "I don't know why you are acting like this, but believe me there's no need. We are going to work together, not have an affair! If you would be so kind as to move back a bit. . . ?" Belatedly, he did so. "And if you could bring me up to date on the situation here in Venice. Have you any idea how I shall get into the general's rooms . . . ?"