The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  Tonetti shrugged his thin shoulders sulkily. "I beg your pardon, dear lady. I cannot help it, it comes naturally to me. All my life I have adored the ladies. When I see a beautiful creature like yourself, all common sense is thrown to the winds. I promise I won't forget myself again." And to prove it, he pinched me.

  I responded by socking him in the jaw, and tears of pain and hurt sprang into his expressive dark eyes. I judged him to be somewhat past forty, with the vain hope that he appeared fifteen years younger. "I trust you to behave yourself, Tonetti!" I said, sounding like a schoolmarm. "I gather this business is new to the both of us. If we can't rely on each other, I don't doubt we'll be in a rare pickle."

  "Ah, but you are one of the aristocracy," he complained in a gentle sort of whine. "Nothing will happen to you other than they will deport you and slap your pretty little wrist. Tonetti will be garroted." He made a nasty strangling noise in his throat, and I shivered.

  "Then why are you taking such risks?"

  He struck a pose, with one hand in the Venetian night and the other in the area of his heart. "For the glorious cause of a free and united Italy!" he cried.

  "For the money," I corrected cynically.

  "That, too," he agreed, dropping his hand swiftly. "What with the dimostrazione keeping everyone out of Venice, it is hard for a man to make a living. And I have a wife and nine children to support."

  "I am sure it is very difficult," I soothed. "What do you usually do? Are you a gondolier?"

  He looked affronted. "Gondolier? Pah!" he spat into the canal. "Dear lady, do I look like a gon­dolier?" he demanded, and courtesy required me to assure him he did not. "When society is more normal, madonna, I am Venice's very finest gigolo."

  It took me a moment to digest this casually offered information. "Doesn't your wife mind?" I choked out after a long moment.

  "But why should she? She knows I am perfectly safe. It is all for looks, the bella figura, you know. What my sweet Maria doesn't like is when I don't bring home enough money, and then I must lower myself to more menial tasks, such as using my brother-in-law's gondola to bring in a few scudi." He sighed with the injustice of it all.

  "But I thought your brother-in-law was General Eisenhopf's valet," I protested. "I thought that was how we were to gain admittance to his rooms. . . ."

  "My dear lady, I have seven sisters. All of whom have husbands. It is my brother-in-law Federico who has the gondola. My brother-in-law Livio is the valet. And I don't wish to involve him if I can help it. He will only want a share of the money."

  I could not fault the man for his candor. "Have you made any plans?" I brought him back to more important matters. "How in the world are we to accomplish this?"

  "Dear lady, of course I have made plans!" he appeared affronted. "It is all very simple. Some­time this week General Eisenhopf will be out of town on a very secret mission. Only his valet knows of this, apparently. He is planning to leave in the early afternoon and tell no one. You will simply dress in your most becoming dress"—a small sneer accompanied his glance down at my bottle-green costume showing through the domino—"and walk right into his room. Many women have done so, it will not be remarked upon. Your Italian is the pure Venetian kind; there will be no suspicions. While you are there you will search the room, and once you have found the paper you will leave, telling the guard outside you were tired of waiting for the old pig. I will be right outside the barracks, ready to receive you and your paper. And I will then take you back to the palazzo, you will board the next train for England, and Venice will be saved!" His voice rose to theatrical heights once more, and the lilac perfume wafted over me.

  "And when is all this to happen?" I inquired sweetly.

  "I will have to let you know." He lost some of his bravado. "I have not yet ascertained when it is that the general is leaving. Perhaps if you could meet me in the Piazza tomorrow, I may have some word for you. But believe me, dear lady, there will be no danger to you whatsoever. It is I, Tonetti, who takes all the risks, and you who shall reap all the glory!" The nobility of this left him much moved.

  "And you, Tonetti, will also have all the money," I remarked caustically. "That should comfort you on your long, gloryless nights."

  "My nights, dear lady, are always filled with glory. You need only ask my wife." He drew him­self up with full dignity.

  "I am sure they are. I have not yet spoken of you to my Uncle Mark. I felt he would only com­plicate matters."

  "Very wise, signorina. And what of that sweet little bambina who follows you everywhere?" He kissed his hands expressively.

  "She is not to know anything either. The fewer people who know of this, the better. I doubt that either of them would be much good in a crisis."

  "Then it is just the two of us, dear lady!" Once more he tried to embrace me, but a sharp elbow in his ribs dissuaded him.

  "Just the two of us, Tonetti," I agreed, my heart sinking with a sudden, awful foreboding. "God help us."

  CHAPTER NINE

  "For Gawd's sake, slow down, Miss Luciana!" Maggie panted behind me, scuttling gracelessly over the cobbled bridge that spanned the small canal. "Why are we in such a hurry?"

  Abruptly I stopped, and Maggie crashed into me, my tall, strong body absorbing the blow with no trouble. Holding up the leather and gold cover of my book, I adorned my face with an idiotic simper for the edification of all around on the crowded thoroughfare, both Venetian and Aus­trian.

  "Maggie, dear, I haven't done any sightseeing. And Mr. Ruskin's book is sooo fascinating," I cooed. "If only I could understand him a little better." Pouting prettily, I batted my eyes at a passing Tedesco who smirked in response, his thick Austrian lips curving in a leer. I dropped my voice so that no one else could hear. "Besides, I expect things to come to a head quite swiftly. If I'm to see anything at all of Venice before I leave, I'd better hurry."

  If the prospect of our imminent departure didn't fill me with overwhelming pleasure, it was not to be wondered at. I had barely spoken two words to Evan Fitzpatrick, and how I would remedy that situation in the time allotted me was beyond imagining. My first duty was to Venice and To­netti, but I knew in the question of Evan I would have to move fast. If I didn't secure his attention here in Venice, I might as well give up hope. In stately England the man wouldn't be allowed in the same county as me. I quickened my steps.

  "If you fall, Miss Luciana, and soil your new dress," Maggie threatened, panting beside me, "I personally will push you in a canal. Right in front of a gondola."

  I looked down with pleasure at the blue-and- white-flowered cotton dress swirling about my blue leather shoes. "Maggie, I'll guard it with my life," I swore, smugly aware of how attractive I was. Before I had time to congratulate myself too warmly, we were upon the Piazza with the golden-domed, ornate splendor of St. Mark's and the Doges' Palace ahead of us.

  "Will you look at that," Maggie breathed. "Is that where we're going?" She thrust one ripe hip forward to catch the attention of a handsome young gondolier.

  I nodded. "It is indeed. We'll start with the basilica, then perhaps climb the Campanile, then the clock tower, and then the Doges' Palace. And after that we'll stop at Florian's Cafe for sugar and water." Tonetti, in parting, hadn't said where or when he would meet us. All of Venice eventually ended up in the Piazza, and I intended to partake of its myriad treats fully, leaving it up to the per­fumed gigolo to find me.

  "What a treat," Maggie said with less enthusi­asm. "Why don't we start with the church, then the palace (I do so love palaces), and see how our energy holds out. I've been staying up late sewing for you, miss. I'm tired!" she yawned con­vincingly, winking unabashedly at the now-staring Venetian.

  "Well, you can sit at Florian's and drink coffee while I continue exploring," I agreed with a show of reluctance. "But I'm sure you'd be missing a great pleasure."

  "Pleasures like that I can afford to miss every now and then, Miss Luciana. Let's start with the church."

  In a way I could underst
and Maggie's boredom. St. Mark's was gloriously ornate, the mosaics glow­ing with color, the golden altar, bronze doors, marble columns, all contributing to an aura of somehow pagan splendor that wasn't much in keeping with my image of the holy mother church. This was the heart and soul of Venice, and yet somehow I wondered if it were the heart and soul of Luciana Carlotta del Zaglia. I had always as­sumed it was, but now suddenly I was having doubts.

  "What does Mr. Ruskin say about this?" Maggie questioned in somewhat strident tones, pointing to a glorious mosaic of Salome in a stunning red medieval dress, dancing with lascivious abandon with John the Baptists head borne aloft above her typically Venetian blond plaits.

  "Not much," I replied, leafing through the tedious little book. "But she is magnificent, isn't she?" I stared up at her in profound admiration. "That's what I'd like to be like," I sighed long­ingly. "Bold and beautiful and seductive and powerful."

  "I would say you've got a fair start," she re­marked pertly. "I only hope you don't have men who scorn you decapitated."

  I laughed. "A fitting punishment. I can't say as I blame the woman."

  "Let's try the Doges' Palace," Maggie sighed after a moment, "and then we might go for some coffee. The cafe on the left as we came in seemed very pleasant."

  "Maggie!" I murmured, shocked. "That was the Quadri. It's patronized by the Austrians and their sympathizers. Never the Venetians!"

  "But Miss Luciana, you aren't Venetian either. You're three-quarters English, and there's no way you can change that."

  I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it again. The simple truth was inescapable. "Well, even if I have a great deal of chilly English blood," I snapped, "it doesn't mean that I have to approve of the Tedeschi."

  "Especially not with your parentage, Miss del Zaglia," a smooth Austrian voice broke through as we stepped into the dazzling sunlight, and it was all I could do to turn a bland, polite face to Holger von Wolfram.

  "How nice to see you again, Colonel," I mur­mured calmly, batting my eyelashes in a manner that left the Austrian entirely unmoved. "My dis­approval of the Imperial Army doesn't necessarily have to extend to individuals."

  He bowed with perfect gallantry at my flirta­tious remark. "I would hope not, Fraulein. Each of us has our duty to perform, no matter how un­pleasant we may find it, but we must only hope that one can somehow remain friends."

  A small chill ran down my spine. "And what unpleasant duties have you to perform, Colonel?"

  He smiled, and the chill deepened. "But I was speaking of yourself, dear Fraulein. Have you seen the Ducal Palace? You must be sure not to miss it before you return to England. Which I trust will be soon. For your sake, as well as that of others."

  I gave him a smile to match the dazzling bril­liance of the Venetian sunlight. "I will see the Ducal Palace very soon, Colonel. In a matter of minutes, in fact. And I will be sure to pass on to my friends at home everything I see and hear while I'm in this glorious Italian city."

  "You willfully misunderstand me," he growled. "Your parents did not warn you about me."

  "Oh, yes, they did," I corrected him cheerfully. "But I choose not to be intimidated by an aging toy soldier." Nodding my head regally, I swept by him, with a nervous Maggie in my wake.

  "Should you have been so rude, Miss Luciana?" she demanded, horrified, as we strode across the Piazza toward the Ducal Palace with well-disguised haste. "He seems a powerful enemy to make."

  "I didn't just make him my enemy," I turned and said coldly, still shaken from the encounter. "He's been my enemy since long before I was born. I no longer care who knows it." I started forward again. "Come along, Maggie."

  A loud groan answered me, and I whirled back to find my maid clutching her ankle, an expres­sion of agonizing pain on her suddenly pale face. "Maggie, what's wrong?" I demanded.

  "A stone in my shoe, Miss Luciana. I think I'd best go back home. You go on ahead without me; I'll be fine." She took a few hobbling steps.

  "I'll do no such thing. The Doges' Palace has been here for centuries, it will last a bit longer. I'll go get help." Briefly I thought of Tonetti, and abandoned the idea as hopeless.

  "Don't be an idiot," my polite maid whispered sharply. "Go on ahead to the palace. A certain gentleman has been watching us from the portico, obviously awaiting us. It won't do you any good to have your chaperon trailing around after you." I looked up sharply, expecting to see Tonetti. In­stead, Evan Fitzpatrick's tall form disappeared into the palace just ahead of us.

  "But Maggie, your foot. . ." I protested weakly.

  "There's nothing wrong with my damned foot," she hissed. "Go on ahead. I'll go back over the Rialto Bridge and get you a bolt of nice, soft muslin. In a warm, butter yellow, I think." And she hobbled off with amazing speed, leaving me staring after her with mingled amusement and fear. And absolute amazement that wherever I happened to go in this city of water I would al­ways run into Evan Fitzpatrick. It must be fate, or God's will, or something equally nebulous. And there was nothing I could do but stifle my con­science and give in to that fate. Tonetti and the future of Venice could wait another afternoon.

  There was no sign of him when I entered the Ducal Palace. Throwing back my shoulders, I started forward.

  I found him all alone in the square drawing room at the top of the great golden staircase, star­ing up with seemingly rapt attention at the ceiling painting, which my guidebook informed me was by Tintoretto, entitled "Doge G. Pruili with Justice, Peace, and St. Jerome." If I hadn't known better, I would have thought the Englishman had been following me, rather than the other way around. The room was deserted but for the two of us, and, after casting only a cursory glance at the florid masterpiece above my head, I cleared my throat alarmingly.

  His extraordinary blue eyes swept over me in complete unconcern and then went back to their perusal of the ceiling. Undaunted, I took in all the glorious details of him—a far more impressive work of art as far as I was concerned.

  He was so delightfully tall I could scarce be­lieve it after a lifetime of being surrounded by short men. I knew from experience that he topped me by a good three inches, and that, coupled with his broad, strong shoulders, which stretched the black careless coat he wore with such a dash, was enough to make any young girl swoon. His legs were long and well muscled, his ungloved hands both strong and sensitive-looking. The dark blond hair fell away from his face as he looked upward, his strong nose and chin in profile, the scar away from me. With great determination I dropped Mr. Ruskin on the floor with a loud thump, consigning Tonetti and his plots to a temporary perdition.

  Once more he turned from his endless admira­tion of the tedious work of art, his eyes sweeping from my book on the marble floor, to my face, to the floor once more. A cynical smile curved his lips, and he moved with pantherish grace to re­trieve the fallen Mr. Ruskin.

  He would have turned away without a word if I hadn't quickly spoken. "It's a very boring book, you know."

  He halted, reluctantly. "Is it?" he sounded very bored himself.

  "Yes, it is," I pushed on. "I came to one sentence that had two hundred and thirty-five words in it. Truly! I counted every one."

  Some of the mockery faded from the smile, leav­ing genuine amusement, a much more attractive emotion. "I have no doubt that you did. If you will excuse me, Miss . . ." He started to go, but once more I detained him.

  "You knew my name two days ago."

  The brief smile was chilly now. "Did I? Well, I have since forgotten it."

  This time I did hold out my slender, gloved hand. "Then I shall have to remind you. My name is Luciana Carlotta del Zaglia."

  He continued to stare down at me, making no attempt to take my hand, no attempt to introduce himself. I could feel my face flushing beneath his cool, aloof regard. "And your name is Evan Fitz­patrick," I pushed on.

  "I can thank Lady Bute for that, I suppose," he said coolly. "My dear Miss del Zaglia, I would suggest you refrain from accosting strange men in your peregrina
tions over Venice. Despite Lady Bute's assertions, I am a gentleman, but the next man your wayward fancy lights upon might not be one. Good day to you." And he turned that lovely, broad back on me and strode out the door, leaving me gasping with hurt, indignation, and rage.

  Before I had time to master my conflicting emo­tions, one of the side doors opened and two surprisingly 'rough-looking Venetians entered. I peered at them closely, but neither was my absent gigolo. As I watched them move into the room, I thought absently how sweet it was that the lowest of Venetians would still be interested in their local treasures, the other part of me still envisioning Evan Fitzpatrick's head on a plate with me in a red dress like the mosaic Salome's, when suddenly I realized that the two brigands were not looking at the ceiling. They were look­ing straight at me and moving toward me with a great show of determination, something that looked ominously like a rope and a sack in their filthy hands. "That's the girl," the first one muttered. "It should be simple enough."

  I darted to one side, but they were too fast for me. One meaty hand grabbed my wrist, while an­other cuffed me across the face with a force that stunned me, but only momentarily. A moment later I was down on the hard, marble floor kicking, biting, and scratching, my tormentors rather in­eptly trying to control a giant madwoman as she fought tooth and nail.

  One of the creatures kept trying to force a filthy rag into my mouth, and I barely had time to scream for help before I felt myself choking. A knife flashed, and I grew still, knowing my furious strength could do little good against that shining blade.

  "That is very good," one of the men chuckled, his mouth showing stained and broken teeth. "The English lady will keep her mouth full of that, won't she? No more screams for this 'Evan,' eh?"

  He yanked me to my feet and began binding me roughly with the thick hemp rope. The sack he held in one dirty hand was a capacious one, but not made for my noble proportions, and he tossed it in one corner with a curse. "Well have to take her out the back way, Gianni," he mut­tered. "The Tedeschi want her alive."