The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  "I wish you wouldn't carry on so," she continued. "It's not as black as you think. He does care for you, I'm sure he does. How could he help it?"

  I took a deep, shuddering breath and met her troubled gaze with a weak semblance of a smile. "No, he doesn't care for me, Maggie. The sooner I accept that, the better. I suppose I'd better go home and marry Johnny Phillips after all." I rose, dripping from the tub, and caught the thick, clean towel she held for me. "And we'll simply have to hope our first child isn't as premature as Mama's."

  "Well," she shrugged, "with any luck you won't have to worry about such things. I've finished with your yellow dress, Miss Lucy . . . Luciana, and you can wear that. You'll look a treat, I know you will."

  I didn't feel beautiful. I stared at my reflection and saw a cold, sad, mournful face. No longer a Giorgione Madonna, but a Renaissance Magdalene instead. With only myself to blame for it.

  My nose wrinkled in sudden distaste. There was a familiar, rather foul odor emanating from some­where in the room. Staring around me, my eyes fell on something I'd missed before. A gaily wrapped package on my bed.

  Tearing off the wrappings, I discovered a bottle of the nasty lilac scent Tonetti used so liberally about his person. There was no sign of a note anywhere around it, and with misgivings I unstop- pered the filthy stuff. The bottle was empty except for the overwhelming traces of scent and a squashed-up note.

  I spent a few futile minutes trying to dislodge the missive before smashing the bottle on the marble floor. The note this time was short and terse, unlike Tonetti's usual style. The spelling, however, was just as atrocious.

  "Dear Lady," it read. "I am hiding in the Pa­lazzo Carboni. The Tedeschi have followed me here and are watching all the time. Of your good­ness, please to come and rescue me and the paper. If you take the paper I will manage to escape myself. Deliver the paper to Signore Evan Fitz­patrick. Yours in dire need, Enrico Tonetti."

  In a moment my mind was made up. I had spent far too much valuable time mooning after the so-clever Mr. Fitzpatrick. If I were to tell him and Uncle Mark of Tonetti's predicament I had no doubt they would try to storm the place. A single woman had a much better chance of suc­cess, and I was that lone woman.

  A knock sounded on my door, and I thanked heaven I had shoved the small, straight chair in front of it.

  "It's only me, Miss Lucy," Maggie called. "Mr. Fitzpatrick asked if he might see you in private before he has to leave."

  I bit my Lip to stifle the protest. "Where is he going?" I asked casually.

  "He's got to talk with the Austrian authorities before you can be allowed to leave Venice. He seems most disturbed, Miss Lucy. You really ought to see him." Her voice was wheedling, and my resolve stiffened.

  "I don't think so, Maggie. Tell him I'm resting, and that I asked you to say good-bye." I kept my voice languid as I pinned up my still-damp hair with hasty fingers.

  "I don't think he'll like that, miss."

  "I don't give a damn," I said in the same sweet voice as I tied my best bonnet on, grabbed a pair of gloves, and headed for the balcony. "If he ever comes to England I will see him there. By the way, Maggie, who brought the package?"

  "That nasty-smelling box? A very dirty little boy. He said it was from his father. What have you been doing while you've been in Venice, Miss Lucy?"

  "Nothing, Maggie, nothing at all."

  A loud, irritated sigh came from the other side of the door. "All right, Miss Lucy. You take a nap and we'll be ready to go in a few short hours."

  "Fine," I yawned. And, tensing my muscles, I dropped over the balcony and onto the pave­ment five feet below.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Palazzo Carboni was not at all difficult to find. Uncle Mark had pointed it out to us on our first trip down the Grand Canal as an example of the foolishness of Venetians. A very rich Venetian noble had begun the grandiose structure, only to run out of funds by the time the first floor was completed. Despite the architect's screams of despair, a second, shorter story was added, giv­ing the poor building an absurdly pinheaded appearance. It had been lived in by various fami­lies until it reached its present state of dereliction, the home, like some of the other great palazzos during this time of dimostrazione, of rats and the large Venetian alley cats. When I thought of poor, fastidious Tonetti living in those dank cellars my heart went out to him.

  The palazzo, for obvious reasons, was uncom­fortably close to the barracks. Tonetti hadn't got­ten far last night, I thought unhappily, pulling my large, shielding bonnet closer around my face. I was counting on the light of day, the demureness of my dress, and the large, unflattering bonnet to protect me from the suspicions of any prowling Tedeschi. As I strolled along the fondamento I barely received my share of curious glances, and it took only a moment's inattention on the patrols' part to enable me to slip into the damp, deserted hallways of what had once been intended to be the showplace of Venice.

  "Tonetti!" I whispered loudly, stepping gingerly over the littered passageway. "Where are you?" A dark, eerie silence answered me, and a rat scuttled across my foot.

  Barely suppressing a scream, I turned to run out the way I had come. And then I remembered Evan Fitzpatrick, those cold, silver-blue eyes tell­ing me I had outlived my usefulness in Venice, and my resolve stiffened. Gritting my teeth, I turned once more to those long, empty hallways with their lofty proportions and their sleeping bats, the cobwebs and filthy litter degrading the noble lines of the building. On silent feet I moved along, every now and then calling Tonetti's name in a loud whisper, with no answer but the scuffle of tiny paws.

  I was almost finished with my swift, silent tour of the ground floor when another small, strange noise alerted me to the fact that I was not alone. I could feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I turned around with all the grace and calm I could muster to face Holger von Wolfram's small, glittering, piglike eyes.

  "Are you looking for something, Fraulein del Zaglia? Or should I say, looking for someone?"

  I let out a silly little laugh. "Why, Colonel von Wolfram, fancy meeting you here of all places! I was just taking a tour of the old palazzo. My parents had told me of it when I was a child, and I've always taken a great interest in architecture. I thought before I left . . ."

  "I am sure you have. The barracks that are nearby, for instance, I'm sure must have proved fascinating to a scholarly young lady like your­self."

  "The barracks?" I echoed vaguely. "I don't be­lieve I've seen them. Are they fairly ancient?"

  "Old enough. You will be far more enthralled with the new prisons. They were built in the six­teenth century, but I think you might prefer them to the older ones."

  "I don't think I'd care to see the prisons, thank you," I said with icy dignity.

  "No?" he said politely. "Well, I doubt if you'll have much choice in the matter. Why do you sup­pose we allowed Tonetti's note to reach you? By arriving here you have incriminated yourself, Fraulein. As soon as we locate Tonetti and the very valuable document you stole from General Eisen- hopf, there will be no question as to your guilt. I can deal with you through proper channels since my less-accepted methods didn't seem to work. I must congratulate you, Fraulein. There are not many women who could outwit the Ferrari broth­ers. Though I gather you had some assistance from Herr Fitzpatrick." He admired his highly polished nails. "Now if you will just tell me where Tonetti is, we can bring this entire thing to a pleasant conclusion. And do not worry, Fraulein. Hanging is a swift death, if the hangman knows his busi­ness. And our executioners are very knowledge­able."

  "From lots of practice, no doubt," I snapped, my mind rushing ahead of him. Despite his inter­ception of Tonetti's note, he obviously didn't know where he was right now. And actually, neither did I. There was no telling whether or not he'd been able to escape from this moldering wreck. Surreptitiously I slipped my reticule, which was heavily weighted with gold coins, from my wrist. "And what if I prefer not to die, Colonel?" I said conversationally. "Wh
en Venice is ceded to France I doubt they'd countenance the murder of a woman."

  "You are forgetting the revolution," he said grimly. "A great many women lost their heads, some even as pretty as you, my dear. But once we regain the very important piece of paper Venice will never be returned to France," he smirked. "So you see . . ." The reticule hit him with full force, the weight of it knocking him off balance.

  I didn't hesitate a second. I was off at a run before the purse left my hand, down the long, littered corridors, leaping over trash and garbage and cats, my heart about to burst, my lungs ach­ing, running, running, running, with Holger's booted feet closer and closer behind me.

  "It is useless, Fraulein," he shouted, tripping on a large black cat who proceeded to spit at him, "my men are waiting outside. You will never escape!"

  I didn't waste my time answering his lies. I just kept running. For a moment it looked as if I might win, that Holger was so far behind me he'd never catch up. And then a large, evil-looking rodent ran in front of me, catching at my skirts, and I fell amid all the ruin, rolling over the dis­gusting rat and ending in a huddle by the dark, wet corner.

  Before I had time to gather my dazed wits about me Holger was there, leaning over me with a grin of vile proportions, a hundred teeth seem­ing to shine in the dimly lit corridor.

  "I will find Tonetti, never fear," he said, panting and disheveled. "But first I will take care of you, Fraulein." Two meaty hands fastened around my throat and began pressing. The dark corridor be­came even darker, with tiny bursts of light in the back of my brain. "I will take the pleasure of finishing you myself. This"—and the hands tight­ened—"is for the trouble you have caused me. And this"—even tighter—"is for your damnable father who made a fool out of me. And this"—and the voice seemed to come from a long ways away—"is for your lovely mother."

  And then suddenly the pressure was gone, and I collapsed back into the corner, gasping for breath, the pain in my throat so horrid I thought I would prefer to die. As I lay there trying to pull myself together I could hear the sounds of a desperate fight, and the scent of overblown lilacs assailed my nostrils.

  "Are you all right, dear lady?" Tonetti's voice came from somewhere near, and two soft hands began patting mine ineffectually. I struggled into a sitting position, my eyes trying to focus on the two men struggling. "Where were you?" I tried to demand, but my voice came out in a hoarse croak.

  "I was watching all the time," he announced proudly. "Thank heaven Signore Fitzpatrick ar­rived in time. I thought you were done for."

  A horrid, rattling sigh suddenly issued forth from the enmeshed fighters, and one figure slowly detached itself, leaving the other limp on the bloodstained floor. I looked up to meet the cold, embittered silver-blue eyes of Evan Fitzpatrick.

  "He's dead," he said briefly, not bothering to look at me. "Do you have the paper?"

  Tonetti jumped up, all eagerness. "Enrico To­netti, at your service, Signore Fitzpatrick. Let me tell you what a pleasure it has been to serve you, and to render my small assistance to the lovely Madonna del Zaglia. I can only . . ."

  "Do you have the paper?" The voice was cold as ice, and Tonetti stammered to a halt. Search­ing through the somewhat tattered gondolier's outfit he still wore, he came up with the battered blue missive.

  "Signore Fitzpatrick, my money . . . ?"

  "Your money will be sent to you." Evan snatched the paper out of Tonetti's nerveless hands and tucked it into his pocket after no more than a cursory glance. Such an anticlimactic disposal of all that I had worked and risked my life for was almost more than I could bear. But Evan con­tinued smoothly, ignoring my involuntary start of protest, "Do not think, Tonetti, that I didn't notice your heroic actions today. If it had been up to you she would have died."

  Such concern warmed me, but only for a mo­ment. He reached down and yanked me to my feet with such force I fell against him. He righted me instantly, and the rage on his handsome face was so formidable that I quailed.

  Holger's armed guards were, as I had guessed, a fabrication. We left the palazzo with no diffi­culty, Tonetti's sad, dark eyes following us specu­latively. I wished I could say good-bye to him, but I didn't dare with the gimlet-eyed brute be­side me.

  Not a word did he speak to me during the gondola ride down the Grand Canal, not a glance did he give me. It was as if I were beneath his contempt. I sat there, huddled and miserable, my throat aching, wondering what I could say to him, not daring to say a word.

  We were just pulling up to the railroad station when he spoke, and his words were like tiny daggers sinking into my flesh. "Ferland and your maid are waiting for you," he said coldly. "You'd best hurry."

  "Evan . . ." I tried to speak, but the noise that came out of my damaged throat was barely recog­nizable.

  No sympathy crossed his furious face. "With any luck you'll never talk again," he said in a low, bitter voice. "And if we had more time I'd beat you within an inch of your life for running off like that. Of all the wicked, stupid things. . . I"

  He jumped out of the dooked gondola and pulled me onto the fondamento, his hands rough and painful. "We're only lucky someone didn't die because of your willful stupidity. Go back to England, Lucy."

  And with that he turned and left me, striding off down the quay without a backward glance for the poor, lovesick, angry girl he left behind.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Uncle Mark exploded from directly behind me. "We've looked everywhere for you! Fitzpatrick took off like a bat out of hell when he read that message you left in your room. I somehow don't think you've been very straightforward with me, my girl." He peered at me more closely, something in my face break­ing through his outrage. "Are you all right?" he asked gently.

  "Perfectly fine," I croaked, placing a shielding hand against my aching throat. "Mr. Fitzpatrick just dropped me off. We had a small contretemps, but everything is just fine."

  "What in God's name happened to you, Lucy?" he demanded, and I winced at the appellation.

  "Holger von Wolfram tried to kill me," I replied briefly. "I'll tell you all about it once we leave Venice. Shall we go?"

  "I suppose Fitzpatrick saved you," he specu­lated. "It's a lucky thing he got you here in time. It would have been no more than you deserved if we'd gone off without you. You'd have had to rely on Fitzpatrick's good graces, and he never was much the one for the ladies. Of a certain type, that is."

  "Well, you've saved him from a fate worse than death," I croaked. "Shall we go?" I repeated, wanting to stay, wanting him to leave me behind, some rash, romantic part of me wanting to run back to the apartment by La Fenice and throw myself at Evan's feet.

  "I suppose we'd better. I don't think he really would have minded, you know," he added enig­matically as he handed me into the private coach and the furious recriminations of Maggie.

  "Who?" I asked, wearied at Uncle Mark's irritat­ing habit of harking back to ancient conversations. "Who wouldn't have minded what?"

  "I don't think Evan Fitzpatrick would have minded having you left on his doorstep," Uncle chuckled.

  "Well, we'll never know, will we?" I said bit­terly.

  "You can ask him when he comes to England."

  "He never comes to England. He prefers to abandon his son to his brother and run around Europe playing spy."

  Uncle Mark looked unconvinced. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he found an excuse in the very near future to arrive in Somerset. Thanks to you and Tonetti he won't be needed in Venice much longer. As a matter of fact I'll wager you ten pounds that he does."

  "And I'll lay you a fiver," Maggie piped up.

  I looked at the two of them through tear-filled eyes, both of them so very dear to me. The train started with a jerk, and we pulled slowly out of the Venice station. "You are both trying to cheer me up," I said damply. "And I appreciate it. And I'll also take your money, and double you!"

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Luciana, my dove, would you do me a favor?" My lovely, small, delic
ate mother interrupted my thoughts as I sat disconsolately on the terrace, staring out over the rolling hills of Somerset. "Your brother Paolo's little friend has disappeared. He's quite unhappy, and I wondered if you might be persuaded to look for him."

  Belatedly I roused myself from my torpor. I had been very lucky indeed to have suffered no more than a gentle scold from Mama and not a word of reproach from my father. One look at my stricken face when we arrived back in England had silenced my parents' natural rage, and during the last two weeks I had been both cosseted and blessedly left alone, to get over my broken heart as best I could. I had no doubt Maggie and Uncle Mark had filled them in on all the gruesome de­tails of our sojourn in Venice, down to my night spent on Durano in the company of Evan Fitz­patrick, but apart from a few more reassuring hugs than normal, my parents behaved as if nothing had happened. I couldn't have been more grateful.

  "Which one?" I questioned idly. The hot En­glish sun added to my lassitude, draining me of my usual energy, so that all I had done for the past two weeks was sit on the terrace and stare off into the distance.

  "Oh, you haven't met this one yet. Paolo's been off visiting with his people, and the two of them arrived last night after you'd retired," Mama said blithely, a surprisingly mischievous expression in her china-blue eyes. "The boy is quite lonely and unhappy, and apparently wandered off while Paolo was talking with his brothers."

  "Well, Paolo's brothers can be a bit overwhelm­ing," I said caustically. There were five of them, ranging from my oldest brother, Lucifero, who was twenty-four and surprisingly sedate, down to Marco, age one and a half, who was already hor­rifyingly demonic. Paolo, at age ten, was right in between and had friends wandering in and out so frequently I barely noticed them among our mas­sive brood.

  "But you will be a dear and go look for him, won't you?" she entreated, knowing full well that I would. "You are so good with children."