Devil's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

“Why not think about that lovely little morsel you shared in tonight?”

  Celestino, a paunchy young Italian nobleman with crispy chestnut side whiskers, shuddered in distaste, knowing Gervaise could not see his expression. He said only, “With four of us taking the little whore, she quickly lost her desire to please.”

  “Perhaps next time you will be first,” Gervaise said, sounding bored. “She did whimper quite prettily. That must have pleased you, Tino.” He shrugged his elegant shoulders. “She was paid for her services. The gold I placed into her grimy little hand was the amount her father demanded. It was overpayment, I think, for her maidenhead.”

  The silence was suddenly rent by coarse shouts. “Get ’em, my lads. Break their heads.”

  Three black shadows flew from the alleyway. Celestino howled in startled fear. Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, quickly drew the dagger at his belt and tossed aside his useless cane.

  “Fight, you fool,” he shouted at Tino. “You cannot run from the scum.” He lunged at one of the men, his dagger slicing downward toward his breast. He felt his arm suddenly wrenched behind his back in a grip that made him gasp. The man who held him had twice his strength. He struggled in silence, Celestino’s howling cries ringing in his ears. Like a damned girl. He closed his eyes when he felt the point of a knife touch his bare throat. Merde, he thought very precisely. To die at the hands of wharf rats bent upon robbing his purse.

  Gervaise heard another yell from the gloom. He whirled about to see a man hurtling toward them, his sword glistening silver in the swirling fog. For an instant he was held immobile, watching the figure lunge toward one of the thieves. The man dodged his sword, then shouted at the top of his lungs, “Away, my boys. Away.”

  The three thieves disappeared into the darkness as if they had never existed. Gervaise calmly sheathed his dagger and brushed off his sable-lined cloak.

  “For God’s sake, Tino,” he growled toward his friend, who was leaning against the side of a derelict building, vomiting into the street, “get hold of yourself.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Gervaise strained his eyes to see more clearly. He heard a young voice, smooth and educated, speak in Italian. He saw a flash of silver as the sword slipped back into its scabbard.

  “Si,” he said easily. “Your timing was exquisite, my friend. Christ, Tino, pull yourself together.”

  “He is shaken,” the man said. “The thieves are gone. There is nothing more to fear.”

  “Who are you?” Gervaise asked him.

  The figure before him bowed elegantly at the waist. “The Marchese Pietro di Galvani,” the cultured voice said.

  Celestino, feeling more a man now that his belly was emptied of food and fear, straightened and strode toward them.

  “What were you doing down here alone?”

  The man shrugged. “I was bored. I thank you both for the excitement. The scum didn’t put up much of a fight,” he added with scorn in his voice.

  “Bored,” Tino shrilled. “Dio, man, you could have been killed.”

  The man gave a low, amused laugh. “Then I would have again escaped boredom, would I not?”

  Gervaise said suddenly, “I wish to repay you, sir. Celestino and I were on our way to my house. Join us for a drink.”

  The marchese seemed to hesitate.

  “Do,” Tino seconded. “Can’t see your bloody face in all this dark and fog.”

  He appeared to shrug. “Very well.”

  “I am Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, and this is Celestino Genovesi—Conte Genovesi, I should add. Perhaps it will help him regain his balance and his bravery.”

  “You are French,” the Marchese Pietro di Galvani said easily in that language. “I am new to Naples. You have provided me my first taste of sport.”

  “Oui, je suis français,” Gervaise said. “Unlike you, mon ami, I have been here for more days than I care to count.”

  The three men began their walk in silence, except for occasional blasts from the foghorns and the clopping of their boots on the cobblestones.

  “You are a royalist, enfin,” Pietro said.

  “Speak Italian,” Tino complained.

  “He asked me if I were a royalist,” Gervaise repeated. “Yes, you could call me that. There are many of us here at the court of Naples, outlawed from our country by the miserable Jacobins and that upstart Napoleon.”

  “Then I will say good night,” the Marchese Pietro di Galvani said, and spun about on his heel.

  “But why?” Celestino said, grabbing his sleeve.

  Pietro said slowly, shaking off Tino’s hand, “I am, as I said, new to Naples. I have no desire to consort with”—he nearly spat the word—“with supporters of the Bourbons or Capets.”

  “Ah,” Gervaise said softly. “Wait, my friend. Perhaps you should withhold your judgment, if just for tonight.”

  “Yes, do come with us. Gervaise is not what he seems—”

  “Shut up, Tino,” the comte said pleasantly. “Monsieur?”

  “The night is young,” Pietro said.

  “And you wish to escape boredom, n’est-ce pas?”

  The marchese shrugged. “Very well.”

  “Where do you come from?” Celestino asked, puffing slightly to keep up with the swift stride of the two other men.

  “Sicily,” the marchese said shortly. “Yet another part of the Bourbons’ kingdom.”

  “Then why, my friend,” Gervaise said, “did you come here to Naples?”

  “I came for business reasons, and—”

  “And?” Celestino prodded.

  “To see that harridan of a queen and her lecherous fool of a husband fall to Napoleon. It cannot be long now.”

  “Ah,” Gervaise said. “No, I suppose it cannot be much longer. The Treaty of Amiens that keeps Naples safe will fall soon. Then we shall see.”

  The three men turned onto a lighted street, wide and surrounded by tall, elegant houses. The stench of the dock was behind them.

  “My humble abode,” Gervaise said, pushing open a wrought-iron gate. He withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the narrow oak front door. “My servant is asleep, or at least the fool should be,” he said over his shoulder. He led the two of them through a narrow entrance hall and stepped inside an adjoining room to light a branch of candles.

  “Quite cozy,” the marchese said, gazing about. The drawing room was long and narrow, and furnished with cherrywood pieces of delicate beauty. He watched the comte walk to the sideboard and lift a decanter.

  “Brandy?”

  The marchese nodded and unfastened his cloak.

  Gervaise watched him unbuckle his sword and place it with careful precision by his cloak on a tabletop. He eyed his rich clothing and his tall, powerful body. When the marchese turned, he stared into his black-bearded face.

  “You look like a bloody pirate,” Celestino said.

  The marchese shrugged. “I am from Sicily,” he said, as if that were explanation enough.

  “Your brandy, sir,” Gervaise said, handing him a crystal goblet.

  “A toast,” Celestino said, raising his glass. “To the rescue of two of Naples’ finest young noblemen.”

  The marchese arched a thick black brow, but said nothing. He sipped his brandy and moved to seat himself on a brocade sofa.

  Gervaise continued to drink his brandy, studying the young man. “You have odd coloring, monsieur. Your eyes. Never have I seen an Italian with blue eyes.”

  For the first time, the marchese smiled, displaying even white teeth. “That is what I told my father,” he said, smiling still.

  Celestino gave a shout of laughter. “I’ve heard much about the Sicilians.”

  “And you speak French well, monsieur,” Gervaise continued, disregarding Tino’s comment.

  “Of course. What man of education does not?”

  “See here,” Celestino sputtered.

  The marchese’s smile alighted on Tino’s face. “You did not allow me to finish, my friend. A man of
education who wants above all to free the rest of Italy must be able to speak the language of its liberators.” He saw that the Comte de la Valle had stiffened, and added pleasantly, “But I insult you, monsieur. Tonight that is not my intention. Had I realized that you were a royalist, I would still have joined the melee.”

  The Comte de la Valle proffered the marchese an elaborate bow. “You are honest, if nothing else,” he said in his soft, hoarse voice.

  “Don’t be too certain of that,” the marchese said, tossing a smile, as if it were a careless bone, toward them. “You, monsieur le comte, are blessed with fair looks. I have never seen a Frenchman with hazel eyes and light hair.”

  “Touché,” Gervaise said.

  “Do you plan to go to court?” Celestino asked, depositing his bulky frame in a wing chair opposite the marchese.

  The marchese looked bored. “What else is there to do in Naples?”

  “There are many beautiful women at the court,” Celestino said.

  “Ah, that is something, I suppose. Can one be assured they will not give a man the pox?”

  The comte, who had been standing negligently against the mantelpiece, straightened and smiled. “They give their favors freely. I have heard it said that when the queen was younger she kept as many as three lovers at the same time. Of course she is a raddled hag now.”

  “I think,” Celestino said with a sharp glance toward the comte, “that a man is only safe taking virgins.”

  “Ah,” the marchese sighed. “If I were to pay a gold piece for every virgin I could find, I would still be a rich man at the end of a week.”

  Celestino chortled and opened his mouth to speak, but swallowed his words at a frown from Gervaise.

  “You are doubtless right in part, mon ami,” the comte said. He gazed down into the amber liquid in his goblet and said slowly, “I would suggest, marchese, that you do not speak so openly of your French leanings in the court. The queen has more secret police than most imagine. More than one innocent man has been butchered because of her hatred and fear of Napoleon. Your exalted rank and your wealth would not save you, I fear.” He paused for a long moment, and added, “Why, even Celestino and I could be in the pay of her majesty. Yes, you must be more careful.”

  The marchese stretched his long legs out before him. His dark blue eyes were hooded, almost as if he were nodding off to sleep. “I thank you for your . . . advice, comte,” he said, not looking up. “I trust whatever my father did, he did not raise a fool.”

  “Do you play cards?” Celestino said, leaning forward in his chair.

  “What gentleman does not?” the marchese said.

  “The night is still young,” the comte said. “Name your game, marchese, and Tino and I will contrive to amuse you.”

  Adam did not awaken until noon. When he left his room, Daniele Barbaro was awaiting him in the drawing room.

  “Well?” he asked without preamble.

  Adam yawned. “You and the men did excellently, Daniele. I did not stagger home until dawn. I allowed the Comte de la Valle to relieve me of a bit of gold,” he added.

  Adam’s valet, Borkin, entered the drawing room bearing two cups of steaming coffee and a tray of rolls.

  “Will you join me, Daniele?”

  At the older man’s nod, Adam seated himself in front of a small circular table and began to eat. He said nothing further until Borkin had bowed himself out of the room and pulled the door closed.

  “It is not that I doubt him in any way,” Adam said, more to himself than to Daniele. “I don’t want him to know anything that could place him in danger. I trust none of your men were harmed last night?”

  “Nay, your feint with your sword was impressive, no damage done to Vincenzo. Did you learn anything?”

  Adam stretched, took another bite of a flaky roll, and sat back in his chair. “Not much, but then again, I didn’t expect to. But I expect that the comte’s friend Celestino Genovesi will sooner or later divulge the game. I accompany them to court tonight. There is a ball, or some such thing. The comte will present me to the queen. The king, I hear, is at his palace at Caserta, hunting and whoring.”

  Daniele grunted. “Have you heard from the earl?”

  “Aye, yesterday.” He raised a mocking black brow. “My damned sister will be arriving shortly with the Lyndhursts.”

  “A rare handful is Lady Arabella,” Daniele said, grinning shamelessly at his master.

  “I look forward to seeing the minx. But I cannot like the fact that Rayna Lyndhurst is coming with her parents. The chit’s only eighteen, and from what Bella tells me, she’s so innocent she blushes when a rose opens.”

  “She shouldn’t recognize you. With that beard, you don’t look the English gentleman—more a damned pirate.”

  “Exactly what Celestino observed last night.” Adam chuckled. “Father wrote that Viscount Delford was appalled that he was allowing Arabella to come here because it was her wish to do so. Claimed he wouldn’t allow his daughter to gainsay his wishes, to which my father replied in that satirical way of his, ‘But, my dear sir, I want my daughter’s character to be as strong as her mother’s.’ ”

  “Ah,” Daniele said comfortably, “there is that. You needn’t worry about Lady Arabella, my lord. She’s safe with the Lyndhursts. The only danger she’ll know is keeping the young noblemen at court at arm’s length. No different from London.” As he stood, he added, “What harm can a girl come to attending par-ties?”

  “You, Daniele, don’t know my sister.”

  “Did Viscount Delford agree to cooperate with us?”

  “He had no choice. Lord Delford will keep mum about me. Father can be most persuasive.”

  “Aye, I’ve been with your father since before you were born. I wouldn’t want to cross him. Now, my lord, I must go. Vincenzo will be near, and you can send a message to me anytime of the day or night at my lodgings.”

  Adam rose and shook his head. “Thank you, Daniele. With any luck at all, we’ll have this wretched mess resolved and be back in Genoa before too much time. My only real concern is that Napoleon will descend with one of his armies and take Naples.”

  “Nay,” Daniele said, “it will take time to break the treaty. If it should come to pass, my lord, you will simply bundle your sister out of here before she can catch her breath to protest.”

  Chapter 6

  “How am I supposed to feel like a princess with my slippers pinching my toes?” Arabella whispered behind her white-gloved hand to Rayna Lyndhurst. Rayna was staring wide-eyed at the sprawling magnificence of the Palazzo Reale. The palace was lit with scores of flambeaux, held high by royal liveried servants outside the palace and secured in golden wall sconces within.

  “It was your idea to wear my slippers, Bella. I cannot help it if my feet are smaller than yours.”

  “How kind of you to point that out,” Arabella said on a snort. “Oh, I just heard, Rayna,” she continued in a whisper, not wanting either Lord or Lady Delford to hear her, “that King Ferdinando has returned from his favorite retreat, Belvedere, and will make an appearance tonight. I understand he is sated with his latest mistress and with hunting deer in his private preserves. I also heard it said that he did not pay much attention to the game, but more to Lucia, his overblown mistress.”

  “Is she here tonight?”

  “No, I think she is being protected from other gentlemen’s sight at Belvedere.”

  “Bella, where do you hear all these spicy things? No one tells me anything.”

  “This person or that,” Arabella said, and returned her attention to the vast reception hall. Soaring white marble columns, carved with eager cherubs, divided the huge hall into smaller salons. What seemed to be miles of crimson velvet draperies fell from ceiling to floor along two entire walls. And so many beautifully attired people. The men, she noted with a smile, appeared every bit as flamboyant as the ladies, many of them still wearing wigs, some dyed in dazzling colors.

  She was excited about meeting the Kin
g and Queen of Naples, but she was anxious about Adam. She scanned the brightly colored throng for him, but could not see him. She glanced at Rayna, who was standing quietly beside her mother, seeming quite nervous. She was sorry Rayna could not understand the lilting Italian, or smile, as she could, at the chattering nonsense she heard, no different from the nonsense spoken at the fashionable balls in London. She looked back to the hall where the bewigged musicians began playing at the far end of the chamber, and many of the gentlemen and ladies stepped out to dance the minuet. She finally saw Adam in the distance, in conversation with a tall young man. Was it the Comte de la Valle? He certainly didn’t look particularly debauched, with his blond good looks.

  “Come, ladies,” Lord Delford said. “We are about to be graced with the royal presences.”

  Arabella followed in the wake of Lord and Lady Delford. Lord Delford, tall and severely lean, was immaculately dressed in formal black velvet with frothy white lace at his throat and his wrists. His only jewelry was a large emerald signet ring on his right hand and a diamond stickpin in the folds of his cravat. His viscountess looked a bit pale, Arabella thought, as if she hadn’t yet fully recovered from their voyage from Genoa. But she held her head high, her auburn coloring set off by a rich gown of green satin. Rayna was wearing a gown of old ivory satin, with a strand of creamy pearls about her throat. Arabella thought her young friend looked exquisite, but of course, she wouldn’t tell her, not after the insult to her feet. As they neared the royal presences, Arabella patted Rayna’s hand.

  “Head up, Rayna,” Arabella whispered. “You are far more beautiful than the queen’s two daughters. I vow they’ll hate you within minutes.”

  “If only I were as tall as you, Bella, instead of squat.”

  “The old satyr has returned to the queen to rest for a while,” the Comte de la Valle was saying to the marchese di Galvani on the far side of the salon. “Do you know that he was ready to leave for Palermo several months ago for hunting? Sent ninety of his hounds over by ship. Acton convinced him it wasn’t wise to leave Naples, with Napoleon breathing down our necks. How the old fool cares for his throne.”