Devil's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes, I shall.”

  “As to learning anything, no, not yet. The comte has let slip that he has a mistress, an older woman who is in the court circle—near to the king, I might add. His friend Celestino let drop that the old hag is making Gervaise richer than he has a right to be.”

  “Rich with our cargoes?”

  “Possibly. As for this society he has organized, I haven’t yet been asked to join. But I think I’ve met most of the other members at Gervaise’s lodgings. They are, for the most part, young noblemen bored and primed to be wicked. Gervaise is undoubtedly their guiding light.”

  “Well, I shall have very attentive ears and eyes. If the woman is here in the court, I am bound to meet her.”

  “You will take care, Bella.” He nudged his knuckle against her jaw.

  “You know I will.”

  Rayna forced a smile. “It is all so exciting,” she said to the comte.

  “Indeed,” the comte agreed.

  Rayna was thankful the music came to a stop. She dipped a curtsy. “I must return to my mother, sir. I see her waving to me.”

  Gervaise bowed and offered her his arm. “How long will your illustrious father stay in Naples, mademoiselle?”

  Was there a tinge of sarcasm in his voice? “I am not in my father’s confidence. I suppose that much depends upon what happens in the king’s negotiations with the French.”

  “I shouldn’t like you to be in Naples when or if the Treaty of Amiens is renounced. I have heard it said that Napoleon is displeased with Acton. The pot is nearing the boiling point again, I’m afraid.”

  “I sincerely hope it will not boil over, monsieur. I pity any country that is conquered by another, and its people enslaved.”

  The comte arched a fair brow. “There are many in Naples, mademoiselle, who view Napoleon as a liberator, many who would throw the city open to him.”

  “I fear they are deluded. Napoleon has looted every country he has taken, and tried to destroy the traditions that bound their people together.”

  “And some say these people have never known greater freedom since his arrival, and less corruption.”

  “For an ardent royalist, monsieur, you seem rather open-minded.”

  Gervaise smiled down at her serious young face. “I have lived more years than you, mademoiselle. Perhaps I have become a cynic.”

  “I thank you for the dance, monsieur.”

  Before he could ask her for another, Rayna curtsied to him and turned to her mother.

  “A bientôt, mademoiselle,” he said softly.

  Chapter 7

  Sardinia

  Old Antonio Genovesi scratched his wiry gray beard as he pondered the slow progress of the man on the beach below him, the man he had pulled from the churning waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea some six months before. He was not a young man, but his features, gaunt from months of fever and pain, made him appear older than his years. That he had survived the stab wounds and hours spent in the storm-tossed water, clutching a piece of driftwood, testified to an extraordinary strength. As his wife, Ria, had said as she nursed him, “This one will not let the devil have him, not before his time.”

  Ria had hardly left his side for months, hovering about him as if he were her son. Not that Antonio minded. Ria’s grief over the son they had lost to the sea years before had aged her too. She called him Dono, for to her he was a gift from the sea. There was a fierce light in her rheumy eyes now, and they held purpose again. During the months of fever, he had raved of odd and strange things, and places so bizarre that Ria and Antonio could only gape at him. “He is no common sailor, our Dono,” Ria had whispered to him.

  He watched Dono turn slowly back up the beach toward their thatched hut. He raised his head, and even from the distance brilliant black eyes met Antonio’s gaze. Dono raised his crutch and waved it toward him. “Who are you?” Antonio whispered. He waved back and made his way down the crooked path to the beach.

  Hamil had just seen his reflection clearly for the first time in six months in a limpid sea pool. A wide strip of shock white hair flowed from his temple through his black hair, as if painted there. His full beard was threaded with white, and there were lines etched about his eyes. He had stared at a stranger.

  His once powerful body still trembled from weakness whenever he walked the length of the rocky beach. It was his fury that kept him doggedly exercising, fury at his betrayal that had kept him clinging to that piece of wood when other men would have let go. He still asked himself: Who had paid Ramid to betray him?

  Hamil smiled to himself as he watched the old man carefully tread down the path toward him. Antonio would say nothing, but would walk beside him, ready to shoulder his weight should he falter. Soon, he thought, he would not need the crutch; soon his strength would return.

  He waited for the old man to reach him, leaning heavily on the crutch Antonio had carved for him several months before.

  “Dono,” Antonio said in his soft, scratchy voice. “I watched you. You walked the whole length of the beach without halting. Soon, my son, you will be as you once were.”

  My son. Hamil smiled at the grizzled old man who barely reached his chin.

  Antonio saw a grimace of pain through Dono’s smile and pulled the younger man’s arm over his shoulder. “Ria will have our lunch ready,” Antonio said quickly, wanting to spare Dono the embarrassment of leaning on him, an old man. “Fish stew today, but it’s tasty, as you know, Dono.”

  “I know,” Hamil said, allowing Antonio to support some of his weight.

  As they neared the hut, Hamil said abruptly, “I wish to fish with you, Antonio. I have done nothing save take from you. I must repay you if I can for your kindness.”

  “Yes, you will fish with me, perhaps next week,” Antonio agreed. “But you are not a fisherman. I would not wish to fish you out of the sea again.”

  “No,” Hamil said. “I am not a fisherman, but I am a good sailor. I will learn.”

  Ria appeared in the doorway of the small hut, waving her faded apron at them. “Dono. Look at you, boy. You have had enough exercise for this day . . . leaning on that old man. You walked too far. Come, you must rest now and eat. It’s a thick stew I’ve got for you today. Potatoes from that old witch who lives beyond the hill.”

  Hamil, used to Ria’s scolding chatter, allowed her to lead him into the one large room and settle him on a chair beside the rough-hewn table. In truth, he was exhausted. He attacked the stew as if his life depended on it.

  He laid down his spoon beside his empty wooden bowl and leaned back in his chair. Unbidden, the image of Lella rose in his mind. Had she been killed as he was to be, six months ago?

  For the first time in his life, Hamil bowed his head and let pain-filled sobs break from his throat. He felt burning tears streak down his cheeks. He felt Ria’s arms close about his shoulders, and without thought, he buried his head against her scrawny bosom.

  “Dono, my son,” he heard her whisper softly to him as her fingers stroked through his thick hair, “it is all right. No one else will hurt you again.”

  “Lella,” he whispered.

  “Your sweetheart, Dono?”

  “My wife. Perhaps she is dead now, even as I was meant to be.”

  Ria’s eyes met her husband’s over Hamil’s bowed head. Gently, her fingers still stroking his hair, she asked, “Who are you, Dono?”

  Hamil stilled. He felt a great shame at his weakness. A man did not weep like a woman, not even a skeleton of a man. He raised his head and looked into the wrinkled face he had come to know well.

  “Ria,” he said sadly, “I have shamed myself.”

  “Men,” Ria grunted. “Do not be a fool.”

  Hamil had never before been called a fool by a woman; indeed, only his father had dared. Yet he wasn’t angered; rather, he felt strangely comforted.

  “My name,” he said slowly, looking from Antonio to Ria, “is Hamil.” At their blank looks, he gave a mocking laugh. “Until six months ago, I was the
Bey of Oran.”

  Ria sucked in her breath and gazed at him, appalled. “A pirate? You’re one of those men who raid ships and make slaves of people?”

  “I rule them. Rather, I ruled them. I am now supposedly dead.”

  Antonio stared at him as if he were a creature with three heads. “You are a . . . king?”

  “Something like that. The Bey of Oran rules at the whim of the Dey of Algiers, who, in turn, owes his allegiance to the Grand Turk in Constantinople.”

  “You’re a heathen,” Ria said.

  “No, but I am a Muslim.” He saw Ria mouth the foreign word. He asked softly, “Do you want me to leave? I must go soon in any case, to Cagliari. I have friends there, powerful men who will help me regain what is mine.”

  “No,” Ria said, tightening her arms about his shoulders. “I don’t care if you are one of them. I’ll not let you go until you are well. We will speak of this again. Eat the stew, Dono.”

  “Antonio?” Hamil inquired.

  “Eat the stew, boy.”

  Chapter 8

  Naples

  Edward Lyndhurst greeted his daughter pleasantly when she stepped into the sitting room with her mother. “This wretched climate appears to agree with you, puss,” he said. “You are looking quite lovely.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” Rayna said, eyeing him a bit askance. It was not yet teatime, and she had not lived with her father for eighteen years without learning to recognize the gleam of purpose in his eyes.

  “Sit down, my dear,” Edward Lyndhurst said. “Your mother and I wish to speak with you.”

  Rayna obligingly sat on a blue brocade wing chair, smoothed her narrow skirt, and smiled up at her father. “I have always enjoyed speaking with both of you, sir.”

  “Yes, well . . .” her father began. He paused a moment, fiddling with his watch fob. “You have always been a good-hearted girl, Rayna, and a pleasure to your mother and me.”

  Oh dear, Rayna thought, sitting up straighter. Her father’s tone, though gentle as it always was toward her, was becoming weighted. “I trust so, Father,” she said.

  “We are not in England, my dear.”

  “Indeed, Papa. I have freckles on my nose, and it is still spring. That would never happen in the fog of London.”

  Edward Lyndhurst’s smile was perfunctory at best. Rayna watched him glance toward her mother, then back at her. “What I mean, puss,” he continued stiffly, “is that we are in a foreign land surrounded by people we are not used to. Their ways are different and their customs are much looser.”

  “Good heavens, Papa,” Rayna said. “Of course we are not used to them. But I am trying to learn a bit of Italian, and I am finding that they are not so very different. And as for their being loose, Maria, our housekeeper, told me but last week that if I were an Italian young lady, I would have just come from the convent.”

  “That, my dear,” Jennifer Lyndhurst said sharply, “is not quite what your father meant.”

  “Indeed,” Edward Lyndhurst said. “You have always been protected, Rayna. You know nothing of gentlemen who are not really, well, gentlemen. We are concerned for you. In the future, my dear, when we attend balls or court functions, I would prefer that you not fraternize overly with the gentlemen.”

  Rayna’s usually sweet expression darkened and she shot her mother such a reproachful look that Lady Delford’s eyes widened.

  “Fraternize, Papa?” she asked, turning her eyes full on her father. “Do you mean that I am so naive and lacking in judgment that I should cling to your coat or to Mother’s skirt? Or would you prefer that I pass what is left of my time in Naples in a convent?”

  Lord Edward stared at Rayna in surprise. “I beg your pardon, miss?” he asked calmly, in the tone he used for his sons.

  “I asked you, Papa,” Rayna continued, undaunted, “if you would prefer a convent.” Rayna was aware that her heart was thumping in her breast, but for the first time in her life, she thought her father’s pronouncements sounded positively gothic.

  “Perhaps I should have been more specific, Rayna,” Lord Edward said coldly. “I should have said that I will not have you flirting with any of the young men you will meet here.”

  Rayna could scarce believe her ears. Her mother had betrayed her to her father, all because she had given two dances to the marchese. She looked down at her lemon kid slippers and said mildly, “You have nothing to worry about, Papa, for the young man in question did not find me particularly to his liking.”

  “And who might that be, pray tell?” the viscount demanded, knowing full well whom she meant. It galled him to ask, but he wanted to hear from his own daughter’s mouth that Adam Welles had found her wanting. Damned young puppy. From what his wife had told him, he was just like his father.

  “The Marchese di Galvani,” Rayna said.

  “And just what about the man attracted you, if your father may be so bold as to ask?”

  Rayna looked directly into her father’s face. “He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”

  “That says little for his character,” Edward said.

  “And the kindest.”

  Lady Delford stepped into the breach, seeing that her husband was about to stray from the point. “Rayna, my love, a man is not beautiful. That is a very odd thing to say about a man.”

  “The marchese is,” Rayna said firmly. “He is from Sicily. Perhaps that is why he has such incredible blue eyes.”

  Edward Lyndhurst knew exactly where Adam Welles had gotten his blue eyes. He selected his sternest voice. He’d be damned if he would let her throw herself at Adam Welles. “You will perhaps see the marchese at court, but that is the only place, miss.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Papa,” Rayna said. “Although he was quite polite to me, he also seemed to enjoy Arabella’s company.” She cocked her head to one side. “I do not understand. He is, after all, a marquess, of noble blood—”

  “Bah. Every Italian carries a title. He could easily be a goatherd’s son.”

  “He does not smell at all of goats.”

  “You would not have spoken so smartly to me before Arabella Welles came to us,” the viscount said. “Arabella is a beautiful young woman, but I find her manners too bright, too open. If this marchese prefers her, it is just as well.” He firmly repressed a twinge of guilt at the false impression he was creating.

  “Perhaps,” Rayna said, regarding her father straightly, “when my Italian is more fluent, I can be as witty and beguiling at Bella. And, Papa, whatever you may think, the marchese is an honorable gentleman. He would never take advantage of me.”

  He already has, her father thought angrily. “I have told you my wishes, Rayna. That will be an end to it. Now, if you will both excuse me, I must meet with Acton and Sir Hugh. I will see you at dinner.”

  It seemed to Rayna as if her father were escaping. It both surprised her and amused her. She supposed he had grown used to her being as pliant as a puppet. He usually had merely to gently tell her what he wished, and she applied herself to please him.

  “My dear,” she heard her mother say, “I pray you to attend your father. We both want what is best for you. The marchese appears a very worldly man.”

  “Yes, Mother, I am quite certain that he is.” She rose suddenly and walked to the door.

  “Worldly men know how to impress young girls,” Lady Delford called somewhat desperately after her daughter.

  “I may be innocent, Mother,” Rayna said, her hand on the bronze doorknob, “but I am perfectly aware of what goes on around me.”

  How could her mother have told her father? Had she been so obvious about her attraction to the marchese? A small secret smile appeared as she climbed the stairs to Arabella’s bedchamber. During their second dance, he had teased her unmercifully. She would have thought he was showing a sisterly affection for her had she not glanced up at him in an unguarded moment. What she had seen in his eyes had nothing to do with brotherly feeling. She frowned on the heels of that thought. He had
spent a great deal of time with Arabella. Well, not a great deal, perhaps, but nearly as much as he had spent with her. When she gained the bedchamber, she found Arabella pacing to and fro.

  “Well?” Arabella demanded the moment Rayna had closed the door. “Whatever did your father want? I don’t expect he was angry because you ripped a flounce on your gown.”

  Rayna sighed. “Perhaps I am an undutiful daughter,” she began, only to glance up angrily at Arabella’s gay laugh.

  “You needn’t make fun of me, Bella.”

  “Oh, you silly goose. I’m not making sport. It’s just that you are the most dutiful daughter I have ever known. Come, what happened?”

  “Well, you would not believe it, Bella, but all that fuss was over my two dances with the marchese. Papa ordered me not to fraternize with the young gentlemen, particularly the marchese. Indeed, he accused me of flirting with the marchese, and, well, I couldn’t let that pass, could I, Bella?”

  “Of course not,” Arabella said. “You are eighteen now, Rayna, and no longer a child.”

  Rayna fell into a brooding silence, then blurted out, “I also told Papa that he didn’t have to worry. The marchese is more likely interested in you than in me.”

  “Ah,” Arabella said, turning her face away so Rayna would not see her smile. “Appearances,” she continued, her back still to Rayna, “are sometimes deceiving. I beg you not to be cast down, love. We will see what happens. Perhaps you will see the marchese again at the queen’s reception for Lady Eden on Friday.” Indeed they would see each other, she thought. She had made certain that Adam would be attending the reception. She turned to face her friend. “I am glad you defended the marchese to your parents. He is a handsome and nice man.”

  “It seems that the queen is always receiving somebody,” Rayna said, disregarding Bella’s blatant opening. Her feelings for the marchese were too new and too fragile to discuss, even with her best friend. And, she thought, sighing, she wasn’t certain that the marchese didn’t prefer Arabella to her.