by Anne Stuart
But today was a heavenly day, and I would start afresh with my saturnine guardian. I turned to look for my portmanteau, so that I could dress and face the wicked count in proper style.
My luggage was nowhere to be seen, and my determination vanished. For the first time I allowed myself to wonder how I had come to be in this sumptuous room, whose strong arms had carried me from the gondola and placed me in that excessively comfortable bed. I looked down at my thin chemise. And whose hands had stripped off most of my clothing while I slept with such uncharacteristic soundness?
I stood stock still, trying to stem the tide of anger and uneasiness that threatened to overwhelm me. I had never been a coward. Indeed, Theresa had often wished I could show just a trifle more restraint. But this city, this palazzo, these people were totally beyond my ken, and I felt most unpleasantly helpless and out of my depth. I was still considering this novel experience when the gilded door knob began to turn with a sinister slowness.
I bit back a nervous scream, and with barely a tremor in my voice called out, "Come in!"
There was a hesitation, and then the door opened, revealing not the supposed demon-count but a small, hunched old woman dressed in the heavy black that was a uniform for Italian women of a certain age. She moved into the sunlight, and my reassurance dimmed. Beneath her oily black hair was a face incredibly old and incredibly evil to my impressionable young eyes, wise in the ways of the world and the fools that inhabited it. When she spoke it was in a rasping, guttural voice, using a slurred dialect I found just barely comprehensible. My perfect Italian was almost useless, and I wished she would slow down just a trifle. After a moment I began to comprehend.
"Can you speak English?" I requested when she paused for breath. I had been taught by Theresa to keep all signs of intellect well hidden, as a woman with any sort of brain was considered a freak by the superior male of the species. Keeping my knowledge of Italian and French a secret might prove a very useful advantage in the fourteen months that were to come, and I had an uneasy feeling I would need every advantage I could find.
The woman snorted. "I am Maddelena," she said in broken English that I found almost more difficult to understand than her dialect. "I am the housekeeper here. You wish to take a bath?"
Such words could turn any monster into a saint in my eyes, and I nodded with heartfelt gratitude. "Above all things," I said fervently.
"It will be brought. The count will see you at five."
"At five? That must be hours away!" I don't know why the wait distressed me so. I told myself that I wanted reassurance that the demon-count of last night was merely a figment of my overtired brain.
"Compose yourself, signorina," the old witch said cynically, a smile showing several gaps in her teeth. "It is past three now. You have slept a long time."
"Who . . . who brought me here last night?" I questioned hesitantly, and then blushed. I should have pretended disinterest.
"Who else but Antonio, the gondolier? Do you think he would soil his hands with such as you?" the little crone demanded fiercely. I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
"And who undressed me?"
Once more she smiled, and her little currant-like eyes shone in the afternoon sunlight. "I did, signorina. But be patient. You are not bad looking, though not in his usual style. I'm sure he will come to your bed eventually."
Unfortunately during the last part of that speech she lapsed into Italian, and I could neither refute it nor upbraid her for her insulting suggestions. I could simply stare at her in mute frustration while she went off, cackling, and repeating over and over in Italian that my time would come.
I stared after her. "Damn!" I said finally, finding more relief in the good solid British word than in all my repertoire of obscene foreign curses. I could almost begin to understand some of Theresa's contempt for foreigners. All this absurd melodrama and rampant lechery was both unnerving and highly contagious. I would have to be careful not to be seduced into reacting as the old witch no doubt wanted me to.
But the bath was heavenly. Two sturdy and obviously dull-witted maids carried in an ornate silver tub, much tarnished, filling it with steaming and scented water carried in equally ornate and unclean silver buckets. The wealth of the place seemed unbelievable, and I wondered what the demon-count had done to own such splendor. Perhaps he had simply been born to it. Or perhaps, the evil thought intruded, he had traded something, like his immortal soul, for such Croesian riches.
And there you go again, I chided myself, sinking into the scented luxury of the first bath I'd had in many long weeks. This place seems to breed such absurd fancies. A good English stiff upper lip was what was needed, and a stern no-nonsense attitude. After all, I had always prided myself on my levelheadedness and lack of sentimentality. Now was a fine time to lose it!
With the bathwater appeared my missing luggage, and I dressed carefully for my interview with Luc del Zaglia. My heavy blond hair was scarcely dry, and I arranged it as best I could. The cool spring air in the palazzo would no doubt give me pneumonia, but I did not doubt that there were worse ways to go around here. I dressed in one of Theresa's prettier black wool dresses. The style was only slightly outmoded, with a narrower skirt and longer sleeves than were currently in vogue. The dark color would, I hoped, successfully, hide the fact that I was both taller and slimmer than my mother. The discrepancies in height and girth were not very great, and the neckline of the dress was thankfully demure. The soft black wool gave my porcelain skin a delicate tint that pleased me very much. I couldn't see how the demon-count could be so very angry with such a sweet-looking lady, her large blue eyes brimming easily with unshed tears. A black lace-trimmed handkerchief completed my toilette, and I was ready and waiting when Maddelena, looking more witchlike than ever, arrived back at my door to escort me into the royal presence.
It was my first good look at the palazzo—my unusual state of somnolence last night had, of course, left me unconscious of the decaying glory around me. I had been pleased, no, overwhelmed would be more apt, by the elegant splendor of my room and its appurtenances, but I could see from the cold and drafty hallways that the wealth had not been spread very far around Edentide. Cobwebs were strung from the distant corners of the ornate ceilings, dust accumulated on every available surface, and the brass (or were they gold?) sconces in the walls were sadly tarnished, with the candles throwing off only a fitful light. As I followed the squat, hunched-over figure of the housekeeper I was grateful that my too-short skirts enabled me to keep my hem from trailing in the dust, and my overactive imagination picked up the sound of large rodents scuffling behind me in the darkness. I peered back over my shoulder with a great deal of uneasiness. I did not care for rats.
"This is the third floor, signorina," Maddelena announced. "Your rooms are the only occupied ones on this level. I hope this will not bother you?" She grinned, and I knew she hoped nothing of the sort.
"Why should it?" I asked coolly, straightening my spine. "I like solitude."
The old witch shrugged. "Let us hope solitude is the worst you will experience." She continued down the hallway to a sweeping staircase, and impudently I stuck my tongue out at her sturdy little back. "The servants' quarters are on the second floor. The English servants, that is. The Italian servants have their rooms in the cellars."
"The cellars?" I shuddered. If the upper floors of Edentide were cold, slimy and rodent-ridden I hated to think of the condition of the cellars. "I would think you would rather be higher up . . . above the waterline, I mean."
"We are not given much choice. The Inglesi were brought here by the count's mother. They have ruled the palazzo ever since, and will continue to do so." She spat, which I doubted did the filthy marble staircase much harm. She peered back up at me, her small black eyes shining in the dim light. "His rooms are on the second floor also . . . at the front of the palazzo."
"How interesting," I said mildly, hoping to convince the wom
an I had no desire to know of the count's sleeping arrangements. She cackled, however, and I felt a momentary desire to push her down the stairs. I controlled my murderous tendencies.
The second floor was cleaner than the third, and more brightly lit. As we passed the landing I tried to peer down the long hallway, but the shadows made it impossible. For a moment I thought I could make out a pair of eyes glowing in the black corridor, and I stopped suddenly. But a moment later they were gone, and I told myself I must have imagined them. If I didn't take myself in hand before too long I would become hopelessly nerve-ridden in this macabre palace.
The ground floor was far more reassuring. While not exactly clean and bright, it at least showed some small amount of housekeeping care. The brasses were polished, the furniture had seen an application of beeswax and lemon oil in the not-too-distant past, and the rugs were aglow with fresh colors, not the frayed and raveled remnants that had carpeted the cold, damp hallways upstairs. Even the dark and damp-stained portraits on the walls seemed to have more optimistic expressions on their ancient faces, but perhaps I was imagining that too.
I had fallen behind Maddelena, and now I rushed to catch up with her as she flung open a door into a warm and well-lighted room, announcing my name with great dignity.
"Signorina Morrow." I hesitated for barely a moment. That unfortunate English children's rhyme had popped into my head. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly . . .
Nonsense, I told myself firmly, striding into the room, only to have my hard-won courage vanish once more as the demon-count repeated the very rhyme I had banished from my mind.
"Come into my parlor . . ."
Chapter Five
He was lounging negligently in a gold brocade chair, and as I entered the room he rose with lazy grace, just slowly enough to express his boredom with the custom and with me. He was dressed in black as he had been the night before, and his pale, handsome face was not in the slightest bit reassuring to me after I had had a full night's sleep. He looked down at me and smiled, a cool, calculating smile, and motioned me to a chair opposite him.
"Well, Charlotte Theresa Sabina," he murmured, "I trust you had a decent sleep. I have never had anyone find my company quite so strenuous as you, my dear. People usually manage to stifle their yawns when I bore them. Your candor in falling asleep was quite refreshing."
I could feel an embarrassed flush mounting to my face at his mocking words. "I . . . I apologize, Count del Zaglia," I said stiffly, formally. "It had been a very long trip, and then the wine on top of it . . ."
"Oh, don't apologize," he protested, raising a slim, elegant hand, and the bloodstone gleamed dully. "I was charmed, my dear. And you must call me Luc. Despite the vast difference in our ages I find so much formality wearing." He rose with a sudden, graceful lunge, and moved restlessly across the room. "Some wine, my dear?" He paid no attention to my small protest, pouring me a goblet of the dark red stuff and carrying it back to me. I had no recourse but to accept it, and as I did my fingers touched that elegant hand. Ignoring the amused expression on his face, I pulled my hand away quickly, as if stung, spilling a few drops of the wing on my dress. His flesh had been as cold as the grave, and yet its touch seemed to barn me. With trembling fingers I brought the wine to my lips and took a deep swallow. It wasn't as bitter as last night's wine, and I took another gulp.
"Is Luc short for Luciano?" I questioned with an effort at casual conversation.
He smiled then, and I was not warmed. "No, my dear. It's Lucifero. The fallen angel. Apt, is it not?"
At that point I gave in. This was a different type of man, one I couldn't cajole with fluttering eyelashes and innocent smiles. Nor with tear-filled eyes . . . at best it would merely amuse him.
"Have I cowed you completely, my dear Charlotte?" he inquired solicitously, once more seeming to have read my mind. "I do hope not. I have been looking forward to battling you. Your dear mother was one of the most self-willed females I have ever encountered, and you have the look of her, no matter how hard you try to disguise it. That obstinate little chin, and the headstrong expression about your delightful lips. I do hope you won't capitulate too easily."
I lifted my head at that and looked him squarely in those magnificent eyes. "I won't," I promised him in a cold, angry voice.
The look of amusement deepened, and he reached out and took one of my unwilling hands in his fiery-icy grip. For a moment I tried to pull away, then let it rest there as he brought it to his lips. At the last moment he turned it over and pressed his mouth against my palm. The kiss he placed there seemed to scorch me to my very soul. It was both a threat and a promise, a declaration of war and a peace offering, and desperately I wondered how long it would take me to amass enough money to escape from the demon-count. For escape I must, before it was too late.
A moment later he released me, turning from me as if I were no longer of any interest to him—as indeed, I suppose I was not. The May night had fallen, and a myriad of candles threw a fitful light into the dim and shadowy corners of the room. Now that Luc's overpowering attentions were elsewhere I had as -stems® to take ifi my surroundings. I was not reassured. The Palazzo Edentide was in dire need of money, and I wondered if my poor virgin body was going to be sacrificed upon its altar.
"We are expecting a guest for dinner, my dear Charlotte," his soft, slightly menacing voice broke through my reveries. "An old friend of mine . . . and yours, apparently. You shouldn't find you have much in common with him, I'm afraid. But perhaps with you here to lend countenance to my sybaritic bachelor existence we may expect to entertain a more suitable acquaintance."
"Suitable?" I questioned.
He shrugged his elegant, silk-clad shoulders. "At this point virtuous ladies of Venice would cross the street rather than be forced to acknowledge me. Or they would if it didn't necessitate falling into the canals. My reputation, dear Charlotte, is sadly tarnished." He smiled that brilliant smile. "But now that you are here to reform me perhaps the matchmaking mamas will let me at their little virginal ninnies. The name of del Zaglia is old and respected, the title only slightly less ancient. Who knows whether certain social-climbing matriarchs might be persuaded to accept its less than worthy incumbent."
"I wouldn't know," I responded. "Are you desirous of finding a . . . a virginal ninny?" I tried to toss this out casually but a telltale blush mounted to my fair cheeks.
Luc noted it with an ironic twist to his mobile mouth. "My friends tell me it is time to marry again. I have been a widower for too long. Besides, all this splendor," he indicated the water-stained damask wall-covering and the cracked marble matelpiece, "needs refurbishing. My own pockets are sadly to let. A fatal addiction to gaming, I'm sorry to confess."
He couldn't have looked less sorrowful. A sudden gnawing attacked my stomach, reminding me that I hadn't eaten in well over twenty-four hours. I cast a furtive glance around the room, hoping I might find a small tray of bread and cheese, or even a dish of stale comfits. There was nothing edible in evidence. Nobly I attempted to turn my thoughts away from such mundane matters, back to my sinister guardian.
"Perhaps you should control your fatal addiction," I suggested repressively.
"I could scarcely do that, my dear ward. One has one's standards to keep up, you know. You aren't, by any chance, possessed of a comfortable fortune?"
This time I flushed a darker shade, and the demon-count stopped his restless pacing, arrested by my acute embarrassment. It would have done me no good to prevaricate— he was bound to find out sooner or later. Indeed, I was amazed he didn't know already.
I cleared my throat. "As a matter of fact, yes."
He flung himself back into the ancient damask chair, the spindly frame creaking in protest against his strong body. His curious golden eyes were fixed on my face once more, and I wished I could look elsewhere, anywhere but at that hypnotizing gaze. "Oh, really?" he drawled. "You interest me greatly, little one. How much of a fortune?"<
br />
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, how much?" he repeated impatiently.
I repeated the quite staggering sum Cousin Horace had mentioned in a flat voice.
His eyes narrowed. "All yours?"
"All mine," I admitted unwillingly.
He leaned back, eyeing me speculatively for a moment. Then with one of those lightninglike moves I had already come to expect of him, he rose and filled my wineglass, pouring a generous amount of the ruby liquid for himself at the same time. "How very convenient my inconvenient ward has suddenly become! Tell me, Charlotte Theresa Sabina, who is in charge of your financial affairs? No doubt your very tedious Cousin Horace?"
This came as a surprise to me. I hadn't thought he knew anything of my British relatives. No wonder their disapproval had been so stern. They could have given me more definitive warnings, I thought gloomily, knowing full well I had only myself to blame for my current predicament. "I believe, my esteemed guardian, that you have been placed in control of my financial as well as physical and moral well-being."
He threw back his head and laughed. "But how delightful! And there's no need to marry you. Your dear father was a better friend than I realized."
I stared at him, amazed at his audacity. Before I could confront him with all the things I wished to throw in his sardonic face the door opened and the elegant butler of last night ushered in my handsome French friend, Jean-Baptiste Perrier.
He stopped short at the sight of me, however, staring in unfeigned amazement, and I watched him with equal interest.
He was dressed even more elegantly than the previous evening, and for the first time I realized how very attractive he was. His clothes were, of course, impeccable, his dark blond hair dressed with sobriety and verve, his feet and hands small and well formed. And his face, despite the amazed expression, was quite pleasingly handsome. Not as bristlingly masculine as my longed-for Holger, nor as dramatically beautiful as my amused guardian, he nevertheless was very, very attractive. His bearing was military, and for a rash moment I considered throwing myself on his mercy and at his small feet, and begging him for asylum, for protection from the saturnine monster beside me. Before I could speak, however, he recovered himself and greeted Luc in French-accented Italian.