by Anne Stuart
"Your newest, Luc? I didn't know you cared for the virginal type. She's quite attractive, I must say . . . Let me know when you tire of her. I'd be more than willing to take her off your hands."
I nearly drew myself up to my full, enraged height before I realized I wasn't supposed to understand a word of this. Quickly I put a blank expression on my face, but a swift glance from Del Zaglia made me wonder whether I had been quick enough.
"My ward," Luc spoke in slow, deliberate English, "Miss Charlotte Theresa Sabina Morrow. Her father was an old and dear friend of mine. I believe you two have met, though not formally introduced. This is Jean-Baptiste Perrier. Vice-consul for the French embassy here in Venice. Not a very popular young man, are you, Perrier? But then, I find politics so fatiguing." He was as mocking with his guest as he had been with me, I was relieved to note.
Perrier, after a startled moment, bowed low over my hand with perfect manners, as if he had never even suspected I was a lady of uncertain morals. "Enchant6, mademoiselle. I am delighted to see you again. The sun will shine a little brighter for your presence in this wretched, waterlogged town."
I smiled up at him, relaxing for the first time since I had entered the room, warming to the obvious attractions of the young man. Here was something I understood, something I was used to. Luc del Zaglia's ironical toying with me not only frightened me, it went against all the normal laws of behavior in men.
"I must thank you for your good offices last evening," I said, leaning back in my spindly chair. "You found my guardian just in time. I was being plagued by an alarming fellow countryman of yours when Luc appeared like a deus ex machina." I was aware of Luc's inscrutable smile, and I wondered whether my unthinking use of Latin had set off any suspicions. Or perhaps he was merely entertained at hearing himself referred to as godlike, however remote the connection.
I had misjudged the reason. Jean-Baptiste looked properly abashed. "I wish I could take credit, dear lady. Alas, I never did find Luc last evening. When I returned to the room where I left you it was deserted. I hope you suffered no great disturbance?"
"No great disturbance at all," I replied blandly, all too aware of the taut attention behind Luc's casual demeanor.
"Is this your first visit to Venice, Mademoiselle Morrow?" He changed the subject smoothly. I confessed it was, and he continued smoothly, a knowing eye cocked in Luc's direction. "Then perhaps your ogre of a guardian will allow me to show you the dubious glories of the Queen of the Adriatic. Most account St. Mark's piazza to be quite a sight, with the campanile towering above the handsome domes. I would consider it a great honor."
"Right to the kill," Luc murmured in French, and M. Perrier flushed. "It is up to Charlotte," he continued in the English I supposedly understood solely. "I'm sure I can trust you with my sweet, innocent ward,"
"But of course, Luc, I wouldn't dream . . . "
"Because if you betrayed my trust," he continued! smoothly, as if Perrier had not spoken, "I will be forced to kill you. And the Austrian government does so frown on dueling."
There was an uneasy silence for a moment, and I looked from one handsome, tension-filled face to the other,, amazed at the suddenly rigid atmosphere.
As quickly as it had come upon them it disappeared, and a moment later they were drinking and laughing as if it were a normal house in any part of England, with pleasant, acceptable young men paying flattering attention to an eligible and not unattractive young lady. Except that one of those men had a peculiarly frightening streak, and the not unattractive young lady was plainly terrified of him, leaving only Jean-Baptiste with any chance of being what he seemed. And even of him I was not completely sure.
Chapter Six
Dinner was served blessedly early, which was a fortunate thing for ail concerned. By my third glass of the dry red wine my guardian favored, I was feeling dizzy and just the tiniest bit silly. Another glass would have undone me completely.
Fortunately for my addled state of mind Jean-Baptiste managed to take me in to dinner. I rested a confident hand on his strong young arm, idiotically relieved that I wouldn't have to touch Luc's body until I was more myself. I seemed to react strangely to his flesh, and with my wine-induced inanity who knows what might have happened?
The food was well cooked, bland, and obviously British, a suspicion that was borne out by the nature of Jean- Baptiste's compliments. The first half of the meal I devoted to silent gorging. It wasn't until the savory arrived that I was able to lean back in the wretchedly uncomfortable chair and listen to the gentlemen's conversation with more than half an ear.
"It's become an outrage," the Frenchman was saying. "I would have thought the Austrians would have shown a little more sense. If the French were in power we would have found the felon and dispatched him before he'd committed a second crime. And now this latest atrocity . . . I wonder the Imperial Army dares show its face around here."
"What latest atrocity?" I questioned, temporarily replete.
Luc raised an eyebrow at me, pushing his untouched plate away from him in distaste. "You are still with us, ma petite? I thought we had lost you with the pasta." Before I had a chance to respond he continued smoothly, "Jean-Baptiste was just informing me of the latest murder. Hardly dinnertime conversation but then, the French are savages."
His guest laughed lightly, a dark look in his brown eyes belying his good humor. "You never eat anything anyway, my friend."
"And I doubt an entire massacre could daunt my ward," he responded. "Tell her the latest. She had best be warned."
Jean-Baptiste cleared his throat. "There exists, mademoiselle, in this benighted city, a fiend, a ghoul, so horrible I hardly dare venture to tell you of it."
"You fully intend to tell her, Perrier. Get on with it," Luc said cynically, his tawny, brooding eyes never leaving my face.
The Frenchman ignored him. "A fiend, mademoiselle, who preys on the living. One who takes the cover of night and attacks those foolhardy enough to venture out alone and untended. Poor helpless females without sturdy males to protect them."
"A thief?" I questioned prosaically.
"If only that were all," Jean-Baptiste sighed. "But their money is always left with the . . . the bodies. No, this . . . this thing is nothing but a foul and merciless killer, who preys on young women for no apparent reason. Three bodies have been found in the canals, mademoiselle. Three young women with not a drop of blood left in their corpses!"
My knife clattered to the plate as I stared at him in horror. "How could that be?"
A small smile played about Luc's lips as his eyes watched me. "The peasants say it is a vampire," he offered pleasantly. "A creature that takes the form of a bat and sucks the blood of its victim. We, of course, know better."
"Do we?" Jean-Baptiste countered. "Such things have been known to exist. Who can say that a vampire has not risen from its endless sleep and taken to stalking its victims along the waterways of Venice?"
"I can, my dear Perrier." Luc toyed with a knife, his slim, elegant fingers looking very dangerous. "The victims throats were cut, were they not?"
"Yes, that's true. But there still should be some blood left in the bodies." He held to his theory stubbornly.
"Vampires, my friend, exist only in the imaginations of frustrated spinsters and adolescent females." He cast a mocking glance in my fascinated direction. "It is my theory, Perrier," and there seemed to be a hidden meaning underlying his casual words, "that the murders are committed in a certain way to place guilt on an innocent party."
"For what possible motive?" His companion was equally cool.
Luc shrugged. "Who knows, my friend? Anyway, I would have thought you at least had more sense than to believe these ghost stories."
"I do not believe them," Perrier said with great dignity. "But I do not discount them without careful consideration. And I would advise you not to do so either, Del Zaglia!"
There was a sudden, dangerous silence, a silence more frightening than Pe
rrier's ghastly tales. Once more a palpable tension arose between the two seemingly friendly men. In desperation I broke in. "How perfectly awful!" I murmured in an idiotic voice. "And when was the latest victim found?"
That omniscient smile that I was coming to expect played on Luc's face. "Last night, my dear. Probably just as I was bringing you back here the ghoul was about his business. Just think, if you had only managed to stay awake you might have seen him at work."
"Did you see him?" I inquired sweetly.
"Not this time. No doubt I will get another chance." He reached one long arm and poured himself another glass of wine, the only sustenance he took during that meal. "You may retire now, Charlotte, and leave us to our port and cigars as they do in your barbarous country. Jean-Baptiste and I will be going out gambling when we're finished so you needn't stand upon ceremony. Bid her good night, Perrier."
Thus prodded, the Frenchman jumped to his feet and bowed low over my hand, his golden mustache tickling me. "Would tomorrow be too soon to give you your first tour of Venice, mademoiselle? You may be assured you can trust me to protect you from our ghoul."
"Since the vampire only strikes at night I think she need have no fear on that account," Luc said gently. "And tomorrow would be too soon. She needs a complete new wardrobe before I allow her to be seen in public. She is hardly dressed as befits a ward of Del Zaglia—she shows too much ankle and too little chest for a Venetian. Perhaps by Friday, if Signora Conticelli can be made to hurry."
I stared at him mutinously, not sure which enraged me more, his casual discussion of my anatomy or his curtailing of my freedom. "But I wish to go out sooner," I protested. "I'll feel like a prisoner!"
"That is indeed too bad," he murmured solicitously, unmoved. "But it cannot be helped. I think Friday would be the day, Perrier. You may fetch dear Charlotte in the early afternoon and even take her to Florian's for coffee if the mood strikes you. Good night, Charlotte." He rose with graceful indolence.
"But . . . but . . ." I objected angrily.
"Good night, Charlotte," he repeated more firmly.
Throwing my damask napkin down on the table with as haughty a gesture as I could manage, I stalked from the room. My lordly gesture, however, was completely ruined by the infuriating little laugh that followed me out the door.
Having just slept a total of almost twenty hours, I looked forward to a restless night, but I overestimated my own recuperative powers. That last glass of wine had been strangely bitter, but despite my stomach's protests no sooner had I reached the oppressively elegant confines of my third-floor room than I was overcome with a strange somnolence. No sooner did my head hit the plump feather pillow than I was in a sound sleep that lasted well into the next morning, and was troubled only mildly by nightmares, the details of which were blessedly forgotten when I awoke.
As I lay there in the darkened room I listened to the footsteps by my bed, footsteps so soft and hesitant that I knew they couldn't belong to the so-delightful Maddelena. Cautiously I opened my eyes to behold one of the loveliest creatures I had ever seen.
Even dressed in the coarse, plain clothes of a servant, the girl moved with a natural grace and elegance that would have put a principessa to shame. Her midnight-black hair curled down her slender back, her liquid black eyes stared at me soulfully, her olive skin was smooth and creamy. Even her mouth was beautifully formed, with full red lips that were now curved in a surprisingly unpleasant expression, almost a sneer.
"The signorina would like her breakfast now?" she inquired in Italian, and the image was shattered. Instead of the lovely soft, slurred accents of the Venetian, her harsh voice clearly bespoke the poorer southern sections of Italy, even if she looked like a princess. I stared at her with my blankest expression.
"I don't speak Italian," I said in my clear, light tones, and the smirk broadened disconcertingly, making her angelically beautiful face almost ugly.
"Of course the stupid pig of an English girl can't speak Italian," she continued in that language, smiling sweetly. "It is only to be expected." One beautifully formed hand indicated the well-laden tray beside my bed. "And would the stupid pink and white cow of an English girl like her tray?"
I stared at her with gentle incomprehension, my mind working feverishly. Gesturing for her to place the tray on my lap, I gave her my sweetest smile. "Thank you," I murmured. "Er . . . grazie." My pronunciation was deliberately atrocious, and she smiled once more, bowing that gorgeous head.
I couldn't help but sigh. I would have given ten years of my life to have looked like her. My pink and white prettiness I found dreadfully insipid, and as for my yellow curls . . .
So, apparently, did the servant. "I will be back to dress your ugly body in your ugly dresses," she cooed. "But you will soon find, stupid girl, that he will not look at you. Not when I am around." Curtseying politely, she slipped out of my room, leaving me with much to think about as I drank the hot, strong coffee and nibbled at the sweet biscuits.
The dressmaker, Signora Conticelli, was a round little bird of a woman, all darting eyes and quick, nimble hands that resembled nothing so much as claws. Even her fine feathers would have done justice to a parrot, as would her cawing voice with its incessant gossip. Maddelena presided over the fittings, keeping up a running conversation with the little dressmaker about the scandals and foibles of Venice's best families and the detested Austrian occupiers. The French were equally disdained, and the English—my humble self included—were looked upon with curious contempt. Surprisingly enough, Maddelena did not use my supposed ignorance of the language to insult me any more than she already had in English. I wondered if she guessed I was more learned than I appeared to be. If so, she was equally circumspect.
"Count del Zaglia would like the dresses by the end of the week," Maddelena informed the woman when she had finished her measurements and I was allowed to dress once more.
"The end of the week? Impossible!"
"Not impossible," the housekeeper corrected her. "By the end of the week, the count has said, and he shall have them."
Signora Conticelli bit her beaky lip and glared at me, as if I were to blame for the outrageous demands of my guardian. "And what exactly am I to make for the Inglesa! You have yet to inform me of that, eh?"
It was time I interfered. "Excuse me," I said brightly, "but do you speak English?"
The signora stared at me with mute dislike. "A bit, signorina, a small bit."
"But how shall I tell you what I'd like?"
Maddelena laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. "What an innocent," she said in Italian, then lapsed into her broken English. "It is not up to you what clothes will be made," she informed me, not without some pleasure at depressing my pretensions. "The count has already made a list of the proper clothing. There is no need for you to be consulted."
"But . . . but . . ." I protested feebly. "I wish to choose my own clothes!"
Maddelena shrugged. "That is a shame, signorina. When you have been at the Palazzo del Zaglia a bit longer you will learn that your wishes are of no importance whatsoever. It is what the count wishes that matters." She turned her broad little back to me and started out the door.
Signora Conticelli, packing away her tape measure, looked at me and shrugged, as if to say, "That's the way of the world." As indeed, no doubt it was in this backward country, I thought angrily. As the door closed behind her I resisted the temptation to send the china vase full of fresh- cut flowers hurtling after her in a sudden spasm of frustrated rage.
Chapter Seven
Luc del Zaglia did not dine at home that night. I told myself I was relieved as I partook of a light supper in my room overlooking the malodorous canal. After my nerve- wracking day I was in no case for another session with the demon-count. And there was not a trace of disappointment in me, I assured myself, picking listlessly at my delicious meal. I was merely tired and overwrought.
I had decided to investigate the crumbling Palazzo Edentide after
Signora Conticelli left. It was bad enough that I was a prisoner in the mansion, I would also be a prisoner in my room. If I met the count I would have more than a few things to say to him, concerning the high-handed way he arranged my wardrobe, for one thing. I was also more than curious about the very beautiful and very hostile maidservant of this morning. What caused her to be so extraordinarily rude to me? Or, more to the point, what caused her to be so jealous of the count?
The upper hallways were deserted. I went through the rooms with hasty inquisitiveness, finding nothing to interest me in the damp-stained wall hangings, the dusty furniture, the cobwebby curtains. It was obvious that no one had spent much time on the third floor in many long years, and I wondered why it had fallen into such disrepair. Money, or lack of it, I assumed. How had the late contessa felt about her home crumbling down around her ears? I supposed, though, Venetians had to become used to such things.
I was a bit more circumspect on the second floor. I remembered Maddelena's information that the despised English servants inhabited these rooms. I had yet to see these remnants from Luc's mother's rule, except for the very superior butler, and if he was any example I could cheerfully have avoided the others. I stood before a door, hesitating, when it opened and a tall, thin, middle-aged woman with a long, pointed nose appeared.
I must have startled her as much as she had me. She let out a small gasp, jumping back a few steps. I recovered first, recognizing her for the upper servant that she was. I was about to apologize for startling her and introduce myself when some small hidden instinct made me wait for her to speak first.