The Demon Count

by Anne Stuart

  Finally I gave up trying to sleep. The May night was pleasantly cool on my thinly clad body, and without further hesitation I pulled Theresa's loosest dress over my thin night rail and padded barefoot down the dark, deserted hallways of Luc's palazzo.

  I was as silent as the grave. The folds of my dress made barely a whisper, and my bare feet on the chilly marble floors were cold but silent. It seemed to my impressionable mind that there were eyes everywhere as I crept down the empty stairs. Nonsense, I told myself briskly, and contin­ued inexorably toward my goal.

  It was not, as one might suspect, the kitchen. During my morning tour Mildred had indicated a small overgrown garden off the side canal. "No one uses it nowadays," she had sniffed, suggesting I follow suit. Of course, I had no intention of doing so.

  The door out into the night air opened with surprising ease, considering how noisy and rusted the more fre­quently used door hinges were in the decaying mansion. I stepped out into the still night air and gave myself up to the wonder of it.

  Moonlight was everywhere, casting shadows on the tan­gled bushes, lending a flattering glow to the ancient marble statues that appeared at infrequent spots. As I moved along the moonshadows I fancied myself some mythical moon maiden, Diana the huntress, perhaps, with my bare feet and my loose clothing and outrageous lack of undergar­ments. I threw back my head, feeling my long hair curve down my back, and raised my arms slowly and luxuriously to the benign and mysterious moon . . .

  "I didn't know you were a moon worshiper, little one," a dry voice broke through my reveries, and I dropped my arms and whirled around, stunned and embarrassed at being caught in such a compromising situation.

  Luc was sitting on one of the benches that a few short moments ago was vacant, and the faint wisps of smoke from the slender cigar he was smoking added to the un­canny suspicion that he had materialized out of thin air.

  "I . . . I didn't know anyone was out here," I stam­mered, edging nervously back toward the house.

  His hand shot out and caught me in a cruel grip that was belied by the unaccustomed sweetness of his smile. "Stay a bit, Charlotte. Humor your poor aging guardian on a spring night."

  I eyed him with patent distrust, not unaffected by the sudden tumultuous pounding of my heart. A second later he released me, and I paused mid-flight, uncertain of what I wanted.

  Apparently Luc knew far better than I did. "That's a good girl," he nodded approvingly as, mesmerized, I sat down at the opposite end of the marble bench, out of reach but not irremediably so. "It warms me to see you being biddable for once."

  That broke the moonlit spell. "It won't last long," I snapped, and he laughed.

  "Nor do I expect it to, my Charlotte. Bah, what a name! Tonight you look more like a Carlotta—it suits such a wild creature far better than the tame 'Charlotte.' I can't imag­ine what possessed Theresa to give you such a name."

  My interest was fairly caught. "Did you know Theresa?"

  A small smile hovered about his lips. "Only too well, little one. She was my late wife's second cousin, but they might as well have been twins. As alike as two peas in a pod."

  "How ghastly," I said with heartfelt sympathy, and then realized the enormity of my faux pas. "I beg your pardon," I muttered incoherently, blushing. "I don't know what got into me. I . . ."

  "It is only the truth. It was indeed ghastly, though I fared better than your poor father. His problem, you see, was that he really loved Theresa." He took a puff of his cigar, and his face in the moonlight was cold and cruel, despite the lightness in his voice. "Whereas I cared not one whit for Sybil."

  I stared at him, wide-eyed in wonder. "But then, why did you marry her?"

  "My poor innocent Carlotta, do you still believe people marry for love? I married Sybil Brunwood because my mother desired me to. And my mother's wishes were never to be taken lightly. Besides, I had nothing better to do at the time, and it seemed an adequate match. Not brilliant, but then, my reputation at the time was already sadly tar­nished."

  "And was your mother pleased?" I tucked my feet up under me and clasped my arms around my knees, strangely comfortable with my formidable guardian.

  "Ah, yes, my mother. She was perhaps the only one who was satisfied with the marriage. She was one of those inde­fatigable women who see things only as they wish to see them, and ruthlessly bend people and things to their will. It is because of her this palazzo is called Edentide. I am sure she wept prettily to my poor besotted father and begged him to make the place more like her beloved England, even to changing the name that had lived for centuries." Dis­gust was patent in his voice. "A few more tears and all the old retainers were replaced with cold British servants. It is no wonder that I have ever had a disgust of feminine wiles." I vowed to myself then and there never to weep in front of him. "My dear mother had her way for far too long, but Venice is slowly reclaiming her own." He looked out over the motley roofline with a dreamy gaze.

  "And were you and Sybil happy? I questioned, forgetting the outrageous impropriety of asking such a question.

  His answer was a short, sharp laugh as he stubbed out the slender cigarillo. "Need you ask, little one? Sybil was as cold, self-willed, and mean-spirited as your late mother. Apart from occasional efforts to provide myself with a son and heir I had very little to do with her."

  Again I blushed, and I was grateful the shadowed garden hid it. "Perhaps she wasn't all that bad," I offered hesi­tantly. "She must have been very unhappy to have killed herself."

  He shot me a look of surprise out of his golden eyes. "Sybil didn't kill herself," he said shortly. "If you've al­ready heard that rumor no doubt you have heard its alter­native, that I murdered her."

  A chill ran down my spine at the flatness of his words, but before I could speak he continued, as if compelled by the moonlight or the strange hour to confess.

  "Sybil had been quite circumspect, but by accident I dis­covered that her childlessness was not caused by a failure in nature. When it came to avoiding what she wished to avoid Sybil was very clever, and she wished to avoid child­birth. When I discovered the lengths she had gone to I quietly arranged to divorce her."

  He leaned back and stared into the starless sky, a distant expression on his fallen-angel countenance. "She did not care for that. Nor did my mother, but by that time I was past paying any heed to her wishes. I went to our villa in Treviso and told her my plans.

  "Unfortunately a great many servants were in hearing, but none in sight. At least half a dozen heard her shrieking imprecations at me from the top of the stairs, at least half a dozen heard me reply as loudly and as angrily. And they all heard her screams as she plunged to her death on the marble floor below. But none of them," and his smile was both sad and chilling, "none of them could say whether it was my hand that pushed her, or her own evil temper that had overset her." „

  "And which was it?" My voice was little more than a croak.

  He turned and seemed to see me for the first time. A smile lit his face, one that was both rueful and charming.

  "What a one I am, to be pouring out my inmost secrets to your delicate ears! You make me indiscreet, mia Carlotta." And he reached over and ruffled my hair in a casual, friendly gesture.

  It was the first time I could remember being caressed in such a careless, affectionate manner, and at that moment a small part of my starved heart fell head over heels in love with Luc del Zaglia.

  "Go to bed, little one," he said softly, a laugh in his voice. "You will catch cold like that."

  I tried to pull myself out of the adolescent stupor I had fallen into. I could only hope he hadn't read my reaction. "I couldn't sleep," I replied childishly, rising reluctantly to my feet and moving in the direction of the well-oiled door.

  The look on his face was far from reassuring. "Next time, little one, you should drink your wine. You will find that you sleep far more soundly."

  I was to ponder those words as I made my way back to the cool confines of my room. It wasn't until I w
as almost asleep that I realized he had never answered the naive question I had placed before him. Had Sybil's screaming tantrum sent her hurtling off the balcony to her death? Or had it been Luc's slim, elegant hands with the bloodstone shining dully and prophetically?

  Chapter Nine

  The first of my clothes arrived the next morning from Signora Conticelli, turning my troubled thoughts down more pleasant channels. The softest, most delicate lace-trimmed undergarments I had ever seen quickly re­placed my sturdy and scratchy linen lingerie. The stockings were whisper-thin silk, practically transparent; soft new morocco leather slippers replaced my stouter English shoes. And the outer garments!

  Apparently Luc was a stickler for the conventions of mourning. Everything was unrelieved black with a touch here and there of purest white. Filmy black dresses, black capes and manteaux and gloves and shawls and absurd little hats. I stared at the stuff around me in dismay. I had hoped, being so far from any member of my mother's fam­ily, that I might throw off my mourning with unseemly haste, and had greeted Luc's decree of a new wardrobe with secret relief. Apparently I had rejoiced too soon. I glanced at my disappointed face in one of the numerous mirrors that decorated my walls and sighed. There were mitigating circumstances, however. As I held up one new dress against my body I couldn't fail to notice how black complemented my round English figure. What looks I had were certainly enhanced by mourning. My cheeks were flushed, my blue eyes sparkling and seeming even larger than ever, so that they dominated my ivory face with its small nose and slightly overgenerous mouth. Even my hair seemed more golden, and I wondered cynically whether it was the flattering attributes of my black clothing or some­thing about the Palazzo del Zaglia (or Edentide as Mildred insisted on calling it) that brightened my eyes. Had it something to do with the strange and beguiling tête-à-tête in the moonlit garden last night? I quickly shut such dan­gerous thoughts from my head.

  I smiled up at the three pairs of dissimilar eyes staring down at me. Signora Conticelli watched me like a hawk, Mildred's milky blue eyes were damp with sentimental emotion, and Maddelena's beady black ones stared at me with unpleasant cynicism. "Signor del Zaglia's orders are that your absurd English clothes are to be burned. You will be pleased to change immediately and give your clothes to Rosetta."

  "But I wish to keep my old clothes," I protested, turning to a fluttery Mildred for support. "They belonged to my mother; they have sentimental value."

  "Oh, I do think the count would understand your feel­ings in the matter, my dear Charlotte," the spinster said hastily.

  "You will have to discuss it with the count," the old witch pronounced sourly. "In the meantime Rosetta will take them."

  Rosetta was pleased indeed to take them. She watched me change with hooded, haughty eyes, pretending igno­rance when I repeatedly asked her to leave the room while I undressed. She irritated me so with her superior smirk that I was tempted to give her a sharp set-down in her own language, a temptation I controlled. My knowledge of Ital­ian (and French and German, among others) was my one advantage in this threatening household, an advantage I meant to hold on to for as long as possible.

  Actually, despite my jealousy of Rosetta's dramatic beauty, I preferred my body to hers. Her lush curves were edging over to fat, while my body was slim and lithe, with curves in the right places, and not too noticeable muscle in other useful areas. By Venetian standards (and by Luc's, no doubt) I was too thin, but I liked myself that way. And Mrs. Wattles's bland English cooking wasn't likely to add any extra pounds, thank heavens.

  As I dressed I came across' one major omission. "Where is the corset?" I questioned the indolent maid.

  "Scusi?" she murmured as she lounged against the door.

  "My corset?" I picked up my old one and waved it in her expressionless face. "There must be a new corset if every­thing else is to be replaced."

  "No," she replied, displaying a small grasp of English.

  "Then I'll have to wear this one," I sighed, pulling the instrument of torture around me with a sigh. Suddenly Ro­setta was on her feet and babbling in nervous Italian, tug­ging at my hands, trying to pull the whalebone garment away from me.

  "No, no," she cried. "He said you were not to wear one. I was to see that it is burned . . . you may not have it! Give it up, English cow!"

  "Rosetta!" Maddelena appeared at the door, a disap­proving look on her habitually sour face. "What is the problem?"

  "The corset, signora. She won't give it up."

  The tug-of-war over my undergarments suddenly struck me as both absurd and undignified, and I let go. To my immense satisfaction Rosetta fell backwards, hard on her rather ample hindquarters, still clutching my poor corset like a trophy.

  The housekeeper turned to me with a strange expression in her beady black eyes, what in a more pleasant woman I might have called amusement. The look was gone as swiftly as it appeared. "The count has given orders that you will not wear that . . . that thing, signorina."

  I was outraged. "What right had he to dictate my under­clothing?" I demanded angrily.

  "The same right he had to choose it. Which he did, per­sonally, signorina." She watched my blush with cold plea­sure. "You are too thin anyway. And the count considers corsets unhealthy. You may discuss it with him if you like, and perhaps he will relent. At the moment, however, you will let Rosetta take it with your other clothes. Such an uproar in a gentleman's home is unseemly."

  I bowed my head, properly chastened. As if I would bring up the subject of my underclothing with Lucifero del Zaglia on the infrequent occasions that we met! Despite my outrage at his high-handed and embarrassingly intimate overseeing of my wardrobe, in this case I couldn't help being grateful. It would be a blessed relief to be free of that wretched thing.

  I had more surprises in store for me in terms of my new wardrobe. Pulling the filmy black dress over my head, I couldn't but revel in the luxuriousness of the fabric. Ther­esa had never been one to stint herself, but not even she had had dresses made of such thin, elegant Italian silk. As I presented my back to Rosetta for fastening I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror opposite me and let out an undignified gasp.

  "This . . . this is indecent!" I protested to Maddelena. "I can't possibly wear anything so . . . so immodest!" I had never seen such an expanse of creamy white shoulders and breast in my entire life, not even in the demimondaines I had watched with furtive interest when I attended the opera in London. "Surely this is not at all the thing for a young lady?" There was a plaintive note in my voice. Despite my outrage I would have been blind not to notice how very flattering the lines of the dress were. Indeed, my shoulders and breast were part of my more pleasing physi­cal attributes, and the immodest neckline did show them off beautifully; and that small secret part of me wanted to see my guardian's reaction.

  "All the young ladies of Venice wear dresses like this," Maddelena said positively, and I could not doubt her. "Not black, of course, unless they're in mourning, but décolleté like that. A higher neckline would be deemed prudish and old-fashioned."

  I smoothed the skimpy material over my shoulders, wanting to be convinced. "I don't suppose I have any choice in this matter, either," I said negligently, not en­tirely displeased. The dress was so very dashing. The loud slamming of my door aroused me from my conceited rev­erie, and I looked to Maddelena in surprise.

  "Rosetta does not care for your dress, signorina," she remarked cynically. "She thinks Signor Luc will like it far too much."

  I held my breath for a moment. "And what do you think, Maddelena?"

  Those small black eyes, so like little raisins in her suet pudding face, met mine with cynical amusement. "I think, signorina, that you are already far too concerned with Si­gnor Luc than you should be." And with that she turned and left the room, albeit more quietly than the infuriated Rosetta had.

  It wasn't until evening that I finally saw Luc del Zaglia again. In the warm, sun-drenched Venetian light of day my moonlight madness seemed
absurd indeed, and the horrid tales of ghouls, vampires, and the undead seemed all so much foolish chatter, unpleasant fantasies of ignorant peas­ants and nerve-ridden English spinsters. Daylight had added a healthy dose of practicality to my romantic mus­ings. After all, this was the modern year of 1840 . . . such horrors belonged to the middle ages, not in such enlight­ened times as these.

  The sun was just setting when I entered the west parlor on the main floor of the Palazzo Edentide. In the cold, damp place it was hard to choose a favored room, but of the myriad of parlors, small and large, this seemed the most comfortable. Its damp-stained wall hangings were of a soft rose hue, the frayed furniture comfortable, the tables surprisingly free from dust. The room received the full force of the afternoon sun on two sides, flooding the room with a water-dappled light reflecting from the canals that gave the eerie but not unpleasant sensation of being under­water. It also gave a spectacular view of the sun setting over the domed roofs of Venice, and as I had always had a weakness for both sunsets and sunrises I settled myself down in a well-stuffed rose-brocade chair and proceeded to watch natures's spectacle in all its awe-inspiring glory.