by Anne Stuart
The ballroom at Edentide in the early afternoon was an eerie place. Dust motes sparkled in the air, cobwebs dazzled from every corner, and the dirt on the floor showed every footprint with minute detail. But something had drawn me back to this long-deserted room that had once held many gay parties, happy, laughing, elegant men and women, long before the Austrians came to power. Edentide was almost three hundred years old, built just as the great republic's glory had begun to wane. It was sad to think how the mighty had fallen.
It was more than mere chance that had brought me to this ancient haunt. While on my tours with Jean-Baptiste we had held a lively discussion of architecture, of all things, and he had disclosed the enchanting quirk several Venetian noblemen had incorporated into their palazzos. Small retiring rooms, hardly larger than closets, where the families could relax away from the constant pomp and glory that was life in La Serenissima. If such a room existed in Edentide, what would be a better place for Luc to keep his evil secrets? And what would be more logical a room for it to abut onto than the seldom-used ballroom? So Jean-Baptiste had suggested, and I was more than eager to try out his idea. It wasn't until I reached the far wall that I had any success, however. I tapped a few times, and came up with a satisfyingly hollow sound, after a good solid hour of discouragement. Heartened, I edged my way further along, feeling with delicate fingers along the ornate plaster molding, until suddenly the wall in front of me gave way and I tumbled headfirst down a short flight Of stairs.
I was momentarily stunned, not even hearing the ominous slamming of the door behind me. I lay there on the hard stone floor, struggling to get my bearings. As my senses gradually returned I found myself shaking with excitement. It was a little room, exactly as Jean-Baptiste had foretold. I pulled myself to a sitting position, ignoring the aches and pains of my bruised body, while I looked around me. From my ignominious spot on the floor I could see a tall, enclosed bed, and an absolutely horrid suspicion swept over me. Suppose I had by accident fallen into Luc's bedroom? And suppose, instead of being asleep, he was at rest in his coffin, waiting only the setting of the sun to rise and resume his evil deeds?
"Don't be absurd!" I spoke out loud in a small, brave voice. "There are no such things as vampires." With this bold but unbelieved thought firmly in my conscious mind I rose, discovering with relief that the bierlike structure was indeed a simple bed, and at the moment it was unoccupied.
My quick surge of relief was replaced by a sudden, more terrifying, more real fear. The steep stone steps I had so gracefully tumbled down led up to a blank stone wall. No molding, no discernible doorway, no handles—nothing visible to afford me exit the way I had entered.
A half hour's desperate scrabbling made me accept the fact that I was trapped in this charming little boudoir. The only possible means of escape was a small, narrow window through which my English hips would never have managed. On top of that, it allowed for a two-storey drop into the murky waters of the Grand Canal, a contingency that thrilled me not one bit. Screams, calls, and shouts for help availed me nothing. The Grand Canal was fully as noisy as any street in London, despite the relative quietude of the main mode of transportation, and my desperate calls faded in the hubbub. Perhaps later at night someone would hear me, but for the time being I had no option but to lie down on the charming little cupboard bed and await my rescue. Since the furnishings of the room consisted only of the bed, the first comfortable chair I had discovered in all of Edentide, and an entirely empty chest of drawers, there was little to distract me from contemplation of my troubles. I curled up on the fine silk coverlet, shed a few tears of self- pity, and drifted off into a comfortable siesta.
When I awoke the room was pitch black. I felt a moment of panic that I quickly suppressed as I remembered where I was. The din from outside seemed to have quieted somewhat, and I half rose from the bed, wondering whether I should try my luck at shouting for help once more, when the noise that must have first woken me came again. A moment later a crack appeared in the far wall, opposite the small flight of steps, and a thin shaft of light fell into the room, over my recumbent and terrified figure.
"Who is it?" I whispered, petrified. "Who is there?"
A low laugh that chilled me to the bone emanated from that anonymous sliver of light, and I could feel a scream of terror rising in my throat like bile. Before fear took complete control of me the door opened the rest of the way, illuminating my guardian in all his satanic splendor.
"Have you enjoyed your incarceration, Charlotte?" he inquired pleasantly, moving into the room and thankfully leaving the previously undiscovered door ajar behind him. The lamp in his hand cast fitful shadows over the thick stone walls, adding to the eerieness of the room and the man looming over me.
"You knew I was here, all the time?" I demanded in a hushed voice, stupidly not moving from the unconsciously provocative position on the tumbled bed.
His small, mocking smile showed he was not unappreciative of the picture I made. "I heard you calling for help, little one. This closet," one slim white hand gestured at the little room, "abuts my rooms. I also heard you tumble in here half an hour before then. And Rosetta slammed the door behind you in quite a lively fashion."
"Rosetta?" I must still have been sleep-fuddled. "Are you sure?"
"Very sure. Two sets of women's shoeprints lead across the ballroom to the secret doorway; only one pair, that of flat sandals, leads back. A simple question brought about the correct answer." His light eyes were cold and distant, and I could find it in my heart to pity the poor Rosetta.
"But why didn't you let me out earlier? What time is it?" I cried, bewildered, as I struggled to rise from the soft bed.
"It is early evening," he replied with amusement, his eyes alight with a curious expression in their depths. "And I was not about to rouse myself to extricate you from a dilemma you thoroughly deserved." He moved across the floor, setting the lamp down on the little dresser and looming over me. "Tell me, Charlotte, why are you spying on me?" There was a quiet seriousness to his tone that almost made me want to confess. But I knew better than that.
"Spying?" I laughed incredulously, amazed that I could sound so innocent. "Why in the world would I want to spy on you?"
He reached out and took me by the shoulders, pulling me up with a steely strength that in no way reassured me. "Why, indeed? I wonder who you have been meeting during the time I was gone? And whom have you agreed to help?"
I stared up at him mutely, mesmerized by the quiet menace of him. If I spoke I knew I would betray everything. My only hope was for silence.
The fingers tightened on my shoulders, causing me to wince in pain. The stony face above me was unmoved. "There are ways, Charlotte Theresa Sabina, of making you tell me everything I want to know." One slim hand came up under my willful chin, forcing me to meet his distant gaze. "Ways pleasant and not so pleasant."
I vaguely wondered if I looked as terrified as I felt. His small, gentle smile seemed the epitome of evil, and I wondered whether it would help me to scream. I doubted that it would.
"First we will try the unpleasant way," he murmured, and slapped me hard across the face.
I was so astounded by the suddenness of his attack that I fell back on the bed, my eyes filling with tears of pain. A moment later he grabbed my arm and dragged me to my knees once more.
I flinched, expecting another sharp blow, my mouth stubbornly shut against a cry for mercy. He was going to kill me, I knew that full well, and pleading would not help.
He gave me a little shake, so that my eyes flew open to meet rueful ones. "Poveretta," he murmured, touching my bruised cheek with sudden tenderness. "And now we will try the pleasant way." Carefully he drew my shivering form into his arms, causing me to give way completely. He sat down on the bed, and I lay against him, drenching him with shuddering tears that I was unable to control. I cried for the pain, for my guilt in deceiving him, for my desperate longing for him that was becoming more and more
unbearable.
When the tears finally subsided I felt him shift my weak and trembling body around in his arms. He moved my head to face him, leaned down, and kissed me.
There was never any question of my not responding. I was drowning, drowning in the feel of his mouth on mine, his clever hands caressing my body, drowning in the overwhelming emotions that washed over me and broke like waves. All my longings, all my love, all my horrified fascination broke free from my iron control and turned me into a helpless, pulsing creature, a slave to Luc del Zaglia's whims. When his lips finally left mine and began to travel down my neck I heard a helpless little moan that I distantly recognized as my own.
Suddenly a great noise broke through my dazed trance, a pounding and shouting that seemed to echo through the tiny room. With deliberate care Luc put me from him, a disturbing smile on his face as he slowly rose and went to investigate the commotion. Fortunately he left the hidden door open, and in a few short moments I had pulled myself together enough to rise from the bed, pulling my tumbled clothes about me in embarrassment, and ran through the door before Luc could imprison me once more. At that moment, however, he appeared to have forgotten me entirely. I caught a glimpse of his back as he left the room, his head deep in conversation with someone who looked suspiciously like Giorgio, his voice pitched far too low for me to make out a word. It was with mixed feelings that I watched him leave. Remembering the last few moments in the little closetlike room, I could have preferred his less pleasant ways of making me talk. I would have recovered from a beating far sooner than I expected to recover from the demon-count's shattering embrace.
Pulling myself out of my reverie, I looked about me with sudden interest. I was in that holy of holies, the one room I had yet to see among the forty odd rooms in the Palazzo Edentide. Luc's bedroom was dark and ornate, the bed a mammoth affair even larger than mine and draped in jade- green hangings. Candles burned low in the sconces and the ornate crystal chandelier, lending a warm, romantic glow to the room, minimizing its size and making it surprisingly cozy. And there, ensconced in majestic glory, was my fair- weather feline friend, the black, satanic Patrick.
"Greetings, old friend." I scratched behind his ears, and he purred condescendingly. "I am glad to see you exist on your own, and not as a form your wicked master takes." Patrick made a small, deprecating sound. "Now if only you could speak, noble one, all my problems would undoubtedly be solved."
I glanced around the room, my wicked eyes lingering on the counterpane, and some small, sinful part of me wondered how Luc would respond if he returned from his desperate errand and found me waiting in his bed.
"Damn the man!" I said out loud, having finally shocked myself. Even Patrick looked affronted. More than ever I believed Luc possessed of the Devil. How else could such a cold, secretive creature have made me forget my upbringing, forget every tenet of decent behavior and bring me to such a hopeless, indecent pass? Longing for his illicit caresses. With a sudden upsurge of fury at myself, I strode over to the armoire and systematically began to search through his pockets, through the neatly folded clothes in the drawers, through the papers in his desk, all the while followed by Patrick's calm, unwinking eyes. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing of interest. Bills, memos of credit, and a very great deal of money tossed around loosely, like trash. But no list of Austrian spies, no plans for rebellion. Nothing to incriminate or exonerate him.
In fact, I noticed nothing sinister at all about the room until half an hour later, as I bolted my own door and dragged a heavy chest of drawers across it, and I remembered the complete and astounding lack of mirrors in the demon-count's bedroom. And for the first time in many years I prayed before I went to bed.
Chapter Eighteen
"I don't know whether I would feel safe that far away from land," I protested. "I don't swim, you know, and even the gondolas make me nervous." This was a lie; I had swum almost as soon as I could walk, having lived on the shores of a gentle river in Devon, but the last thing I wanted to do was commit myself to a picnic with Jean- Baptiste Perrier of the roaming hands and the calculating eyes. I was afraid he could see right through me, in another few minutes he would know what had almost happened last night between Luc and his ward and would somehow turn it to his advantage.
"Come, come, ma petite," he scoffed jovially, drawing his tan kid gloves through his perfectly manicured hands and smiling down at me. The strong Venetian sunlight was a blessing and a benediction after the fog-shrouded evenings that were playing havoc with my sensibility, and I wanted nothing more than to remain in this little garden for the rest of the afternoon while I decided how I would face Luc, and what my attitude would be after the near- compromising situation last night. I doubted if I could hold out against him if he tried again, and I almost reconsidered Jean-Baptiste's flattering invitation. I would have gone with him gladly, if only I could trust him. But in his own neat, polite way he frightened me as much as Luc did, and in far more subtle ways.
"Ah, you have already promised yourself to the Austrian gentleman, eh?" he said suddenly. I opened my mouth to protest and shut it just as quickly as Thornton led Holger's mountainous form out into the tangled garden.
"Fraulein." He bowed low over my hand and clicked his heels. "You shouldn't be out in such bright sunshine. You will ruin your lovely complexion." He nodded to his rival and took the seat beside me on the marble bench. Patrick, comfortably resting in my lap, cast him a look of acute dislike. "I assume you were just leaving, Perrier," he added coldly, dusting off his neat coat.
Jean-Baptiste smiled, exhibiting his beautiful pearllike teeth. "By no means, my dear Captain. I was in the midst of trying to persuade Miss Morrow to accompany me on a picnic, to Torcellano. She claims she is afraid of the water, never having learned to swim."
"You cannot swim, fraulein? It is not surprising for ones of your country; nevertheless, I think you should rectify that if you intend to remain in this wretched city. There are too many canals you could easily tumble into if you are not careful."
Did I imagine the hint of menace beneath Holger's heavily accented English? Suddenly the bright Venetian sunlight no longer seemed so bright, and I felt a shiver steal over me.
Looking up at my two suitors, I gave them both an impartial, brilliant smile. "Your concern warms me," I murmured, not warmed one bit. "And Jean-Baptiste, I would love to accompany you, and I do trust you implicitly, but with Luc so recently returned from Genoa I don't think . . ."
"Genoa, was it?" Holger pounced, and Jean-Baptiste appeared equally gratified. I cursed my too-facile tongue, wondering whether I had truly set the cat among the pigeons this time.
Patrick, as usual, appeared to have read my thoughts, for, taking time to snarl at my two suitors, he rose and stalked majestically off, presumably in search of some misguided Marcan pigeons.
"Or was it Padua?" I murmured, half to myself. "No, I am sure it was Verona, that was it. I get these northern towns so confused. Whatever, with my guardian so recently returned I don't like to make any appointments without his express permission. You understand?"
"Mademoiselle, I understand only too well," Jean- Baptiste said sweetly, those flat brown eyes watching with a speculative gleam. "I will merely have to look elsewhere for feminine companionship." His eyes focused on something over my shoulder and I turned to see the sultry gaze of Rosetta. She bestowed a stunning smile on Jean-Baptiste, and I wondered uneasily how long she had been hovering behind me.
"Tell me, Rosetta," Perrier said smoothly, "do you think your so-harsh mistress will allow you the afternoon off to accompany me on a small picnic? Miss Morrow is too afraid of the water to come, so I shall have to leave her in the captain's capable hands."
Rosetta swayed closer, her ample hips wiggling provocatively. "I would be honored, signor," she breathed, casting a scornful glance in my direction. "I am sure Maddelena will give me permission."
My second faithful suitor cleared his throat. "I'm sorr
y I can't oblige and spend the afternoon, fraulein, but duty calls. I merely stopped by for a moment to see that all goes well with you."
"All goes well," I replied, hiding my cynicism. I wanted neither of them to bear me company that day. After the entirely distressing events of the last few days I was more and more determined to unmask Luc del Zaglia for what he was. What that would be still escaped me, but I had resolved to find out as soon as possible. Before it was too late.
My best time for snooping was during the afternoon rest period that was honored by both the Italian and the English servants. Not a soul would be up and about during those long hot hours of midday, and I knew exactly what I intended to do. I would continue my search of the palazzo, the search that had been terminated so abruptly when, with Rosetta's assistance, I had tumbled into Luc's closet.
It had occurred to me sometime during the early hours before dawn that the logical place to hide secrets might not be one's bedroom, but in one of the myriad of unused rooms, rooms that the slothful servants did not bother even to dust. Consequently, at one thirty, after a heavy noontime meal and a restless half hour on my silk-coverleted bed, I crept down the third floor hallway in my stocking feet, every nerve attuned to an untoward sound, though with Rosetta safely off an a picnic I felt I could count on being unmolested during my investigations.
It wasn't until the fifth room that I had any success. After fighting through dust, rats' nests, and horrifyingly large spiders' webs I at last came upon something of more than ordinary interest in the bottom drawer of a damp-stained desk in one of the smaller, more decrepit bedrooms. A beautifully inlaid box, locked against prying fingers, met my eyes. The ornate clasp looked flimsy enough, and I carried the box out on the small balcony to get a better look at it. One of my hairpins should do the trick nicely, I thought, reaching behind me. A familiar scent teased me, and I felt a swirl of skirts, and then everything went black.