The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  Uncle Mark, ever the perfect English gentleman, lounged by the balcony, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his beautifully tailored jacket.

  "You seem fairly settled," he allowed hand­somely. "I suppose you'll do well enough for a few nights until you tire of this roughing it. I still wish you'd reconsider and return to the hotel with me tonight."

  "After all our work?" I demanded in weak out­rage, too weary to protest more loudly. "Never. We have our own neat and clean bedrooms. . . ."

  "With beds that I single-handedly wrestled down those damned stairs," he interrupted in a petulant voice.

  "Which you nobly wrestled down the stairs," I inserted dutifully. "Even the kitchen is clean. Mag­gie and I will do splendidly, thank you."

  "Absolutely, sir," Maggie joined in with a small show of energy. "And you can trust me to look after Miss Luciana. Lord knows I've had enough practice."

  "But you weren't enough to stop her from run­ning off with the traveling circus when she was fifteen, were you? Gone for a week before they found her, what?"

  "Unfair, Uncle Mark!" I cried. "I was only gone overnight. I'd always wanted to be a tightrope walker."

  "And what did your father say to that, eh? One of the blessed del Zaglias joining a circus. Bet he rung a rare peal over you that time."

  "As a matter of fact he told me that if I still wanted to be a tightrope walker when I was eigh­teen he would see that I had lessons. I didn't, of course. And I must say, I think I've found my metier. Being a spy is a great deal of fun." My lips curved in a reminiscent smile.

  "Damn it, girl, when you smile like that you look the spitting image of your mother." He shook his head. "I wish I could be easy about the two of you. At least two people that I knew personally died violent deaths in this house not twenty-five years ago."

  If I was daunted I did my best not to show it. "I have no intention of following suit. You may come and check on us tomorrow morning. If you come early enough we may even feed you break­fast." I rose, and reluctantly he headed for the door, muttering dire predictions all the way out.

  "And now, dear Maggie," I sighed as I wan­dered back in, "all I need to make me blissfully happy is a cup of strong tea, some dinner, and a bath."

  "Tea, I can get you. Even dinner I can provide if you'll settle for some fried sprats and cornmeal mush. . . „"

  "Polenta," I corrected gently, not at all dis­pleased by this typical Venetian menu.

  "But a bath is one thing I cannot and will not do. If you think, Miss Luciana, that I am going to heat and carry buckets and buckets of water . . ."

  "No, no, no," I soothed her. "Just wishful think­ing. I feel so dirty; there's nothing I'd like more than . . ." I broke off as a delightfully wicked idea came to my ever-active imagination.

  "I don't like that look in your eye, Miss Luciana. It bodes ill for someone."

  "Pish and tush," I replied. "I am going to get clean, and in the easiest way possible. I'm going swimming."

  "Where?" she demanded, and then a look of dawning horror appeared on her face. "Oh, no, miss. You can't mean it! Not in this dirty canal water."

  "I certainly do. Father used to swim here all the time. I saw some boys swimming when we ar­rived. The canal on the side of the house is de­serted . . . no houses or windows face on it but ours. And it will be a very short swim."

  "I've never known you to take a short swim. I think you must be part eel yourself. And you're far more likely to come out dirtier than when you went in."

  "Ah, but Maggie, you don't understand the secret of the Venetian garbage system. The ebb tide carries all the trash and sewage out into the open sea every day, and the return is fresh, clean sea water. Can't you smell . . . the tide has just come in." I took an appreciative sniff of the clean, watery smell, and Maggie took a disdainful sniff of dis­approval.

  "You're mad, Miss Luciana. But there's no tell­ing you. Go on ahead—I can't stop you. But you'll have to sleep in your canal slime . . . I've told you already I won't get you a bath."

  It took all my powers of persuasion to convince Maggie to accompany me down the long, dark, dank passageway that led under the house to the side entrance. Various rustlings in the dark left me with the gloomy conviction that the cats had not been quite as efficient as I had hoped, and the green moss growing along the sturdy and un- cracked marble foundations added to the eerie atmosphere of the place. If I hadn't made such an issue of swimming in the first place, I would have suggested we turn back.

  "Gawd, this is an awful place, ain't it?" Maggie whispered as we neared the end of the pathway. "I wouldn't like to be locked down here on a stormy night."

  "Don't!" I shuddered. "We mustn't be superstitious. It's just another part of the house—a little bit damper, but nothing else."

  "Isn't this where your father killed the—?"

  "Please, Maggie!" I shrieked, and my voice echoed down the cavernous crypt. "I'd rather not think about it." Thankfully, I swung open the old and rusty door after a nervous moment fiddling with the bolts. "That was all a long time ago. It really shouldn't bother us in the least."

  "Well, it bothers me. And what bothers me more, Miss Luciana, is what you're intending to wear for this twilight swim you're planning." She cast a suspicious glance over my rumpled skirt and blouse. "I hope you have more sense than to con­sider going in the altogether. That's bad enough in Somerset, but here with those Eyetalian brig­ands . . ." She shivered in delicious anticipation, obviously longing to run into an Eyetalian brigand in the altogether.

  "But Maggie, I'd drown if I wore all this," I pointed out with great practicality.

  "You've got a chemise on, haven't you? And pantalets? Indecent, of course, but better than nothing." I was quickly peeling off the grime- stained outer layers, and I nodded in compliance. The chemise was made of fine lawn and Venetian lace and came to just above my knees; the panta­lets were short and frilly and absurdly dainty.

  When wet, I knew they would be just as bad as the infamous "altogether," but I didn't bother inform­ing Maggie of that fact. I sat down on the moss- coated quayside and dangled my bare feet into the splendidly cool salt water.

  "I don't really fancy waiting alone in this great dark hole while you paddle around," Maggie warned. "In and out—that's all the swimming you'll do today, my girl."

  "Yes, Maggie," I replied meekly, taking the pins out of my heavy hair and letting it hang like a thick, black curtain down my back. We were far enough away from the lights and noises of the Grand Canal so that I felt completely private. Especially now, at what appeared to be the dinner hour for so many of my fellow Venetians. Bracing myself against the dock, I slid slowly and quietly into the cool, green depths, letting out a long sigh of pure delight before taking off in strong, rapid strokes toward the end of the house.

  "That's enough, Miss Luciana," Maggie called out uneasily. "Come back now."

  "I can't!" I protested. "I've barely cooled off. Give me a few minutes more, Maggie."

  "I don't like it here. Come now, or I'll leave you. I swear I will."

  "Go ahead!" I called gaily, forgetting the eerie passageway and its ancient ghosts. "I'll be in directly."

  "Miss Luciana, come now!" There was thunder in Maggie's voice, a thunder I chose to ignore.

  "Go ahead and start supper, Maggie," I replied, floating on my back and wiggling my toes. "Or else you can come in and fetch me," I added wickedly, knowing how Maggie detested water in any form other than a tepid bath.

  "Damn you, then!" she cried, and vanished from the dockside. I did a shallow dive and began a leisurely examination of the underside of Venice. When I surfaced for air the side of the old house looked different. It took me a full minute to realize that the water door was firmly closed, with no outside handle. It took only a small push from the water to ascertain that it was indeed locked.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For a long moment panic set in, and I sank be­neath the salty waters of the lagoon like an idiot. I surfaced quickly, c
oughing and sputtering and choking, my eyes stinging from the bite of the salt. Placing two hands on the moss-covered marble quay, I tried to pull my tired and frightened body upward. But the seaweed growing in slimy profu­sion gave me no purchase, and I slipped back beneath the now treacherous waters, my hands scrabbling desperately at the dock. Again I sur­faced and tried to crawl out, again I felt my hands slip, my nails tearing helplessly. I tried to call for help, but the exhaustion of the past week and day had caught up with me with evil speed, and all that came forth before I slipped beneath the canal was a hoarse croak.

  While my body was weakening my mind was working feverishly. I wasted valuable time cursing myself for being a careless idiot, for trying to swim in an unfamiliar place when I had already pushed myself too far and too fast. And as I made my way wearily to the blessed surface, I weakly realized it might be the last time.

  Blinded by the sea water and desperation, I reached out one last time for the marble fondamento, gulping in the sweet night air. Once more I felt myself begin to slip, and I resigned myself to an early, albeit fitting, watery grave when sud­denly I felt my weak wrists gripped tightly by two iron hands.

  It was then I began to struggle in earnest until a deep, sure British voice that I recognized instantly cut through my panic. "Calm down," he ordered sternly. "I've got a hold of you. You'll be out in a moment. Just take deep, slow breaths."

  Numbly I complied, and in a few seconds I felt myself being pulled out of the water with a sud­den jerk of quite impressive strength and dumped on the slime-covered quay.

  I lay there in a wet and sorry heap, my breath coming in long shudders, my body trembling from the aftermath of fear and the suddenly chill night air. My rescuer knelt beside me, and as I turned to thank him I came face to face with the angriest blue eyes I had ever seen.

  "Do you realize," he began in an icy voice, strip­ping off his jacket to reveal a set of powerfully built shoulders, "what an idiotic, dangerous thing that was for you to do? A child would have more sense than to go swimming unattended in a strange place." While his voice was rough with anger, his hands were gentle as they lifted me and drew the warm linen jacket around my shivering body. "You should have some sort of keeper, someone to make sure you get into no more trouble. Venice is a dan­gerous place for fools and innocents."

  "Which am I?" I questioned weakly, not really minding his harangue as long as he kept those gentle, reassuring hands on me. Both my parents had hot tempers, and I had come to associate being yelled at with people who loved me. I felt posi­tively cherished as the nameless, scarred English­man lit it into me.

  "Both," he snapped, smoothing my wet, tangled hair away from my face. "You should turn around and go straight back to England," he said in a milder tone. "This is no place for you."

  "How do you know I've come from England?" I questioned with spylike surprise, remembering my duties belatedly.

  He hesitated for only a moment. "You know as well as I do that I saw you arrive last night. And your voice is as unmistakably British as your face is Venetian."

  I smiled at that, obscurely pleased. "Well, I can't go back to England right now, even if I wanted to. I have business here."

  "You are far too young to have business that couldn't be better conducted by the men in your family," he said in an oppressive voice.

  "I am just as capable as the men in my family," I snapped, struggling out of my very comfortable position, which was half in his arms.

  A look of amusement passed over his aloof face. "God help your family, then." He helped me to my less-than-steady feet, catching his jacket deftly as it slid off my shoulders. "Are you quite all right?" A note of concern had slipped beneath his cold reserve, and it warmed me despite the chill damp of my skin.

  "I'm fine," I replied, holding out my hand po­litely. "And once more I must thank you, Mr. . . . ?" I let it trail meaningfully.

  The mocking smile was very much in evidence now as he took my hand to his lips and kissed it with the lightest of touches. "I would suggest, Miss del Zaglia, that you keep my jacket for now. Your costume, though extremely attractive, is a bit too revealing for polite society, even in Venice."

  I looked down at the sheer, clinging lawn that covered my ripe curves, and a warm blush mounted to my cheeks and spread all over the large expanse of visible skin. Snatching back his jacket, I pulled it around me in sudden and un­usual modesty, barely managing to stammer out my thanks.

  It suddenly seemed very still and quiet, alone with him on the slime-covered fondamento outside the austere and gloomy environs of the palazzo Edentide on a cool August night. The sounds of the Grand Canal seemed small and far away, and I had the odd, by no means unpleasant, feeling that we were alone to the world, my nameless scarred Englishman and I. And I knew with an ancient and sure instinct that he had the same eerie feeling. A gentle hand came under my chin, drawing me up to face those deep, troubled eyes as his other hand once more smoothed my wet locks from my face. The smell of the sea was strong on my skin and his hand, and the soft night breeze played through his dark gold hair, ruffling it just slightly.

  "Take care, Luciana," he said in a soft voice, and my stomach seemed to contract within me. "The world is full of cruel, evil people, people who want to hurt innocent young girls like you. Take care," he repeated gently, his hand an unconscious caress on my cheek.

  "I can look after myself," I replied in a hushed, but firm, tone.

  He looked down at my damp, scanty clothing, barely covered by the warm folds of his jacket.

  "Really?" he said skeptically. "I do hope so, Luci­ana. I do hope so."

  A sudden scraping at the door brought us both out of our reverie, and in a moment he was gone, swiftly and silently, so that were it not for the warm, soft folds of his coat around me, I would have thought I had dreamed his presence.

  "Are you all right, Miss Luciana?" Maggie de­manded, peering through the gathering dusk. "I thought I heard someone walking around upstairs, calling me. It must have been my imagination, for no one was there. When I came back down the door here was shut and locked." She couldn't quite keep the worry out of her voice.

  I moved into sight, careful to keep a matter-of- fact note in my somewhat shaky voice. "I'm fine, Maggie. I had a little trouble climbing back out onto the fondamento, but a gentleman helped me.

  "What gentleman?" she demanded suspiciously, squinting down the canal.

  A seraphic smile creased my lips as I preceded her into the dark, damp cellars of the palazzo. The cellars that had seen death already in this cen­tury. "You owe me another dress," I said sweetly.

  With a great deal more bravado than wisdom Maggie and I both came to the comforting conclu­sion that the nonexistent wind had shut the heavy, rusted sea door, with the force of it closing the sticky latch once more. That selfsame wind was also responsible for the voices and footsteps that had called Maggie away from my side—an illusion, nothing more. In the meantime, however, we locked and bolted the sturdy door down into the cellars, and every few minutes one of us would cast a nervous glance in the general direction of the wide marble stairs, expecting heaven knows what sort of ghost to make its sepulchral way down the recently dusted steps.

  Between the two of us we managed a creditable job of the sprats and polenta. By the time we had finished eating a disgustingly huge amount, drunk several quarts of strong tea, and washed the dishes, bed seemed like a most pleasant place to be. It took all of Maggie's powers of persuasion to talk me into staying up another hour and helping her cut out the first of my dresses, and by nine o'clock I flatly refused to do anything more on it.

  "I'm exhausted," I complained bitterly, strug­gling to my feet and staring down at the scraps of rose-colored silk that would somehow, inexplica­bly, become an exceedingly flattering dress.

  "I never thought to hear you say that, Miss Luciana," Maggie replied pertly from her kneeling position, her mouth full of pins. "Go on to bed, then; I'll be along shortly." She let out a short, sharp laugh. "An
d don't think I don't know why you're so eager to go to bed for once."

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "You want to dream of your handsome pirate. Well, it can do no harm," she observed magnani­mously. "And once we have you looking more like a lady . . . well, who knows what will happen? I think, Miss Luciana, that you should just forget why you came here and concentrate on that gen­tleman. Spying's no ladylike occupation. You should be married and have one or two little ones running around by your age."

  The thought of marriage with the aloof English­man was curiously enticing, and reluctantly I put a tight rein on my imagination. "I can't forget why I'm here, Maggie. No matter how much I'm tempted, no matter how much I wish I could, I can't." Unconsciously I stiffened my backbone. "Good night, Maggie." The only reply was a de­risive snort.

  My small, neat bedroom had obviously been a dining salon at one point. Most of the furniture had been too rickety to be of much use, and Uncle Mark had obligingly dragged it off to the section of the cellars I had designated for storage. Instead of wobbling, frayed furniture, the room now boasted a small, ornately carved wooden bed with plain white cotton hangings to protect me from the noxious sea airs, a plain table and chair, an armoire, which had required Maggie's and my help in wresting it from one of the second-floor bedrooms, and a small, very old, and exquisitely beautiful Oriental rug. Maggie had closed the shutters to the small balcony, effectively cutting off any fresh air on this close, still night. The bal­cony overlooked the side canal that had almost caused my death that evening; but looking down at it from the safe height of my room, it seemed calm and gentle and once more welcoming on such a sticky night. Firmly I put that thought from my mind, blew out my lamp, and undressed slowly and thoughtfully in the dark. I was asleep in a few short minutes.

  I felt the bed sag beneath his weight as he sat down by my sleeping body. Those hands that had rescued me from a watery grave were warm and gentle on my face, waking me just enough so that I turned and offered my mouth to his insistent touch. I could feel the weight of his lips on mine, and I let out a little sigh of pure pleasure as I squirmed like a kitten.