Devil's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  “And who rules now, Father?” Adam asked.

  “Another of Khar El-Din’s sons, Kamal, a young man whom I have yet to meet. Of course, after I verified that the ships were lost, I wrote to him. I received a reply not long ago in which he denies he is involved, and assures me he will look into the matter.”

  “The court of Naples,” Adam said quietly. “The key lies there.”

  “Yes, Adam, I believe it does. It was my intent to travel to Naples myself, but upon reflection, I did not think it wise. I am too well known there, and my presence would likely send the men responsible into hiding. That is why I asked you here. I believe that you, acting not as the English Viscount St. Ives, but rather as a wealthy Italian nobleman, would have both the entrée to the court and the anonymity you need to discover who has this unaccountable desire for our goods.”

  “Could Adam be in any danger, my lord?” the countess asked.

  Adam smiled grimly. “Not unless I were to wear a placard stating my purpose, Mother.”

  “I believe it unlikely in the extreme, cara. Even if Adam were to shout that he is my son, the thieves would likely take to their heels. Still, Daniele and three of his men will be at hand, should the need arise. Adam, are you familiar with the situation in Naples?”

  “I know,” Arabella said, leaning forward with her chin cupped in her hands, “that the queen, Maria Carolina, holds power, and that King Ferdinando is a buffoon without much of a brain.”

  “Not uncommon,” the countess said.

  “Perhaps it is the way of the future,” Arabella said, grinning toward her brother.

  “You are interrupting us, Bella,” Adam said. He leaned forward like his sister to rest his chin atop his folded hands. “The queen was Marie Antoinette’s sister, was she not?”

  “Indeed yes,” the earl said. “Thus, in large part, the reason for her hatred of the Jacobins, and Napoleon. The murder of her sister and Louis profoundly affected her, and she vowed that the French would never take the Two Sicilies. But she stands alone. The Spanish Bourbons are helpless and the Austrians dither first one way and then the other. Only the Treaty of Amiens keeps Naples from French hands, and it will not be enough. Even now, Maria Carolina and Ferdinando must dance to Napoleon’s tune to survive.”

  “This is all well and good, Father,” Arabella said, “but there are so many people at court. Where is Adam to begin?”

  “Your sister,” the earl said with a smile to Adam, “terrifies me. She never loses sight of the mule’s destination. Well, Bella, Daniele has discovered that one of the many French émigrés to the queen’s court is the Comte de la Valle, a young man of rather questionable morals and loyalties to the crown, who perhaps knows more than he should about our Caribbean rum. He plays the role of the displaced French émigré and is accepted at court, very much in the queen’s good graces. There is something else about him you should know, Adam. Do you remember the Hellfire Club in England some twenty-five years ago?”

  Adam snorted. “A group of satanic revelers, weren’t they?”

  “An affectation Naples does not seem to have yet discovered. But it appears the Comte de la Valle may be involved in a similar group, Les Diables Blancs, the white devils, they call themselves. He has managed to draw some young Italian nobles in with him.”

  “It appears,” Adam said, “that I shall find myself equally drawn to this charming Comte de la Valle.”

  “Adam, a white devil,” Arabella said. “You will fit marvelously well, brother.”

  “I doubt I will be bored.”

  “There is a problem, Father,” Arabella said suddenly, one dark brow arching upward, “but also a solution, I think.” She felt her heart begin to pound with excitement, for she knew what she wanted. Go slowly, my girl, she told herself.

  “What is, cara?”

  “The Lyndhursts will soon be journeying to Naples. Rayna told me the queen’s minister finally succeeded in convincing Addington to send her father to the court of Naples as a military adviser and aide to England’s ambassador, Sir Hugh Elliot.”

  “Rayna is accompanying her parents?” the earl asked. At his daughter’s nod, he murmured, “I can’t imagine why Delford, of all people, would want to take his daughter to a foreign court.”

  “Why did you not tell me this, Bella?” Adam asked.

  Arabella shrugged. “Mother knew, but you, Adam, did not seem interested. Now they are a problem to you.”

  “That is an understatement, Bella. Good God, sir, the Lyndhursts have known me since I was born, and would recognize me in an instant.”

  “Can you not simply write to Edward, my lord,” the countess said, “and request his presence here before he travels to Naples? You can explain the situation to him and ask that he keep silent about Adam.”

  “Aye, I can, though I doubt that Viscount Delford will be greatly pleased.”

  “But you’ve forgotten Rayna,” Arabella said, quite pleased with her timing. “She too might recognize Adam, though she hasn’t seen him for years. For her, I have the perfect solution.”

  “Oh?” the earl said carefully.

  “Yes, indeed, Father.” She drew a deep breath and plunged onward. “I will journey to Naples with the Lyndhursts, as their houseguest. I so long to see Naples, Father, and if Rayna even suspects Adam looks familiar, why, I could well convince her otherwise. And who knows? Perhaps I can help Adam discover who is behind all this.”

  “Like hell you will,” Adam said.

  “Just because you are a man, Adam—”

  The earl raised a stilling hand. “I, for one, wish to think about all this. The both of you can argue to your hearts’ content once your mother and I are gone.” He lightly tweaked his daughter’s chin. “A holiday in Naples? I am not certain if the gentlemen at court could survive such a whirlwind. We will speak of it tomorrow.”

  The earl rose, smiled thoughtfully at Adam and Arabella, then offered the countess his arm.

  No sooner had their parents left the veranda than Adam said firmly, “Arabella, I do not want you in Naples.”

  “And why not, may I be so bold as to ask? I have more chance of charming information out of a gentleman than would you.”

  “This is not a game, Bella.”

  “Ah, ye never change,” Scargill said, emerging from the shadows onto the balcony. “All ye do is scrap.” He took a puff from his pipe and blew a thoughtful cloud of smoke upward.

  “Adam,” Arabella said firmly, “is being a brother, Scargill.”

  “Since this twit is my sister, I must protect her despite herself.”

  Arabella threw her napkin at him, jumping to her feet. “It will not be your decision. Father is not so unreasonable. And I will go to Naples with the Lyndhursts, you will see.”

  Scargill blew another cloud of smoke, and shook his grizzled white head. “Do ye want yer dueling pistols now?”

  “I would prefer a foil,” Arabella said. “I could skewer him easily.”

  “Lord,” Adam said, ready to smack her. “I pity the man who has the taming of you.”

  “Taming? And what of the poor woman who must bear with your ridiculous whims?”

  “Now, lassie,” Scargill said, waving his pipe at her, “ye must at least make men think they are getting their way.”

  “Men,” Arabella said, “should all be lined up and shot.”

  “Men, my dear sister, also have their uses, which you will learn if you ever decide to grow up and be a woman.”

  Eversley’s face flashed in Arabella’s mind, and she flushed. “I don’t want men, or their uses,” she said.

  “I think, Scargill,” Adam said, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, “that this time I’ve had the last word.”

  “Then ye’d best take yerself off now, lad, afore yer sister finds her tongue.” He banged his pipe against his palm, chuckled, and disappeared into the gardens.

  Chapter 3

  Oran, Province of Algiers

  Alessandro di Fer
rari, known in Algiers as Kamal El-Kader, Bey of Oran, stood in the front courtyard of his palace, resting his bronzed hands on the mosaic tile of the garden wall. He raised his eyes from the formidable fortress below him to its sister that straddled the sloping hill across the valley. Together, with their guns trained upon the harbor or Oran, they were a warning to Europe and a promise of protection to the ships nestled in the harbor below. At least a dozen xebecs, the deadly swift three-masted ships favored by the corsairs, were moored there, and a heavy Spanish trading vessel, its captain come to arrange tribute. The drill commands of Kamal’s Turkish troops, over five hundred strong, floated up to him. It was a fine day, the cloudless blue sky overhead mirrored in the smooth surface of the Mediterranean.

  A warm breeze ruffled his wheat-colored hair and dried the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He heard the soft tinkling sound of bells, and a smile flitted across his tanned face. They reminded him of Elena, a new concubine to his harem, a gift from the Dey of Algiers. He remembered her lying soft and languid in his arms, her silken ebony hair flowing over his chest. When he had learned she was captured as a child by rais Hamidu in a raid on the coast of Italy, he asked her if she would like to return to her home. She had opened her dark chocolate eyes in astonishment, and when she realized he was serious, she had burst into tears. She had little memory of Italy, and even less of her parents. She was a sweet child, he thought, but like the others in his harem, she was unlettered and ignorant, save in the art of pleasing him.

  Kamal frowned at his uncharitable thought and turned to rest his back and stretch his tense muscles. The death of his half-brother Hamil was still raw in his mind, and he was tired, having just returned the evening before from Algiers, where he had served as the dey’s wakil al-kharidj, or foreign-affairs minister. Because he had lived for many years in Europe and spoke three of their languages, it was he who dealt with European councils. They would begin with expressions of surprise that he, a Muslim, spoke their language, without a Jewish interpreter, and then the usual honeyed complaints about the pirating Algerian rais, the sea captains. He answered in phrases as smooth as their own, knowing full well that the privateering would not be halted, not until the Europeans opened their ports to the Barbary trade. Perhaps not even then, he amended to himself. It was a way of life to the rais, and it brought too many men, the dey included, substantial wealth. His people were raised to accept and pass on traditions, and they would not easily embrace abandoning this one. It troubled him, for he understood the Europeans as well. They would soon be forced to war with Algiers, Tunis, and Morocco, indeed the whole world into which he was born. His Turkish blood rebelled at the thought, yet he knew that the western powers could not for much longer abide the Barbary corsairs, not in the modern world.

  He had listened to the foreign councils, and directed them as always to the khaznadar, the dey’s treasurer, a wily old man, who, if they didn’t pay the tribute the dey demanded, would merely smile, noting those who refused.

  As his half-brother Hamil had before him, Kamal dealt more openly with private merchants such as the Italians, who could not afford the protection of a navy. They understood each other, and their business always ended with a banquet, and music, and nightly gifts of slave girls to warm their beds. The wealthy merchants knew that their tribute would buy their ships safety in the Mediterranean, safety even from the Tunisian privateers, for their sovereign, a bey just as was Kamal, would take his share of the tribute.

  Kamal’s thoughts turned again to his half-brother Hamil, who had been more like a father to him than had Khar El-Din. It was Hamil who had helped his own mother, a former Genoese contessa, to convince Khar El-Din to have him educated in France and Italy. To help him understand the foreign devils, Hamil had said. And it was Hamil’s death in a storm off Sardinia that had brought him back to rule his people. Hamil’s first wife, Lella, was swollen with Hamil’s child, and Kamal intended that the child would never forget his father had been a great and powerful ruler, a man of courage and strength.

  “Highness.”

  He turned at the soft voice of Hassan Aga, his minister. “Is it time?” he asked.

  “Soon, highness. Today you have but four judgments to render.” Hassan paused a moment, negligently smoothing his white wool sleeve. “One of the men, a wealthy spice merchant, wishes to pay you his respects, in the form of piastres.”

  “Was the man subtle in his bribery, Hassan?”

  “Not at all, highness.”

  “You will point him out to me so that I may look upon the man who would seek to buy justice.”

  “Yes, highness.” Hassan, a smile on his leathered face, started to turn. His eyes shadowed a moment as he said, “Your esteemed mother wishes to speak to you, highness.” He bowed and left Kamal to prepare for his entrance into the large formal chamber reserved for greeting visitors to the Bey.

  Before Kamal turned to his mother, he straightened his full-sleeved shirt and his leather vest, and adjusted his wide, soft red leather belt.

  “Mother,” he greeted her.

  “Yes, my son.”

  He dutifully bestowed a kiss upon her upturned cheek, and switched easily to Italian. “You are well?”

  “Ah yes,” she said. “I heard that fool Hassan tell you of the merchant’s offered bribe.”

  “Hassan a fool?”

  His voice was carefully neutral. He had learned quickly upon his return to Oran that his mother was jealous of anyone who could influence him. Her possessiveness surprised him, for she knew him as little as he did her.

  Giovanna Giusti, formerly of Genoa, now the mother of Oran’s Bey, shrugged her slender shoulders. “He could simply have accepted the bribe and filled your coffers, my son. There was no need for you to know, and if your judgment had gone against the merchant, he could have said nothing. He is beneath your notice, or should be.”

  “There is no justice in that, madam,” Kamal said. “If I did not render honest judgments, where would the people go?”

  Giovanna shrugged again, impatiently. “Does it matter so much to you?”

  Kamal found himself thinking like a Muslim for a moment, believing that he could not expect a woman to have any notion of honor or duty. He studied her silently. She was still a remarkably fine-looking woman, still possessed of much of the exquisite beauty that had captured his father’s roving eyes so long ago. She was slight, reaching only his shoulder, and as slender as a girl. Her hair was inky black—dyed, he suspected—with no trace of gray. But despite the care she took, there were lines on her face, bitter lines that deepened when she spoke of anything or anyone Muslim. He had given her a measure of power when he became Bey of Oran, power at least over the women, until he discovered she had placed Hamil’s widow, Lella, in a small, airless chamber fit only for a slave. When he had asked her why she had done it, she had lifted her narrow black brows in astonishment. “Lella is nothing, my son. She deserves to be sold, indeed, I think it would be best. It should be done before her belly swells.”

  “By God, Mother the woman carries Hamil’s child. Her son will be my nephew, and my heir until I take a wife and breed my own son.”

  “Your heir.”

  He had realized suddenly that she considered Lella and her unborn child a threat. To her or to him? he had wondered, staring at her. “Yes, my heir,” he had told her. “Nothing will happen to Lella, Mother. Nothing. She and her unborn child are under my protection. Do you understand?”

  Her face had smoothed out, as if by magic, into submissiveness. “Of course, my son. Forgive me. I will see that Lella is housed as befits her station. I am only concerned that you, Alessandro, be given what is due you.”

  “Is there something you wanted, Mother?” he asked her now, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I haven’t much time. Hassan awaits me.”

  Her dark eyes studied him before she lowered her head before him and murmured in a soft voice, “Perhaps later we can speak again, Alessandro.”

  “Yes,” he said. He w
atched her pull her veil back over her face and walk gracefully toward the women’s quarters.

  The ceremony that attended the Bey when he rendered judgments to his people had been nearly the same for over two hundred years. Kamal strode into the large sunlit chamber, its only furnishings his high-backed chair set upon a dais and a narrow table where his scribe sat, taking notes of the proceedings. He was flanked by Hassan Aga and a half-dozen of his Turkish soldiers, more for show than for protection. Their faces were expressionless, and they wore flamboyant red-and-white uniforms and highly polished scimitars fastened at their waists.

  Kamal turned to face the afternoon’s supplicants, and sat stiffly in the heavily ornate chair, brought from Spain by his father, Khar El-Din. He nodded to his minister, Hassan, who began to recount the first case, that of the spice merchant Hajj Ahmad, a fat man of middle years, the man who had wished to bribe Kamal. When Hassan gravely told the merchant to begin, Hajj Ahmad moved to speak before Kamal, his hands folded before him. His beard was liberally threaded with white and his nose was reddened from too many years of good spirits. His voice, somewhat to Kamal’s surprise, was soft and cultured. Kamal studied him carefully as he spoke.

  “This man, highness,” Hajj Ahmad said with immense dignity, turning slightly to point to a slight, swarthy man older than he, “cheated me of payment. I had spices delivered to his store, and he refused to honor the terms of our agreement.”

  Kamal looked intently into the man’s eyes, as his half-brother, Hamil, and his father, Khar El-Din, had taught him. Unless a man is the greatest scoundrel on earth, you will see the way to justice in his eyes.

  “Why, Hajj Ahmad,” Kamal asked politely, “did you allow the delivery of the spices if the man did not pay you?”

  “One of my sons arranged it, highness. He returned to me with the news”—he nearly spat on the other man—“that this insect refused to pay.”

  The shopkeeper took his turn. “I paid, highness, but the son of Hajj Ahmad refused to give me a receipt for my payment.”