The Demon Count Page 3

  "Yes?"

  His blatant discourtesy put me on my mettle, all the while I was regaining my faltering courage. An English butler would hardly buttle for the powers of darkness.

  I threw my head back, unfortunately spraying my inquis­itor with rain water. He didn't blink. "I am Miss Charlotte Morrow," I answered haughtily. "Count del Zaglia's distant cousin from England."

  The butler was unmoved. "Is he expecting you, miss?"

  I hesitated for only a moment. "Not exactly. But as he is my guardian I am sure he'll be delighted to see me."

  "No one enters Edentide without the count's permis­sion," he intoned.

  I stared up at the man in astonishment. "Well, then, get his permission, man! It's raining cats and dogs." I tried to move past him, but he remained inexorably in the way.

  "The count is not at home this evening," he informed me. "If you would return tomorrow perhaps he may have left instructions."

  "But I can't return tomorrow!" I wailed. "Where will I go tonight?"

  "There are a number of suitable hotels in Venice, Miss Morrow."

  "I don't have any money!" I was becoming very fright­ened. I had foolishly assumed that once I reached my guardian's home all would be taken care of, and I could retire, temporarily of course, to my proper role as depend­ent young lady. My self-reliance had just about been de­pleted.

  "That is too bad, miss. Now if you'll excuse me." He moved to shut the door in my face.

  "But you must let me in!" I demanded shrilly.

  "No one enters without the count's permission," he re­peated. "If he really is your guardian," and the butler's ex­pression took leave to doubt it, "you could seek him out at the French embassy. He's attending a party there."

  "But how will I get there?" I was close to tears now.

  A brief flash of human pity must have stirred in his mar­ble face, though I couldn't recognize it. "If Miss will wait here, I will arrange for a gondolier to take you there. Thai is the limit of what I can do for you." And he vanished inside the tomblike palazzo before I had a chance to thank him.

  It was just as well. I didn't feel very grateful at that point. I dumped my luggage in front of the door and turned to face the gloomy, rain-spattered depths of the canal, determinedly oblivious to the pouring rain while I awaited my deliverer. Fortunately I didn't have to wait long.

  My first ride in one of the smaller, private gondolas on the still waters of Venice could certainly have been accom­plished under more pleasant circumstances. Even in the dim light I could tell the boat had seen better days, and there was a rank smell of sour wine clinging to the frayed cushions. I rode the waves with my hands clutching ner­vously at the side of the small, teetery boat, keeping a sharp eye on the villainous-looking boatman who had sul­lenly introduced himself as Gianni and then proceeded to glower like a fiend from hell. With such an evil counte­nance, the man would certainly find it difficult to contrive a living, ferrying about the myriad tourists. If I'd had any choice I certainly would have chosen a more cheerful sort.

  As I tried to control the nervous shivers that wracked my rain-drenched body, I couldn't help wondering how the villainous Count del Zaglia would react to being presented with a sopping young lady in the middle of a dinner party.

  Well, there was no help for it, and he had only his own pigheadedness, rudeness, and distrustfulness to thank for it, I told myself virtuously, and sneezed, drawing my soaked cloak closer around my thinly clad shoulders. He could rant, he could rave, but he could not turn his poor distant cousin and ward out into the Venice night. There was nothing he could do but take me in, and before long I would bring him around.

  Unlike the dark and crumbling exteriors of Edentide, the French embassy was a pink and gold palace, ablaze with light. Laughing voices in several languages and loud music echoed forth over the rain-drenched canals. Gianni steered the gondola over to the brightly lit mooring, grudgingly helping me to alight before pushing off into the night.

  "You won't wait?" I asked plaintively, hating my weak­ness.

  "There is no need, signorina," he replied from over the water. "Either the count will escort you back to the pa­lazzo, or he will send you about your business. Either way, my services will not be required."

  I had to concede the logic of this, much as I disliked being stranded in the middle of this strange and magic city. I mounted the slippery marble steps past the loudly admir­ing French and Austrian soldiers, keeping my eyes de­murely lowered.

  After the cold, drenching rain the deserted foyer of the embassy was blessedly warm. I put back the hood of my cloak and looked about me with great interest. I had been in the great houses of Britain, of course, and admired them.

  But I could immediately appreciate the delicate, almost frivolous style of this elegantly proportioned hallway, with its fanciful gilt trim and warm pastel shades.

  "May I help you, mademoiselle?" A warm French voice inquired from behind me, and I jumped nervously, nearly answering in the same language before I had a chance to gather my wits about me.

  "I beg your pardon," I said in a firmly British voice as I turned to face my inquisitor. "Do you speak English?"

  The small, elegantly clad young man bowed gracefully. "I do indeed, mademoiselle. How may I assist you? Jean-Baptiste Perrier, d votre service."

  I gave him a brief smile, trying to hide my uncertainty. "I am seeking Count del Zaglia. His manservant said he might be found here."

  A well-shaped eyebrow rose on the young man's face and an almost indiscernible familiarity crept into his man­ner. "And may one ask what your business is with the count?"

  I hesitated, then decided frankness was best. "I am Charlotte Morrow, his ward. I have just arrived from Eng­land and his butler refused to let me in until he had permis­sion from the count." I felt very foolish recounting this ab­surd problem but the natty Frenchman nodded sagely.

  "Ah, yes, the good Thornton. How very like him to re­fuse shelter to such a charming young female." I took note of the fact that he did not call me a charming young lady. One hand reached under my elbow and I was steered in the direction of one of the inlaid doors. "If you would be so good as to wait in one of these rooms I will send someone to attend to you." He spoke smoothly as he led me into a comfortable little salon, and I allowed myself to trust him.

  "You will find the count?" I inquired anxiously, settling myself down on a brocade sofa.

  "All will be attended to, mademoiselle," he replied, clos­ing the door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and fears.

  I hadn't long to wait. I was staring into the welcome fire when I heard the door open behind me, and I rose and turned to face the man I supposed to be my guardian, Count Luc del Zaglia.

  My first feeling was acute disappointment, yet I refused to fathom why. The man before me was well-dressed, though his waistcoat was stained with food and wine. He was well into middle-age, with grizzled hair and tiny, pig­like eyes that glistened with what seemed amazingly close to lust. He licked his thick pink lips and stumbled forward.

  "May I help you, mademoiselle?" he asked in a slurred voice.

  "Count del Zaglia?" I questioned, and was relieved to see him shake his head. A smirk spread across those thick lips as he moved closer to me, and the heat of the fire brought out the sour smell of him, that of old wine and unwashed bodies. It took all my self-control not to step back.

  "Now what would you be wanting with that dago?" he leered. "He's here all right, but I doubt if he'd want to be disturbed for the likes of you. Deep in a card game, and winning as usual. Why don't you come with me somewhere private where we can discuss your business. I'm sure I can help you." He put a too-familiar hand on my arm, and angrily I shrugged it off, moving away this time.

  "Count del Zaglia is my guardian," I informed him in a furious voice. "And I wish to see him at once."

  "Of course he is, ma petite. And Louis Napoleon is my uncle. Now come with me and make no more trouble and I will see you are more hands
omely rewarded than Luc del Zaglia would. A man who gambles as rashly as he does must always have his pockets to let. Not that I've ever seen the bastard lose," he added morosely. He gave me a little yank. "Come along with Georges, my little pigeon. Let's have no more reluctance."

  His hand was like iron on my arm, and struggle as I might, I couldn't break free of his grip. I reached out to slap him, but his arms came around me like a vice, and I felt myself being dragged across the floor as I kicked and screamed imprecations worthy of an English dockworker. My assailant shouldered open the door at the far side of the room and dragged my struggling body through, and a fresh wave of fury and terror engulfed me. In desperation I sank my good strong teeth into his arm, and he flung me away with an incredibly foul oath, raising one of his meaty arms to strike me when a hand reached out and stopped him, while a soft, menacing voice spoke in excellent French.

  "I wouldn't do that, Georges."

  Chapter Four

  My enemy stopped, motionless, his blotchy face blanching in an expression akin to absolute terror. "A thousand pardons, milord," he babbled, stumbling back­wards. "I had no idea . . . what was I to think? He said . . . You can see for yourself . . ."

  Dazedly I rose from my ignominious position on the floor where Georges had flung me, feeling bruised and bat­tered and very angry now that my initial danger was over. All my attention was for the suddenly cowering Georges, and I failed to notice my soft-spoken deliverer at all for the moment.

  "Son of a pig," I hissed at him in Arabic. "Brother of four thousand camels!" I advanced upon the quaking fig­ure, my eyes flashing, as I added an extremely pungent and quite pornographic curse I had learned from one of There­sa's military admirers. A small, low laugh escaped from Georges's adversary, who released the poor man.

  A flush mounted to my pale cheeks as I realized he must have understood every word. I turned and for the first time gave my full attention to my savior. For once in my talka­tive life I was astounded into silence. I was later to learn that certain creatures of the undead are reputed to have that effect on people.

  Georges took advantage of my astonishment to make a fast exit, babbling apologies in French, Italian, and English. Neither of us paid any attention, my rescuer looking down on me with cold, quiet amusement, while I took in the full glory of what could only be my guardian, the prince of darkness himself, Count Luc del Zaglia. There could scarcely be two such as he in Venice.

  He was extraordinarily tall, even taller than my moun­tainous Holger, though without the Austrian's breadth of shoulder. The man who stood before me was a lean, grace­ful aristocrat, dressed exquisitely in black evening dress, not a speck of color anywhere around his remarkable per­son. His brown-black hair curled off a high, sensitive fore­head, his hypnotizing topaz eyes watched me with a quiet cynicism. An aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and a cruel, sensuous mouth completed his unforgettable face, and I could see why superstitious and uneducated people might think he was a spawn of the Devil. His beauty was deeply disturbing—an unnerving mixture of the spiritual and the sensual that seemed to bespeak the powers of darkness. I swallowed once, twice, determined not to show the absolute irrational terror I felt at being confronted by such a crea­ture.

  Suddenly he bowed, a courtly gesture that mocked even as it honored me. "Luc del Zaglia, at your service, Signor­ina. I was told you wanted to see me?"

  I presumed Jean-Baptiste had belatedly come to my res­cue and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks. I cleared my throat, but my voice still came out oddly shaken. "I am Charlotte Theresa Sabina Morrow," I announced bravely.

  There was no change in expression on that pale, hand­some face, just the same mocking courtesy. "Do I offer my felicitations or condolences?"

  "Your condolences," I snapped, nettled. "I am a newly made orphan, with the doubtful honor of being your ward."

  This did happen to move him, but not in the direction I could have wished. Mild annoyance crossed his face, follow­ed swiftly by an unholy amusement that did little to reassure me. Suddenly I felt very small and powerless indeed, and I wondered why I had ever been such a fool as to leave En­gland to place myself in the hands of a man such as this. If, indeed, he was a man, and not some thing of the night.

  He smiled a cold, distant smile. "Ah, yes. You must be Charles's daughter. Someone told me your mother had died, but I took no notice." He waved one slim, elegant hand, unadorned except for a large, ornate gold ring set with what I grimly recognized as an unusually fine blood­stone. "So you have come to Venice to join your devoted guardian? Perhaps to lighten my declining years? How thoughtful of you. And yet somehow it seems that I must have misplaced your letter signifying your intention. The mails are so unreliable nowadays. And no doubt you failed to receive my orders that you were to stay put in whatever dreary little girls' school you were attending?" There was only the slightest hint of menace in his soft voice, but I found myself trembling nonetheless.

  I have never lacked for courage, however. I tried to look him squarely in the eye, but he towered so far above me that I gave up the effort. "I received your letter," I replied bravely. "And I chose to ignore it."

  "Really?" He sounded no more than casually interested. "Did you also choose to ignore the courtesy of letting me know of your impending arrival?"

  I swallowed again, determined to stand my ground. "Yes. I knew if I told you I was coming you would try to stop me. And I wasn't to be stopped."

  "How perspicacious of you, Charlotte Theresa Sabina. I would indeed have stopped you." He moved across the room gracefully, and as his attention left me I could feel my tightened nerves relax slightly. But only slightly.

  When he turned back he was holding two glasses of ruby wine. I had seldom been allowed to partake of wine in En­gland, and I viewed the liquid with misgivings.

  Apparently I wasn't to be given the chance of refusing. He placed the thin crystal glass in my unwilling hand, looking down at me from those tawny, unreadable tiger's eyes. "A toast, Charlotte. To your stay in Venice. May it profit us both."

  He tossed the wine down lightly, then lowered his gaze to me. I had no choice but to follow suit. It was very bitter, and I could barely manage to control the shudder of dis­taste that swept over me. Boldly I met my guardian's eyes, and saw from their cynical depths that he hadn't been fooled.

  He held out an arm, and there was nothing I could do but take it, my hand trembling slightly as it rested on the surprisingly steely strength of his silk-clad forearm. "Your first lesson, my dear, will be not to disobey my orders," he said gently as he led me from the room. It was a gentleness that was not at all reassuring. "I will deliver you to my palazzo and into the welcoming arms of Maddelena, my housekeeper. She is reputed to be a witch." He felt my start of fear, and smiled down at me. "Nonsense, of course. I do hope you aren't superstitious, my little ward. You won't be very happy at Edentide if you are."

  I accompanied him in silence, scarcely aware of my sur­roundings, of the curious and uneasy glances of the people around us, of the immediate appearance of the count's ele­gant gondola, aware of nothing but my companion and a peculiar heaviness in my limbs. "Perhaps . . . perhaps it would be best if I returned to England," I suggested, una­ble to keep a quiver of nervousness from my voice. The sour wine, while making my stomach churn, was beginning to have a numbing effect that couldn't quite calm my un­usual agitation.

  "Oh, I couldn't allow you to do that," he murmured as he helped me into the boat. "Not after you traveled so far to be with me! It will be most . . . entertaining to have someone like you around. Someone young and . . . innocent." He stepped in beside me, the boat barely moving under his weight. "Once you have learned to obey me, it should be very amusing indeed."

  I moved as far away from him as possible in the gon­dola, wondering vaguely whether my wisest move might not be to jump overboard. Even Venice's dark canals might be preferable to the horrors my overtired brain was busy imagining. I stared at him in the darkness, fighting against the tide o
f exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm me. I had been a great fool, I thought, not for the first or last time. And then, quite suddenly, I slept.

  It couldn't have been the light that awoke me the next day. The murky green shadows that seemed to ooze from beneath the shuttered windows turned my dark, cavernous bedroom into an underwater tomb. I opened my eyes war­ily, for the moment afraid of what exactly I might find. The last thing I could remember was riding in the gondola with my guardian's strange golden eyes upon me . . . I must have been more tired than I had guessed. I stretched, yawned, and sat up with more energy than I would have thought possible twenty-four hours ago.

  Any suspicions I might have held about the count's pos­sible interest in my comfortable little English fortune van­ished at the sight of the almost oppressive luxury of my bedroom. The walls were hung with dark green damask, green velvet drapes surrounded the massive bed, the sheets were of the purest, finest white linen trimmed with lace, and the marble floors were covered with oriental carpets of a wondrously complicated design. Each piece of furniture was intricately carved, a craftman's joy, and the ewer and tray beside my bed were of solid silver.

  I scrambled out of my massive bed to the chill marble floors, my bare feet cringing at the cool touch. My first move was to fling open the heavy velvet curtains and the louvered shutters and take in my first sight of Venice in the daylight.

  And what a glorious sight it was, with golden sunlight pouring down on the massive buildings, gilding them with a splendid afternoon glow. Even the noisome canal was transformed into a magical waterway, the gondolas sailing back and forth like fairy boats. My depression and doubts abated as I stared at my new city, and I wondered how I could have been so foolish the night before. Count del Zag­lia must have thought me a perfect ninny, I decided rue­fully. I still couldn't imagine what had possessed me to fall asleep like that. And then I quickly shrugged off my mind's unfortunate choice of words.