For Frank, of course,

and vampires everywhere

Published by

Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

New York, New York 10017

Copyright © 1980 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publishers except where permitted by law.

Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc„

ISBN: 0-440-11906-5

Printed in the United States of America

First printing—March 1980

CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

The

Demon

Count

Chapter One

I have never been one to become hysterical with great frequency, but I knew with a certainty that if this wretchedly sprung diligence hit one more bump I would scream at the top of my lungs. It seemed like months since I'd first climbed into this vehicle of the devil, and my poor, tired body was a mass of bruises and aches since we started on this rocky and ill-kept road across the plains of Italy; and as the miles passed each turn of the wheel was torture. Once more I was flung against my unwilling fellow traveler, a stout and surly banker, and without further hesitation I shrieked.

The coach pulled to a halt far quicker than I could have imagined possible, and the cheerful Swiss driver appeared at the window, creases of worry in his ruddy face. "What's the matter?" he demanded anxiously in German.

The banker gave me a look of withering disdain. His opinion of womanhood was obviously not very high, and his opinion of a young lady who traveled unaccompanied on a public coach through the strife-torn Italy of 1840 was even less. And when that same young lady chose to scream for no reason . . . All this he communicated to the driver in a few short German words, while the comfortable- looking grandmother across from me nodded in weary agreement. It had been a long day, and the May weather was unseasonably warm.

I had the grace to look abashed, while the spotty young clerk on the lady's left tried to catch my eye with a speaking glance of sympathy. I ignored him.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said in my clear English voice. "I don't know what came over me. I'm perfectly all right now."

The banker, after giving me one last look of helpless dislike, turned and translated my gentle speech into German, adding a few distinctly uncomplimentary remarks about the English in general and this one in particular. I smiled at them all apologetically, bland incomprehension written on my face, settled back against the rough seat, and sighed.

For not the first time I wondered whether I had been incredibly foolish in taking off like this. Without question my reputation was in shreds, my meager finances almost gone, and my spirits at low ebb. I couldn't help but wonder how my new guardian would react when his detested and despised young charge arrived at his palazzo. The thought cheered me.

As the coach began to bounce once more along the pot- holed highway, I let my mind drift back to the England I had left, the home in an uproar, the rage and disapproval of my mother's family, providing a momentary diversion from the tedium of travel.

"You cannot, you absolutely cannot travel alone to Italy at this time!" Great-aunt Matilda stormed.

"Those wretched foreigners are about to erupt into war again!" Cousin Horace announced. "Not that they aren't always in that state. I don't know what could have gotten into your father, to have left you in the care of some damned Spaniard!"

"He's Italian, Cousin Horace," I corrected gently, my soft voice a reproval for his swearing. "And for that matter, he's half British and a cousin by marriage. Father traveled widely . . . he knew many men and many places. I trust him to have chosen the best of them for me."

"But to travel alone, Charlotte!" Aunt Isabel reproached. "So soon after your poor mother's funeral."

"I won't be traveling alone. I'll have my maid with me at all times, and luckily a friend of Mother's is planning a trip to Venice. She has graciously offered to bear me company. So you can see I couldn't possibly wait . . . Mrs. Hartmann is leaving in a week, and I'll have to be ready. Count del Zaglia insists I come as soon as possible."

"Damned impertinence, if you ask me!" Cousin Horace snorted, his jowls quivering with indignation. "Still, he's your legal guardian for another year. There's not much to be done about it. Now, if only your father had had the sense to talk to me about this, he would have seen that I was a much better person to take charge of your well- being." Not to mention my comfortable fortune, I thought cynically. "We'll have to meet this Mrs. Hartmann." He snorted again, a distressing habit of his.

I had brightened at this sign of capitulation. "Of course, cousin." But they had never met, for the simple reason that Mrs. Hartmann, like my erstwhile guardian's summons to Italy, was a fabrication of my too-fertile imagination. Two days after that fateful conversation in the cold and dreary library of my mother's rented house in Brighton I was safely on board a small ship making its leisurely way along the coast of Europe to the Mediterranean Sea and the Italian port of Genoa.

Not one word had I received on my mother's death, not one note of condolence from my appointed guardian, merely a cold communication from his agent in England that I was on no account to even think of venturing to join him. I was to continue my schooling (schooling I had completed two years ago at the age of seventeen) and when the situation in Italy calmed a bit Count del Zaglia would arrange something for me.

Arrange something for me! The very thought turned me livid with rage. I had at that moment decided I would instead arrange something for the so-dear count. A trip to the continent would be just the thing to help me over the shock of my mother's unexpected death. Within a day the tickets were purchased, two small bags were packed with my mother's cast-off mourning clothes, and I was ready to depart.

As the carriage rumbled along at a painfully brisk pace, I thought back to my mother's sulky, delicate face, and wondered what she would think of me now. It would probably amuse her, if truth be known, to think of her only daughter traveling alone and unchaperoned. She hadn't much maternal feeling for me.

I had often wondered what had possessed, my father to marry her. Theresa Brunwood was pretty enough in her youth, indeed, even till her untimely death, but there were others with as much beauty. She had quite a frightening intellect, a curse she had passed on to me, which perhaps accounted for poor Charles Morrow's initial enchantments, so accustomed was he to brainless society belles. As a rising young diplomat perhaps he thought the lovely creature would be an impetus to his burgeoning career. If so, he had reckoned without Theresa's intrinsic coldness and self- absorption. One year after their only child was born my father took up residence at the embassy in Rome. Theresa remained behind, victim of a conveniently failing constitution.

To say my mother enjoyed Ill-health would be to put it mildly. Every day I would be brought before her chaise longue, to kiss her artfully pale cheek and recite to her my lessons. Each day I would look for some sign of affection, some gesture of maternal love. I never found one, and by the age of twelve I had given up looking.

Theresa had taught me many things, however. She taught me to revere learning, to be self-sufficient, to smile prettily and play the fool when gentlemen were about.

"But my dear Charlotte, " she would say softly when I was older and more romantic and would dare to mention an attractive would-be beau, "He has the mind of a well-bred horse. Surely you couldn't really be interested in one such as he?" And I would blush before her gentle mockery and agree miserably that no, of course I could not be interested in such a natural thing.

All in all, I grew up totally unsuited for the one profession open to me, that of marriage and motherhood. I could speak seven languages, five fluently, I could cipher, discuss politics, literature, and history, outrun, outtalk, and out- think any man of my limited acquaintance. And if I did have a weakness every now and then for a pair of broad shoulders or clear blue eyes I would catch my mother's faintly superior smile and turn away with great resolution and only the faintest trace of lingering regret.

"It won't be much longer, signorina," the spotty young clerk opposite me broke into my none-too-pleasant thoughts, and the banker frowned warningly at him. "Another hour or two and we'll stop for the night."

"And none too soon," the banker harrumphed, casting a steely glance in my innocent direction, placing the blame for our delays squarely on my delicate shoulders.

I considered the two of them for a moment, then offered the younger one my sweetest smile. "Thank you," I murmured gently, and then deliberately directed my attention to the gently sloping countryside below me, leaving the crestfallen clerk to stare moodily at my averted profile.

I couldn't blame the fellow. Every time I looked in a mirror I experienced a start of surprise, that the fairyland creature should be me, Charlotte Theresa Sabina Morrow. A perfect English rose, a smitten young man had once told me, and I could unconcernedly see the truth in that. I had guinea-gold hair that fell in delightful soft curls around my face, a retrousse nose, rosebud mouth, and china-blue eyes as big as saucers. My complexion was touched with a healthy pink, my eyelashes were thick and curly, and my natural expression was one of charming innocence. My body lacked the perfect, insipid beauty of my face, but it was well enough. A bit over average height and not quite as plump as was the carrent style. In all I was quite astonishingly lovely, and it interested me not one whit. In my soul I fancied myself a dark, tragic figure, with melting dark eyes, hair black as night, and an alabaster complexion that was both pale and interesting. The porcelain English beauty that stared at me was a bland and uninteresting stranger, and my recognition of its attractive qualities had nothing to do with vanity. It simply existed.

I had learned swiftly in the last two years since I left school that I had only to smile and some nice young man would rush to do my bidding. Even motherly ladies would respond to my gentle requests, a fact that amused my own mother no end. "You should do splendidly, my dear," she had chortled one evening with uncharacteristic glee. "Everything that should have been mine will be at your fingertips. You need only to perfect your use of your natural gifts and the world will be yours."

I had watched her amusement with somber doubt. I had no idea what great future my mother had in store for me, but somehow I doubted it was something that would appeal to me. In truth, I would have been far happier if I had been able to succumb to just one of those stalwart young men that flocked around our rented mansion in the seaside resort town. But I was far too much my mother's daughter to do that.

In the end, however, I had broken free. Only by his sudden death, but free I was, and reveling in it. I had abandoned my maid in Southampton with a fatter purse than my limited pocket money could really have afforded. Dressed in one of Mother's cast-off black wool dresses, I knew I made a pathetic and appealing picture to my fellow travelers. I had exchanged my set of shipboard protectors for equally vigilant champions, and never once had I been forced to suffer importunate suggestions. Indeed, it was a source of disappointment to me that my trip had been so tame, nay, even boring.

But I counted on the rage of my unknown guardian, the excitement of living in a new country, and the turbulent political situation to change all that. I had no doubt I could bring Count del Zaglia around my finger in short order . . . I had seldom failed when I wanted a gentleman to succumb to my feminine wiles.

I remembered my mother's exclamations of anger and disdain when my father's will was read. "How dare he!" she had fumed, looking temporarily quite healthy in her rage. "Leaving you in the care of that . . . that foreigner! And a Catholic at that! The man never had any sense." For an educated woman Theresa was surprisingly narrow- minded about what she stigmatized as "dirty foreigners."

"But, Mama," I had ventured with the usual timidity she alone had inspired in me, "he was Father's dearest friend!"

"He was no such thing," she snapped. "Luc del Zaglia is at least twenty years younger than your father—closer to my age than to his. And totally disreputable if half of what I hear is true. It is highly fortunate that I am not quite as sickly as your father hoped. If I were in my grave I shudder to think what would become of you at the hands of such a one as he!"

All this was just the sort of thing to appeal to an over- imaginative young woman. My one act of rebellion against Theresa's strict rule was my love of lurid novels. For someone as intelligent as I was supposed to be, I was amazingly gullible, and I took to daydreaming all sorts of melodramatic fantasies about the demon-count, as I had dubbed him. Deep down I knew well enough he must be harmless—my father had loved me too dearly to have risked placing me in any but the best of care. It had always grieved him deeply that my mother had kept such a tight hold on my company.

I had always wondered what had prompted Theresa to deny my companionship to my lonely father, and decided long ago that it could only be spite. Theresa certainly had never cared for me, nor for anyone but herself. And I couldn't help wondering if my father, knowing full well the specious nature of my mother's illnesses, hadn't placed my care in the hands of the most dissolute person he could find, simply to irritate her.

"Well, there's no helping it," Theresa had lamented bitterly. "There is no way I can fight this infamous will—in English law women are less than nothing. I will simply have to live until you are twenty-one."

I had never doubted that she would. But two years later, fourteen months to the day before I would be free of Luc del Zaglia's onerous control, my mother had dropped dead at the age of forty of a sudden heart attack, leaving me at the mercy of my father's appointed guardian.

I had been entirely ready to resist any suggestion that I might change my way of life when that terse, authoritarian message had arrived from the count's lawyer. My mourning for my cold-hearted mother had been as brief and superficial as she had so richly deserved, and I found myself filled with a new, life-giving rage. Even now, as I was bounced and jounced across Italy, I could remember the message and my own reaction to it. Well, the count was about to be repaid in full for his bland assumption that his little charge would mindlessly obey his instructions. He was about to find out he had gotten far more than he bargained for.

The coach pulled to a sudden halt quite a full hour before our usual evening stop. The banker stuck his head out the window and then drew back in with a snort. "A detachment of soldiers," he muttered. "As if we were not late enough."

"Papers ready!" A voice called from the driver's seat, and I continued to smile blankly until the banker repeated the words in English, pointing to my reticule and swearing savagely under his breath.

"Your papers, miss," he grumbled. "These Austrian soldiers haven't the best tempers in the world, and when they want to see your papers you'd better have them ready!" He was busy rustling for his own identification. "They'd as soon clap you in irons as look at you, the way things are now."

"Oooh," I let out a perfect little squeal of dismay. "They wouldn't do that to me, would they?"

"No, of course not," the spotty young man reassured me, glaring at the banker. "They would never harm such a beautiful young lady as yourself. Signorina . . ."

A hamlike hand appeared at the door. "Passengers dismount!" a voice demanded in German, then repeated in French, Italian, and English with acute boredom. We all stared at each other with sudden nervousness, and the grandmotherly figure across from me crossed herself with abrupt piety. "Now!" The guttural voice grew testier, and, tiring of my cowardly companions, I climbed out over the portly form of the banker and scrambled down from the coach, eager to be on solid ground once more.

Chapter Two

The feel of the rocky turf beneath my stout traveling boots after so long in the bouncing carriage was decidedly unexpected, and my knees gave way beneath me in a most undignified manner, plummeting me into a pair of manly arms. I allowed myself the unfamiliar luxury of a pretended swoon for a moment, so welcome were those strong, protective arms, and then pulled myself together. What would Theresa have said at such womanly weakness?

I righted myself abruptly, shaking my head to clear the mists. I smiled up at my noble protector, and nearly swooned all over again. Looking down at me were the bluest eyes I had ever seen, set in a sternly handsome face that could scarcely have come closer to my romantic musings had it been planned. He was so very elegant in his white and gold uniform, his blond curls peeping out from beneath his cap, his shoulders quite the broadest I had ever seen. And I did have such a weakness for broad shoulders.

"I beg your pardon, Captain," I murmured helplessly, batting my thick eyelashes at the man beguilingly. "A momentary dizziness . . . I'm quite all right now."

He stared down at me with an amazed expression on his face, swallowed once, and quickly doffed his cap. "My pleasure, fraulein," he stammered, suddenly a smitten little boy. "Perhaps you might like to sit . . . ?" He gestured to the coach and I gently shook my head.

"No, thank you, Captain. I believe you wanted my papers?" I questioned, rummaging in my reticule like a helpless female before offering them.

He stared at them stupidly for a moment, and the grumble of the other passengers came to my ears. Our conversation had been in English, and I had no idea how fluent my fellow travelers were. Flirtation, however, is the same in any language, and none of them was particularly anxious to be held up longer than necessary on that windy border. As I have said, it had been a long day . . .

Suddenly the captain seemed to pull himself together, standing upright so that he was even taller, well over six feet, with a stern look in his ice-blue eyes and a grim expression around his full lips. "That will be enough!" he said sharply to the querulous travelers. "Your papers will be checked and then you may proceed. Where is your destination?"

No one spoke for a moment, obviously expecting me to do the honours. I, however, remained silent. Finally the driver spoke up in broken English.

"Eventually to Venice, Captain," he ventured. "We are already a day behind schedule . . ."

"The problems with your timetable are none of my concern, driver," he said abruptly, barely glancing at the papers handed him. "You will have another passenger."

"There's just enough room as it is," the banker protested, speaking up for the first time. "We can't fit another person."

The captain stared at him with mild disdain. "There are four of you, no? And the carriage usually hold six. I expect no more objections."

"Who will be accompanying us, Captain?" The grandmother spoke up then, not one to be cowed by an Austrian upstart.

He allowed himself a stiff little smile that in no way diminished his rather heavy attractiveness. I could feel my chilly heart melt a fraction, and his blue eyes met mine for a long instant. "I will, madame."

I must admit that the rest of the trip passed far too quickly for me. Captain Holger von Wolfram, once he recovered from his initial stupefaction, was both sophisticated and charming, with a hint of steel beneath his perfect manners. He was civil enough to the other passengers once he had made it perfectly clear who was in charge, but it was obvious he had chosen to take our carriage for the sake of flirting with a silly young English girl. I couldn't help but be flattered—Holger was the image of the man I thought I would someday marry. Handsome, strong, ruthless, and perhaps not too terribly bright. I flirted oh-so-gently with him as we traveled into Italy, and he responded with satisfying ardor.

"But where are you going, Fraulein Morrow?" A question I had been carefully avoiding finally could be avoided no longer. The lagoon surrounding the ancient city of Venice was only hours away, and there was no distracting the good captain. Why I wanted to distract him I had no idea. For some instinctive reason I had carefully parried all his surprisingly personal questions during the remainder of the trip.

"To stay with my guardian," I replied after a long moment. "Oh, look at those lovely cypresses!"

The captain ignored the cypresses. "But you must tell me his name, liebchen. I wish to call on you when we reach Venice. This will be the first time I have been stationed there, but the Venetians are notoriously unfriendly to the Imperial Army. There is little enough decent company around, I hear. I would be desolate to lose you so soon after we have met."

I eyed him speculatively. I could imagine he would have little decent company. Occupying armies were never popular, and the uneasy state of Europe certainly didn't help matters. I doubted the Italian families approved of consorting with the Austrian powers-that-be, and the French, in their zeal to regain possession of northern Italy, would hardly be likely to cuddle up with their enemy. No, Holger would undoubtedly lead a lonely life in the ancient republic, and if it were up to me I would ease that loneliness a trifle. However, I had no idea how the illustrious Count del Zaglia would react to that.

I met Holger's gaze limpidly, not liking the petulant insistence in his pale blue eyes. "I doubt you'd have heard of him."

My swain didn't like being thwarted. "His name!" he demanded.

I sighed, my warmer feelings for him abating rapidly. "Count del Zaglia," I replied shortly. "I believe his palazzo is on . . . "

"On the Grand Canal," Holger supplied, a curious expression nearly akin to satisfaction sitting on his heavy features. "Count del Zaglia is not unknown to me. By reputation, that is. He has been most helpful to the Austrian government, and to the French government, I am sure. I had no idea he was your guardian."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"Yes," he replied bluntly, if ungallantly. But for some reason I couldn't quite believe him. "One does not trifle with Luc del Zaglia's possessions lightly. He is a man greatly to be feared in Venice and, indeed, in all of northern Italy. How came he to be your guardian?"

I didn't like this conversation, not one bit. However, I was anxious to find out anything I could concerning my future guardian, so I controlled the flutter of annoyance and answered Holger with far more courtesy than he deserved. "I believe he was a friend of my late father's, and a distant cousin besides. If my father trusted him I'm sure I can do the same."

"You've never met the man?"

"No," I confessed uneasily. "But it makes no difference. It is my duty to obey my father's wishes." This was a blatant lie . . . I rarely did anything I didn't want to do, but Holger nodded pompously.

"Have you no family back in England? No one you could turn to?"

"None," I lied.

He sighed gustily. "Then may God have mercy on your soul, fraulein. You have a dark and dangerous road ahead of you." He shut his mouth firmly, obviously determined to say no more, and I wouldn't lower myself to plead. I turned away and met the frightened eyes of the old grandmother. She and the other passengers had obviously been listening to our conversation with the same rapt absorption they had given all of our previous conversations, and at my sudden attention the old crone quickly crossed herself and made an odd gesture in my direction.

"Don't cast those evil eyes on me, witch," she hissed in Italian. "Keep it for your master, the Devil! Strega!"

A chill ran through me, despite the warm and welcoming May afternoon. "What does she mean?" I whispered. "Why does she call me a witch?"

That much Italian even a cloddish English girl could be expected to understand. The banker stared at me solemnly for a moment. "Pay no attention to the old one," he said finally. "Count del Zaglia has a . . . a certain reputation in Venice. Not a very pleasant one, to be sure. It is said that he sold his soul to the Devil many years ago. Absurd, of course, but then, he has done nothing to dispel the notion. One would think he enjoys being thought of as a prince of darkness."

"But what of the contessa? Surely his wife would help to stop such absurdity!"

"The Contessa del Zaglia has been dead for many years, Fraulein Morrow. It was perhaps her tragic and untimely death that started the foul rumors that have grown and spread over the last few years."

I was suddenly very frightened. "How did she die?" I whispered, not sure I really wanted to know.

"I do not know the details, fraulein," the banker said, and his cold gray eyes told me he was lying. "All I know is the official report, which was that the young woman died a suicide. But there was little doubt at the time that the poor lady was murdered. And no question at all who was responsible." He leaned back against the slightly threadbare seats and blew his bulbous nose in a fine linen handkerchief. "How long until you are free of his protection?"

"Fourteen months," I replied, shaken.

"Fourteen months," he echoed soberly. "Not such a long time, then. "I suggest, fraulein, that you say your prayers every night, attend Mass, and keep out of Luc del Zaglia's way as much as possible. And leave Venice as soon as you are legally able."

I turned back to Holger, my eyes pleading with him to refute the absurd statements of the heretofore seemingly rational banker. But his blue eyes looked down on me with infinite sadness, and he patted my gloved hand in a paternal gesture.

"It will be all right, liebchen," he breathed. "If you do as Herr Seitz says. And I will be there to watch over you."

For some reason I failed to find this as comforting as it was meant to be. "Will you, Holger?" I carefully kept my skepticism out of my voice. I didn't know what use a straightforward Holger von Wolfram would be against the powers of darkness, but I had just as soon not fight them alone. I could have kicked myself for being fool enough to abandon everything in England for this mad dash across a war-torn continent, straight into the lair of one of Satan's henchmen. If my small fortune of pocket money was not sadly depleted I would have turned around and headed straight back to Calais. But the tiny amount of French money in my reticule would get me several yards past the border, not more. I had effectively burnt my bridges, and the sudden smell of sulphur was not reassuring.

"I'm sure it cannot be so bad," I said bravely, not sure at all. "There is no such thing as the Devil." And I dearly wished I believed my brave words.

The old woman crossed herself once more and began a mumbled Ave Maria in her distant corner of the carriage, all the while keeping her aged, basilisk eyes on me as if daring me to make a move in her direction. Gone was the comfortable, motherly attitude. In her mind I had ob- viousiy become linked with the evil master himself, and even my most innocent smile did nothing to dispel her fear of me.

Even Holger had a wary look in his eyes, tinged with a faint expression I could only identify as speculation. I leaned back against the squabs, trying to look blissfully unconcerned by the superstitious terror my guardian's name had inspired. At least my destination was only a few long hours away. If I had to live with this suspicion and nerve- wracking uncertainty for much longer my courage would fail me altogether. I managed a convincing yawn and pretended to fall asleep.

Chapter Three

My first sight of La Serenissima, the most serene republic of Venice, temporarily banished my misgivings. A light rain was falling, more a mist than actual precipitation, and a fog almost enshrouded the mysterious oriental roof- line. As our boat moved slowly across the lagoon, drawing closer and closer to the historic city, I was conscious of the first stirrings of a deep enchantment. Venice seemed to float just above the water, a magic place where anything might happen.

My involuntary intake of breath, my initial awe and wonder as we drew nearer seemed to signal a more negative reaction in Holger. He had been morosely silent since my startling disclosures in the carriage, but apparently my fascination with the rapidly approaching city was enough to stir him out of his torpor.

He snorted loudly. "You like Venice, fraulein?" Disapproval was strong in his heavily accented voice.

I eyed him speculatively for a moment, then turned back to the twilight glory ahead of me. "Yes, I do, Captain. I doubt I've ever seen such a lovely place."

"Ha!" He laughed without humor. "You will find, my dear young woman, that it is cold and damp and miserable. The natives are rude and unfriendly, the food is indigestible, the lodgings highly conducive to inflammation of the lungs. Epidemics ravage the population, buildings lean in every direction, the weather . . ." he broke off his grumbling tirade before my interested gaze.

"I hadn't realized you had been to Venice before, Captain," I said silkily. As a matter of fact, I was certain he had announced to us all that this was his first visit.

In the dim light I could still see the flush that suffused his fair features. "I . . . I was stationed here previously," he replied stiffly.

"And now you are returning, poor man. To such a place!" I mocked gently.

The spotty young clerk looked up then, and spoke with more conviction than I had heard from him in the past two weeks. "If the Imperial Army finds Venice so inhospitable, perhaps they would be happier elsewhere." He spoke slowly and distinctly, so that even someone with as rudimentary a grasp of Italian as Holger obviously had could understand.

But for once the good captain seemed unwilling to rise to the bait. He continued to stare at the approaching quayside with an abstracted, brooding gaze.

I scrambled onto the fondamento and looked around me with unabashed curiosity. I knew from Holger's reluctant descriptions that we were in the Piazzetta San Marco, just off the famous piazza. The place was a beehive of activity even at such a normally restful time of day, and two giant columns, one on either side of me, seemed to look down at all the bustle with quiet reproach.

"That's where they used to hang felons," Holger came up behind me and pointed out cheerfully, staring up at the tall columns.

"What's on top of them?" I questioned, straining my vision through the twilight.

Holger shrugged contemptuously. "I have no idea."

"Pardon me, signorina," the young clerk bashfully interrupted. "On one side is Saint Theodore, former patron saint of Venice. On the other is the lion of Saint Mark. We have a saying in Venice, signorina. That to be 'fra Marco e Todaro'' is to be . . . how you say . . . caught in the middle? In a state of perplexity."

I had to laugh. "Then truly, I am standing in the proper place."

Holger harrumphed, not liking this one bit. "In a few short years, fraulein, when you arrive in Venice, you will do so by railway. The Imperial Army is overseeing the construction of a railway line between here and the mainland- Very modern, very civilized."

I was busy watching the young Venetian disappear into the night. "Ah, but I like arriving by boat, Captain," I chided gently. "It's so much more fitting for a place such as this."

"I won't quarrel with you on that, Fraulein Morrow. A leaky boat, preferably, for a leaky city. I wish you joy of both."

I didn't bother to reply, and in a moment he was gone, with my other companions of the last few weeks, gone into the night with only a few frightened, pitying glances at my lonely figure. Even Holger, forgetting momentarily his promise of protection, found it necessary to report to his commanding officer at once.

"But I will call on you as soon as I can," he vowed, obviously anxious to disappear with the others before my Faustian protector materialized from out of the darkness. I had neglected to inform him that the count had no notion of my impending arrival.

"But you need my address," I reminded him, not for one moment expecting him to keep his promise.

"The Palazzo Edentide is well known all over Venice," he replied. "On the Grand Canal, as I have said. God protect you," he added in German, and strode off into the night, leaving me alone on the rain-drenched cobblestones, suddenly feeling very frightened and unsure of myself. I looked above me at the two saints and offered a little prayer that I might survive my own rash stupidity.

"Is someone meeting the signorina?" The gondolier, a swarthy Italian who had replaced the ruddy Swiss when we switched transports, approached me hesitantly.

I shrugged with what I hoped was charming helplessness. "It appears not. Perhaps you could help me arrange transport. I need to go to the palazzo of Count del Zaglia. On the Grand Canal."

An expression of horror crossed the man's dark face. "Why would you want to go there, signorina? That is a place of the Devil."

"The Devil," I replied with some asperity, tired of all this fuss, "is my guardian. And he would not like it if I were kept out in the rain on an evening like this." I was taking unfair advantage of the poor man's superstitions, but I was dearly longing to find a home once more after weeks of traveling.

"No, signorina. I mean, yes, signorina. I would deem it an honour if you would allow me to convey you there," he said hastily, terror showing plainly in his wide brown eyes, "If you would consider climbing back in the gondola, it will take but a few short minutes."

My relief and sudden nervousness, nearly overwhelmed me with faintness. Just a few short minutes, my girl, I told myself grimly. A few more minutes, and you and the count will be laughing at the gullibility of the crazy Venetians. And the crazy Swiss, the Crazy Austrians, and the crazy French, I added honestly, suddenly not liking the odds. And the crazy English girl, too.

The palazzo was indeed only a few short minutes away. To be sure, the boatman moved through the still waters like a bat out of hell, obviously eager to be rid of his unwelcome passenger as soon as he could without further antagonizing the powers of darkness.

Edentide, the incongruously named palazzo of Count Luc del Zaglia, was hardly reassuring. With great haste the gondolier dumped my bandboxes out, helped me onto the slippery quay, and took off before I could reach for my last few coins to pay him. I watched his rapidly receding boat until it turned off the wide canal and was out of sight before I turned to face what would be my new home for the next fourteen months.

A weaker woman would have sat down on her luggage in the light rain and wept. It was full darkness now, and not a light shone from the crumbling facade of the building, not a curtain stirred. Dark, narrow alleyways led from the canal on either side of the house, and I wondered whether a possible front entrance might not prove more welcoming. I stood hesitating for a moment, wondering whether I should investigate further, or whether I should save myself a great deal of trouble and throw myself into the dark, still depths of the canal. And then I caught a strong whiff of the unmistakable odor of the waters, squared my shoulders, gathered up my luggage, and marched to the nearest door.

It opened before I had a chance to rap. A very tall, very thin, very English butler appeared, eyeing me with disfavour out of gimlet eyes. Without a doubt he had been watching me from some secret place behind that peeling green door, and I shivered slightly.

Before I could get over my uneasiness and sheer astonishment at seeing such a piece of England in such an unexpected place, he spoke, and his tones could hardly have been less welcoming.

"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 handsomely 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 of 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.

But today was a heavenly day, and I would start afresh with my saturnine guardian. I turned to look for my portmanteau, so that I could dress and face the wicked count in proper style.

My luggage was nowhere to be seen, and my determination vanished. For the first time I allowed myself to wonder how I had come to be in this sumptuous room, whose strong arms had carried me from the gondola and placed me in that excessively comfortable bed. I looked down at my thin chemise. And whose hands had stripped off most of my clothing while I slept with such uncharacteristic soundness?

I stood stock still, trying to stem the tide of anger and uneasiness that threatened to overwhelm me. I had never been a coward. Indeed, Theresa had often wished I could show just a trifle more restraint. But this city, this palazzo, these people were totally beyond my ken, and I felt most unpleasantly helpless and out of my depth. I was still considering this novel experience when the gilded door knob began to turn with a sinister slowness.

I bit back a nervous scream, and with barely a tremor in my voice called out, "Come in!"

There was a hesitation, and then the door opened, revealing not the supposed demon-count but a small, hunched old woman dressed in the heavy black that was a uniform for Italian women of a certain age. She moved into the sunlight, and my reassurance dimmed. Beneath her oily black hair was a face incredibly old and incredibly evil to my impressionable young eyes, wise in the ways of the world and the fools that inhabited it. When she spoke it was in a rasping, guttural voice, using a slurred dialect I found just barely comprehensible. My perfect Italian was almost useless, and I wished she would slow down just a trifle. After a moment I began to comprehend.

"Can you speak English?" I requested when she paused for breath. I had been taught by Theresa to keep all signs of intellect well hidden, as a woman with any sort of brain was considered a freak by the superior male of the species. Keeping my knowledge of Italian and French a secret might prove a very useful advantage in the fourteen months that were to come, and I had an uneasy feeling I would need every advantage I could find.

The woman snorted. "I am Maddelena," she said in broken English that I found almost more difficult to understand than her dialect. "I am the housekeeper here. You wish to take a bath?"

Such words could turn any monster into a saint in my eyes, and I nodded with heartfelt gratitude. "Above all things," I said fervently.

"It will be brought. The count will see you at five."

"At five? That must be hours away!" I don't know why the wait distressed me so. I told myself that I wanted reassurance that the demon-count of last night was merely a figment of my overtired brain.

"Compose yourself, signorina," the old witch said cynically, a smile showing several gaps in her teeth. "It is past three now. You have slept a long time."

"Who . . . who brought me here last night?" I questioned hesitantly, and then blushed. I should have pretended disinterest.

"Who else but Antonio, the gondolier? Do you think he would soil his hands with such as you?" the little crone demanded fiercely. I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"And who undressed me?"

Once more she smiled, and her little currant-like eyes shone in the afternoon sunlight. "I did, signorina. But be patient. You are not bad looking, though not in his usual style. I'm sure he will come to your bed eventually."

Unfortunately during the last part of that speech she lapsed into Italian, and I could neither refute it nor upbraid her for her insulting suggestions. I could simply stare at her in mute frustration while she went off, cackling, and repeating over and over in Italian that my time would come.

I stared after her. "Damn!" I said finally, finding more relief in the good solid British word than in all my repertoire of obscene foreign curses. I could almost begin to understand some of Theresa's contempt for foreigners. All this absurd melodrama and rampant lechery was both unnerving and highly contagious. I would have to be careful not to be seduced into reacting as the old witch no doubt wanted me to.

But the bath was heavenly. Two sturdy and obviously dull-witted maids carried in an ornate silver tub, much tarnished, filling it with steaming and scented water carried in equally ornate and unclean silver buckets. The wealth of the place seemed unbelievable, and I wondered what the demon-count had done to own such splendor. Perhaps he had simply been born to it. Or perhaps, the evil thought intruded, he had traded something, like his immortal soul, for such Croesian riches.

And there you go again, I chided myself, sinking into the scented luxury of the first bath I'd had in many long weeks. This place seems to breed such absurd fancies. A good English stiff upper lip was what was needed, and a stern no-nonsense attitude. After all, I had always prided myself on my levelheadedness and lack of sentimentality. Now was a fine time to lose it!

With the bathwater appeared my missing luggage, and I dressed carefully for my interview with Luc del Zaglia. My heavy blond hair was scarcely dry, and I arranged it as best I could. The cool spring air in the palazzo would no doubt give me pneumonia, but I did not doubt that there were worse ways to go around here. I dressed in one of Theresa's prettier black wool dresses. The style was only slightly outmoded, with a narrower skirt and longer sleeves than were currently in vogue. The dark color would, I hoped, successfully, hide the fact that I was both taller and slimmer than my mother. The discrepancies in height and girth were not very great, and the neckline of the dress was thankfully demure. The soft black wool gave my porcelain skin a delicate tint that pleased me very much. I couldn't see how the demon-count could be so very angry with such a sweet-looking lady, her large blue eyes brimming easily with unshed tears. A black lace-trimmed handkerchief completed my toilette, and I was ready and waiting when Maddelena, looking more witchlike than ever, arrived back at my door to escort me into the royal presence.

It was my first good look at the palazzo—my unusual state of somnolence last night had, of course, left me unconscious of the decaying glory around me. I had been pleased, no, overwhelmed would be more apt, by the elegant splendor of my room and its appurtenances, but I could see from the cold and drafty hallways that the wealth had not been spread very far around Edentide. Cobwebs were strung from the distant corners of the ornate ceilings, dust accumulated on every available surface, and the brass (or were they gold?) sconces in the walls were sadly tarnished, with the candles throwing off only a fitful light. As I followed the squat, hunched-over figure of the housekeeper I was grateful that my too-short skirts enabled me to keep my hem from trailing in the dust, and my overactive imagination picked up the sound of large rodents scuffling behind me in the darkness. I peered back over my shoulder with a great deal of uneasiness. I did not care for rats.

"This is the third floor, signorina," Maddelena announced. "Your rooms are the only occupied ones on this level. I hope this will not bother you?" She grinned, and I knew she hoped nothing of the sort.

"Why should it?" I asked coolly, straightening my spine. "I like solitude."

The old witch shrugged. "Let us hope solitude is the worst you will experience." She continued down the hallway to a sweeping staircase, and impudently I stuck my tongue out at her sturdy little back. "The servants' quarters are on the second floor. The English servants, that is. The Italian servants have their rooms in the cellars."

"The cellars?" I shuddered. If the upper floors of Edentide were cold, slimy and rodent-ridden I hated to think of the condition of the cellars. "I would think you would rather be higher up . . . above the waterline, I mean."

"We are not given much choice. The Inglesi were brought here by the count's mother. They have ruled the palazzo ever since, and will continue to do so." She spat, which I doubted did the filthy marble staircase much harm. She peered back up at me, her small black eyes shining in the dim light. "His rooms are on the second floor also . . . at the front of the palazzo."

"How interesting," I said mildly, hoping to convince the woman I had no desire to know of the count's sleeping arrangements. She cackled, however, and I felt a momentary desire to push her down the stairs. I controlled my murderous tendencies.

The second floor was cleaner than the third, and more brightly lit. As we passed the landing I tried to peer down the long hallway, but the shadows made it impossible. For a moment I thought I could make out a pair of eyes glowing in the black corridor, and I stopped suddenly. But a moment later they were gone, and I told myself I must have imagined them. If I didn't take myself in hand before too long I would become hopelessly nerve-ridden in this macabre palace.

The ground floor was far more reassuring. While not exactly clean and bright, it at least showed some small amount of housekeeping care. The brasses were polished, the furniture had seen an application of beeswax and lemon oil in the not-too-distant past, and the rugs were aglow with fresh colors, not the frayed and raveled remnants that had carpeted the cold, damp hallways upstairs. Even the dark and damp-stained portraits on the walls seemed to have more optimistic expressions on their ancient faces, but perhaps I was imagining that too.

I had fallen behind Maddelena, and now I rushed to catch up with her as she flung open a door into a warm and well-lighted room, announcing my name with great dignity.

"Signorina Morrow." I hesitated for barely a moment. That unfortunate English children's rhyme had popped into my head. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly . . .

Nonsense, I told myself firmly, striding into the room, only to have my hard-won courage vanish once more as the demon-count repeated the very rhyme I had banished from my mind.

"Come into my parlor . . ."

Chapter Five

He was lounging negligently in a gold brocade chair, and as I entered the room he rose with lazy grace, just slowly enough to express his boredom with the custom and with me. He was dressed in black as he had been the night before, and his pale, handsome face was not in the slightest bit reassuring to me after I had had a full night's sleep. He looked down at me and smiled, a cool, calculating smile, and motioned me to a chair opposite him.

"Well, Charlotte Theresa Sabina," he murmured, "I trust you had a decent sleep. I have never had anyone find my company quite so strenuous as you, my dear. People usually manage to stifle their yawns when I bore them. Your candor in falling asleep was quite refreshing."

I could feel an embarrassed flush mounting to my face at his mocking words. "I . . . I apologize, Count del Zaglia," I said stiffly, formally. "It had been a very long trip, and then the wine on top of it . . ."

"Oh, don't apologize," he protested, raising a slim, elegant hand, and the bloodstone gleamed dully. "I was charmed, my dear. And you must call me Luc. Despite the vast difference in our ages I find so much formality wearing." He rose with a sudden, graceful lunge, and moved restlessly across the room. "Some wine, my dear?" He paid no attention to my small protest, pouring me a goblet of the dark red stuff and carrying it back to me. I had no recourse but to accept it, and as I did my fingers touched that elegant hand. Ignoring the amused expression on his face, I pulled my hand away quickly, as if stung, spilling a few drops of the wing on my dress. His flesh had been as cold as the grave, and yet its touch seemed to barn me. With trembling fingers I brought the wine to my lips and took a deep swallow. It wasn't as bitter as last night's wine, and I took another gulp.

"Is Luc short for Luciano?" I questioned with an effort at casual conversation.

He smiled then, and I was not warmed. "No, my dear. It's Lucifero. The fallen angel. Apt, is it not?"

At that point I gave in. This was a different type of man, one I couldn't cajole with fluttering eyelashes and innocent smiles. Nor with tear-filled eyes . . . at best it would merely amuse him.

"Have I cowed you completely, my dear Charlotte?" he inquired solicitously, once more seeming to have read my mind. "I do hope not. I have been looking forward to battling you. Your dear mother was one of the most self-willed females I have ever encountered, and you have the look of her, no matter how hard you try to disguise it. That obstinate little chin, and the headstrong expression about your delightful lips. I do hope you won't capitulate too easily."

I lifted my head at that and looked him squarely in those magnificent eyes. "I won't," I promised him in a cold, angry voice.

The look of amusement deepened, and he reached out and took one of my unwilling hands in his fiery-icy grip. For a moment I tried to pull away, then let it rest there as he brought it to his lips. At the last moment he turned it over and pressed his mouth against my palm. The kiss he placed there seemed to scorch me to my very soul. It was both a threat and a promise, a declaration of war and a peace offering, and desperately I wondered how long it would take me to amass enough money to escape from the demon-count. For escape I must, before it was too late.

A moment later he released me, turning from me as if I were no longer of any interest to him—as indeed, I suppose I was not. The May night had fallen, and a myriad of candles threw a fitful light into the dim and shadowy corners of the room. Now that Luc's overpowering attentions were elsewhere I had as -stems® to take ifi my surroundings. I was not reassured. The Palazzo Edentide was in dire need of money, and I wondered if my poor virgin body was going to be sacrificed upon its altar.

"We are expecting a guest for dinner, my dear Charlotte," his soft, slightly menacing voice broke through my reveries. "An old friend of mine . . . and yours, apparently. You shouldn't find you have much in common with him, I'm afraid. But perhaps with you here to lend countenance to my sybaritic bachelor existence we may expect to entertain a more suitable acquaintance."

"Suitable?" I questioned.

He shrugged his elegant, silk-clad shoulders. "At this point virtuous ladies of Venice would cross the street rather than be forced to acknowledge me. Or they would if it didn't necessitate falling into the canals. My reputation, dear Charlotte, is sadly tarnished." He smiled that brilliant smile. "But now that you are here to reform me perhaps the matchmaking mamas will let me at their little virginal ninnies. The name of del Zaglia is old and respected, the title only slightly less ancient. Who knows whether certain social-climbing matriarchs might be persuaded to accept its less than worthy incumbent."

"I wouldn't know," I responded. "Are you desirous of finding a . . . a virginal ninny?" I tried to toss this out casually but a telltale blush mounted to my fair cheeks.

Luc noted it with an ironic twist to his mobile mouth. "My friends tell me it is time to marry again. I have been a widower for too long. Besides, all this splendor," he indicated the water-stained damask wall-covering and the cracked marble matelpiece, "needs refurbishing. My own pockets are sadly to let. A fatal addiction to gaming, I'm sorry to confess."

He couldn't have looked less sorrowful. A sudden gnawing attacked my stomach, reminding me that I hadn't eaten in well over twenty-four hours. I cast a furtive glance around the room, hoping I might find a small tray of bread and cheese, or even a dish of stale comfits. There was nothing edible in evidence. Nobly I attempted to turn my thoughts away from such mundane matters, back to my sinister guardian.

"Perhaps you should control your fatal addiction," I suggested repressively.

"I could scarcely do that, my dear ward. One has one's standards to keep up, you know. You aren't, by any chance, possessed of a comfortable fortune?"

This time I flushed a darker shade, and the demon-count stopped his restless pacing, arrested by my acute embarrassment. It would have done me no good to prevaricate— he was bound to find out sooner or later. Indeed, I was amazed he didn't know already.

I cleared my throat. "As a matter of fact, yes."

He flung himself back into the ancient damask chair, the spindly frame creaking in protest against his strong body. His curious golden eyes were fixed on my face once more, and I wished I could look elsewhere, anywhere but at that hypnotizing gaze. "Oh, really?" he drawled. "You interest me greatly, little one. How much of a fortune?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, how much?" he repeated impatiently.

I repeated the quite staggering sum Cousin Horace had mentioned in a flat voice.

His eyes narrowed. "All yours?"

"All mine," I admitted unwillingly.

He leaned back, eyeing me speculatively for a moment. Then with one of those lightninglike moves I had already come to expect of him, he rose and filled my wineglass, pouring a generous amount of the ruby liquid for himself at the same time. "How very convenient my inconvenient ward has suddenly become! Tell me, Charlotte Theresa Sabina, who is in charge of your financial affairs? No doubt your very tedious Cousin Horace?"

This came as a surprise to me. I hadn't thought he knew anything of my British relatives. No wonder their disapproval had been so stern. They could have given me more definitive warnings, I thought gloomily, knowing full well I had only myself to blame for my current predicament. "I believe, my esteemed guardian, that you have been placed in control of my financial as well as physical and moral well-being."

He threw back his head and laughed. "But how delightful! And there's no need to marry you. Your dear father was a better friend than I realized."

I stared at him, amazed at his audacity. Before I could confront him with all the things I wished to throw in his sardonic face the door opened and the elegant butler of last night ushered in my handsome French friend, Jean-Baptiste Perrier.

He stopped short at the sight of me, however, staring in unfeigned amazement, and I watched him with equal interest.

He was dressed even more elegantly than the previous evening, and for the first time I realized how very attractive he was. His clothes were, of course, impeccable, his dark blond hair dressed with sobriety and verve, his feet and hands small and well formed. And his face, despite the amazed expression, was quite pleasingly handsome. Not as bristlingly masculine as my longed-for Holger, nor as dramatically beautiful as my amused guardian, he nevertheless was very, very attractive. His bearing was military, and for a rash moment I considered throwing myself on his mercy and at his small feet, and begging him for asylum, for protection from the saturnine monster beside me. Before I could speak, however, he recovered himself and greeted Luc in French-accented Italian.

"Your newest, Luc? I didn't know you cared for the virginal type. She's quite attractive, I must say . . . Let me know when you tire of her. I'd be more than willing to take her off your hands."

I nearly drew myself up to my full, enraged height before I realized I wasn't supposed to understand a word of this. Quickly I put a blank expression on my face, but a swift glance from Del Zaglia made me wonder whether I had been quick enough.

"My ward," Luc spoke in slow, deliberate English, "Miss Charlotte Theresa Sabina Morrow. Her father was an old and dear friend of mine. I believe you two have met, though not formally introduced. This is Jean-Baptiste Perrier. Vice-consul for the French embassy here in Venice. Not a very popular young man, are you, Perrier? But then, I find politics so fatiguing." He was as mocking with his guest as he had been with me, I was relieved to note.

Perrier, after a startled moment, bowed low over my hand with perfect manners, as if he had never even suspected I was a lady of uncertain morals. "Enchant6, mademoiselle. I am delighted to see you again. The sun will shine a little brighter for your presence in this wretched, waterlogged town."

I smiled up at him, relaxing for the first time since I had entered the room, warming to the obvious attractions of the young man. Here was something I understood, something I was used to. Luc del Zaglia's ironical toying with me not only frightened me, it went against all the normal laws of behavior in men.

"I must thank you for your good offices last evening," I said, leaning back in my spindly chair. "You found my guardian just in time. I was being plagued by an alarming fellow countryman of yours when Luc appeared like a deus ex machina." I was aware of Luc's inscrutable smile, and I wondered whether my unthinking use of Latin had set off any suspicions. Or perhaps he was merely entertained at hearing himself referred to as godlike, however remote the connection.

I had misjudged the reason. Jean-Baptiste looked properly abashed. "I wish I could take credit, dear lady. Alas, I never did find Luc last evening. When I returned to the room where I left you it was deserted. I hope you suffered no great disturbance?"

"No great disturbance at all," I replied blandly, all too aware of the taut attention behind Luc's casual demeanor.

"Is this your first visit to Venice, Mademoiselle Morrow?" He changed the subject smoothly. I confessed it was, and he continued smoothly, a knowing eye cocked in Luc's direction. "Then perhaps your ogre of a guardian will allow me to show you the dubious glories of the Queen of the Adriatic. Most account St. Mark's piazza to be quite a sight, with the campanile towering above the handsome domes. I would consider it a great honor."

"Right to the kill," Luc murmured in French, and M. Perrier flushed. "It is up to Charlotte," he continued in the English I supposedly understood solely. "I'm sure I can trust you with my sweet, innocent ward,"

"But of course, Luc, I wouldn't dream . . . "

"Because if you betrayed my trust," he continued! smoothly, as if Perrier had not spoken, "I will be forced to kill you. And the Austrian government does so frown on dueling."

There was an uneasy silence for a moment, and I looked from one handsome, tension-filled face to the other,, amazed at the suddenly rigid atmosphere.

As quickly as it had come upon them it disappeared, and a moment later they were drinking and laughing as if it were a normal house in any part of England, with pleasant, acceptable young men paying flattering attention to an eligible and not unattractive young lady. Except that one of those men had a peculiarly frightening streak, and the not unattractive young lady was plainly terrified of him, leaving only Jean-Baptiste with any chance of being what he seemed. And even of him I was not completely sure.

Chapter Six

Dinner was served blessedly early, which was a fortunate thing for ail concerned. By my third glass of the dry red wine my guardian favored, I was feeling dizzy and just the tiniest bit silly. Another glass would have undone me completely.

Fortunately for my addled state of mind Jean-Baptiste managed to take me in to dinner. I rested a confident hand on his strong young arm, idiotically relieved that I wouldn't have to touch Luc's body until I was more myself. I seemed to react strangely to his flesh, and with my wine-induced inanity who knows what might have happened?

The food was well cooked, bland, and obviously British, a suspicion that was borne out by the nature of Jean- Baptiste's compliments. The first half of the meal I devoted to silent gorging. It wasn't until the savory arrived that I was able to lean back in the wretchedly uncomfortable chair and listen to the gentlemen's conversation with more than half an ear.

"It's become an outrage," the Frenchman was saying. "I would have thought the Austrians would have shown a little more sense. If the French were in power we would have found the felon and dispatched him before he'd committed a second crime. And now this latest atrocity . . . I wonder the Imperial Army dares show its face around here."

"What latest atrocity?" I questioned, temporarily replete.

Luc raised an eyebrow at me, pushing his untouched plate away from him in distaste. "You are still with us, ma petite? I thought we had lost you with the pasta." Before I had a chance to respond he continued smoothly, "Jean-Baptiste was just informing me of the latest murder. Hardly dinnertime conversation but then, the French are savages."

His guest laughed lightly, a dark look in his brown eyes belying his good humor. "You never eat anything anyway, my friend."

"And I doubt an entire massacre could daunt my ward," he responded. "Tell her the latest. She had best be warned."

Jean-Baptiste cleared his throat. "There exists, mademoiselle, in this benighted city, a fiend, a ghoul, so horrible I hardly dare venture to tell you of it."

"You fully intend to tell her, Perrier. Get on with it," Luc said cynically, his tawny, brooding eyes never leaving my face.

The Frenchman ignored him. "A fiend, mademoiselle, who preys on the living. One who takes the cover of night and attacks those foolhardy enough to venture out alone and untended. Poor helpless females without sturdy males to protect them."

"A thief?" I questioned prosaically.

"If only that were all," Jean-Baptiste sighed. "But their money is always left with the . . . the bodies. No, this . . . this thing is nothing but a foul and merciless killer, who preys on young women for no apparent reason. Three bodies have been found in the canals, mademoiselle. Three young women with not a drop of blood left in their corpses!"

My knife clattered to the plate as I stared at him in horror. "How could that be?"

A small smile played about Luc's lips as his eyes watched me. "The peasants say it is a vampire," he offered pleasantly. "A creature that takes the form of a bat and sucks the blood of its victim. We, of course, know better."

"Do we?" Jean-Baptiste countered. "Such things have been known to exist. Who can say that a vampire has not risen from its endless sleep and taken to stalking its victims along the waterways of Venice?"

"I can, my dear Perrier." Luc toyed with a knife, his slim, elegant fingers looking very dangerous. "The victims throats were cut, were they not?"

"Yes, that's true. But there still should be some blood left in the bodies." He held to his theory stubbornly.

"Vampires, my friend, exist only in the imaginations of frustrated spinsters and adolescent females." He cast a mocking glance in my fascinated direction. "It is my theory, Perrier," and there seemed to be a hidden meaning underlying his casual words, "that the murders are committed in a certain way to place guilt on an innocent party."

"For what possible motive?" His companion was equally cool.

Luc shrugged. "Who knows, my friend? Anyway, I would have thought you at least had more sense than to believe these ghost stories."

"I do not believe them," Perrier said with great dignity. "But I do not discount them without careful consideration. And I would advise you not to do so either, Del Zaglia!"

There was a sudden, dangerous silence, a silence more frightening than Perrier's ghastly tales. Once more a palpable tension arose between the two seemingly friendly men. In desperation I broke in. "How perfectly awful!" I murmured in an idiotic voice. "And when was the latest victim found?"

That omniscient smile that I was coming to expect played on Luc's face. "Last night, my dear. Probably just as I was bringing you back here the ghoul was about his business. Just think, if you had only managed to stay awake you might have seen him at work."

"Did you see him?" I inquired sweetly.

"Not this time. No doubt I will get another chance." He reached one long arm and poured himself another glass of wine, the only sustenance he took during that meal. "You may retire now, Charlotte, and leave us to our port and cigars as they do in your barbarous country. Jean-Baptiste and I will be going out gambling when we're finished so you needn't stand upon ceremony. Bid her good night, Perrier."

Thus prodded, the Frenchman jumped to his feet and bowed low over my hand, his golden mustache tickling me. "Would tomorrow be too soon to give you your first tour of Venice, mademoiselle? You may be assured you can trust me to protect you from our ghoul."

"Since the vampire only strikes at night I think she need have no fear on that account," Luc said gently. "And tomorrow would be too soon. She needs a complete new wardrobe before I allow her to be seen in public. She is hardly dressed as befits a ward of Del Zaglia—she shows too much ankle and too little chest for a Venetian. Perhaps by Friday, if Signora Conticelli can be made to hurry."

I stared at him mutinously, not sure which enraged me more, his casual discussion of my anatomy or his curtailing of my freedom. "But I wish to go out sooner," I protested. "I'll feel like a prisoner!"

"That is indeed too bad," he murmured solicitously, unmoved. "But it cannot be helped. I think Friday would be the day, Perrier. You may fetch dear Charlotte in the early afternoon and even take her to Florian's for coffee if the mood strikes you. Good night, Charlotte." He rose with graceful indolence.

"But . . . but . . ." I objected angrily.

"Good night, Charlotte," he repeated more firmly.

Throwing my damask napkin down on the table with as haughty a gesture as I could manage, I stalked from the room. My lordly gesture, however, was completely ruined by the infuriating little laugh that followed me out the door.

Having just slept a total of almost twenty hours, I looked forward to a restless night, but I overestimated my own recuperative powers. That last glass of wine had been strangely bitter, but despite my stomach's protests no sooner had I reached the oppressively elegant confines of my third-floor room than I was overcome with a strange somnolence. No sooner did my head hit the plump feather pillow than I was in a sound sleep that lasted well into the next morning, and was troubled only mildly by nightmares, the details of which were blessedly forgotten when I awoke.

As I lay there in the darkened room I listened to the footsteps by my bed, footsteps so soft and hesitant that I knew they couldn't belong to the so-delightful Maddelena. Cautiously I opened my eyes to behold one of the loveliest creatures I had ever seen.

Even dressed in the coarse, plain clothes of a servant, the girl moved with a natural grace and elegance that would have put a principessa to shame. Her midnight-black hair curled down her slender back, her liquid black eyes stared at me soulfully, her olive skin was smooth and creamy. Even her mouth was beautifully formed, with full red lips that were now curved in a surprisingly unpleasant expression, almost a sneer.

"The signorina would like her breakfast now?" she inquired in Italian, and the image was shattered. Instead of the lovely soft, slurred accents of the Venetian, her harsh voice clearly bespoke the poorer southern sections of Italy, even if she looked like a princess. I stared at her with my blankest expression.

"I don't speak Italian," I said in my clear, light tones, and the smirk broadened disconcertingly, making her angelically beautiful face almost ugly.

"Of course the stupid pig of an English girl can't speak Italian," she continued in that language, smiling sweetly. "It is only to be expected." One beautifully formed hand indicated the well-laden tray beside my bed. "And would the stupid pink and white cow of an English girl like her tray?"

I stared at her with gentle incomprehension, my mind working feverishly. Gesturing for her to place the tray on my lap, I gave her my sweetest smile. "Thank you," I murmured. "Er . . . grazie." My pronunciation was deliberately atrocious, and she smiled once more, bowing that gorgeous head.

I couldn't help but sigh. I would have given ten years of my life to have looked like her. My pink and white prettiness I found dreadfully insipid, and as for my yellow curls . . .

So, apparently, did the servant. "I will be back to dress your ugly body in your ugly dresses," she cooed. "But you will soon find, stupid girl, that he will not look at you. Not when I am around." Curtseying politely, she slipped out of my room, leaving me with much to think about as I drank the hot, strong coffee and nibbled at the sweet biscuits.

The dressmaker, Signora Conticelli, was a round little bird of a woman, all darting eyes and quick, nimble hands that resembled nothing so much as claws. Even her fine feathers would have done justice to a parrot, as would her cawing voice with its incessant gossip. Maddelena presided over the fittings, keeping up a running conversation with the little dressmaker about the scandals and foibles of Venice's best families and the detested Austrian occupiers. The French were equally disdained, and the English—my humble self included—were looked upon with curious contempt. Surprisingly enough, Maddelena did not use my supposed ignorance of the language to insult me any more than she already had in English. I wondered if she guessed I was more learned than I appeared to be. If so, she was equally circumspect.

"Count del Zaglia would like the dresses by the end of the week," Maddelena informed the woman when she had finished her measurements and I was allowed to dress once more.

"The end of the week? Impossible!"

"Not impossible," the housekeeper corrected her. "By the end of the week, the count has said, and he shall have them."

Signora Conticelli bit her beaky lip and glared at me, as if I were to blame for the outrageous demands of my guardian. "And what exactly am I to make for the Inglesa! You have yet to inform me of that, eh?"

It was time I interfered. "Excuse me," I said brightly, "but do you speak English?"

The signora stared at me with mute dislike. "A bit, signorina, a small bit."

"But how shall I tell you what I'd like?"

Maddelena laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. "What an innocent," she said in Italian, then lapsed into her broken English. "It is not up to you what clothes will be made," she informed me, not without some pleasure at depressing my pretensions. "The count has already made a list of the proper clothing. There is no need for you to be consulted."

"But . . . but . . ." I protested feebly. "I wish to choose my own clothes!"

Maddelena shrugged. "That is a shame, signorina. When you have been at the Palazzo del Zaglia a bit longer you will learn that your wishes are of no importance whatsoever. It is what the count wishes that matters." She turned her broad little back to me and started out the door.

Signora Conticelli, packing away her tape measure, looked at me and shrugged, as if to say, "That's the way of the world." As indeed, no doubt it was in this backward country, I thought angrily. As the door closed behind her I resisted the temptation to send the china vase full of fresh- cut flowers hurtling after her in a sudden spasm of frustrated rage.

Chapter Seven

Luc del Zaglia did not dine at home that night. I told myself I was relieved as I partook of a light supper in my room overlooking the malodorous canal. After my nerve- wracking day I was in no case for another session with the demon-count. And there was not a trace of disappointment in me, I assured myself, picking listlessly at my delicious meal. I was merely tired and overwrought.

I had decided to investigate the crumbling Palazzo Edentide after Signora Conticelli left. It was bad enough that I was a prisoner in the mansion, I would also be a prisoner in my room. If I met the count I would have more than a few things to say to him, concerning the high-handed way he arranged my wardrobe, for one thing. I was also more than curious about the very beautiful and very hostile maidservant of this morning. What caused her to be so extraordinarily rude to me? Or, more to the point, what caused her to be so jealous of the count?

The upper hallways were deserted. I went through the rooms with hasty inquisitiveness, finding nothing to interest me in the damp-stained wall hangings, the dusty furniture, the cobwebby curtains. It was obvious that no one had spent much time on the third floor in many long years, and I wondered why it had fallen into such disrepair. Money, or lack of it, I assumed. How had the late contessa felt about her home crumbling down around her ears? I supposed, though, Venetians had to become used to such things.

I was a bit more circumspect on the second floor. I remembered Maddelena's information that the despised English servants inhabited these rooms. I had yet to see these remnants from Luc's mother's rule, except for the very superior butler, and if he was any example I could cheerfully have avoided the others. I stood before a door, hesitating, when it opened and a tall, thin, middle-aged woman with a long, pointed nose appeared.

I must have startled her as much as she had me. She let out a small gasp, jumping back a few steps. I recovered first, recognizing her for the upper servant that she was. I was about to apologize for startling her and introduce myself when some small hidden instinct made me wait for her to speak first.

I had a trifle too long to wait. Her slowness was just bordering on the reluctant, and the look in her milky blue eyes was disturbingly sly. Very interesting, I thought.

"You must be Miss Morrow," she said briskly after a long moment. I nodded, waiting. "I'm Mildred Fenwick."

I smiled with just the right degree of coolness. "Yes?"

She appeared flustered, and I relaxed a bit of my haughty demeanor. "I'm Mr. Thornton's assistant."

"Who, pray, is Mr. Thornton?"

"The butler, Miss. And the majordomo of this godforsaken house. Begging your pardon, miss. You took me by surprise—I'm sorry if I seemed rude. I serve as a sort of combination bookkeeper, seamstress, housekeeper . . . "

"I thought Maddelena was the housekeeper?"

She sniffed, that long thin nose pinching. "That peasant? She would hardly know how to run a gentleman's estate. She is in charge of the Italian servants, I am in charge of the British ones. Not that there are many left. Standards have become so lax."

"How very interesting," I murmured, looking vague. "If you would be so kind, Miss . . ."

"Fenwick," she supplied hastily, suddenly eager to please. "Mildred Fenwick."

"Ah, yes, Miss Fenwick. As I was saying, if you would be so kind, I would greatly appreciate hearing exactly who are the members of this household. I find it all quite bewildering."

She straightened her thin, overdressed body. I noted for the first time the unlikely red shade of her too-tight curls, the small blue bow attached incongruously to one of the side ringlets. Miss Fenwick was obviously not free from vanity.

"My dear lady, if you would honor me for tea, I would be delighted to acquaint you with the workings of Edentide," she practically gushed.

"That would be very kind of you, Miss Fenwick," I acquiesced. "I really am most curious about this strange place. This is the first time I've ever left England, you know."

She responded to this ingenuousness with what I suspected was a false warmth and put one of her clawlike hands on my arm. "You poor child! It's no wonder you're all at sixes and sevens. I wish I'd never left that sceptered isle for this wretched swamp, indeed I do!" As she moved closer I caught the overpowering scent of cheap perfume, and I barely stopped myself from recoiling. "You come with me, my dear, and I'll ring for tea. Thank God we have an Englishwoman in the kitchens. I don't think I'd survive here if it weren't for a decent cup of tea."

The small salon she led me to was scarcely cleaner than the abandoned rooms on the third floor. Mildred Fenwick must have caught my uncontrollable reaction, for she quickly dusted off the table with her delicate lace handkerchief, laughing in a highly affected manner. "The servants are disgraceful," she twittered. "If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times, they must dust and sweep every room twice a week, even the deserted ones on the third floor. Oh, I beg your pardon, you're on the third floor, aren't you?"

I agreed that I was, seating myself gingerly on the frayed silk cushions of an unreliable-looking sofa.

"That was none of my doing," she announced hastily. "I try and try, but in the end, who does that man listen to but his childhood nursemaid? She should have been pensioned off years ago."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Fenwick, but you've lost me."

"Maddelena!" she spat the name. "Nothing more than a filthy, ignorant old peasant. She was the count's nursemaid when he was young, over his dear mother's objections, of course. But in that one area the old count was firm, and poor Contessa del Zaglia couldn't budge him."

"You knew his mother, then?" A healthy curiosity was perfectly acceptable in an English ninny, and I didn't bother to feign disinterest any more than my companion hesitated in divulging the intimate details of the Del Zaglias.

"Knew her! My beloved Constance! Why, it was she who brought me here, may God rest her soul. When she married the count and moved to Venice she swore that she would have nothing but English servants around her. It was enough, she used to say, that she was forced to live in such a barbarous place, but she refused to be surrounded by foreigners all the time. There used to be a full complement of servants in the old days, of course. When my dear Constance was still alive, and when that poor girl who married Count Luc was here. Three gardeners, four housemaids, a cook, two kitchen maids, butler, valet, two footmen, various ladies' maids. Only the laundresses and gondoliers were Italian." She sighed at the unhappy state of things now. "At this poverty-stricken time we have only Mr. Thornton—a most estimable man." I could tell the aging spinster had her milky blue eyes on him. Hence the absurd bow and the too-youthful curls. "He came over as footman and stayed when everyone else left. And Mrs. Wattles is still here, thank the Lord. She's our cook, and heaven only knows she'd be turned out if it weren't that Count del Zaglia detests Italian cooking."

"And the Italian servants?"

"Them!" Mildred Fenwick signaled her contempt with another expressive sniff. "Maddelena, of course. Antonio, the gondolier, who also assists as the count's valet. Several daily maids. And Rosetta."

"Is that the very pretty girl who brought me my coffee this morning?" I questioned innocently.

My companion looked at me for a moment, then opened her mouth like a fish, leaning closer to me and drowning me in her heavy scent. Before she could speak, Rosetta herself appeared, her sandal-shod feet noiseless on the faded and raveled carpet, her carriage far more naturally graceful than I had ever managed.

She set the heavily laden tea tray down in front of Miss Fenwick with a loud thump. Obviously there was no love lost between the two women. Their conversation, therefore, surprised me.

"You are having tea with the little English pig, eh?" Rosetta questioned in her guttural Italian. "What good will that do you?"

"How do you know she doesn't speak Italian?" Mildred questioned sharply, then smiled at me with great innocence. "She's probably not as stupid as she looks, you know."

"Bah, she is an idiot. She won't interfere with either your plans or mine, signorina." She sketched a curtsey and vanished. Both Mildred and I watched her beautifully formed back till it was out of sight, both sighing for what nature had deprived us of.

"You were saying, Miss Fenwick?" I prompted.

"Call me Mildred, my dear," she said absently as she poured me a cup of nice dark tea and then watered it down until it undoubtedly tasted like the canals. "That, of course, was Rosetta. She serves at meals, does a bit of haphazard dusting here and there. That's about all. She's here for very obvious reasons."

"And those are?" I questioned, nibbling at the thickly buttered toast.

She cast a suspicious look in my direction, and patted her too-perfect curls. "I hate to be blunt, my dear, but you'll find out soon enough. Rosetta spends a fair amount of her time in the count's bedroom. Because of that, there's no disciplining her, nor forcing her to do a speck of work more than she cares to. I realize it's disgraceful, but we're among foreigners, Miss Charlotte. They aren't like us."

Amen for that, I thought fervently, disliking this avid little woman more and more the longer I sat with her.

"But enough of such tawdry stuff. I presume you were on a tour of the palazzo when we met. I would be delighted to show you the rest of the place when we've finished this delicious tea." Mildred's mouth was full as she spoke, and the crumbs tumbled down her brown sateen front.

This was the last thing I wanted. I much preferred poking and prying by myself, but I could think of no good excuse to get rid of her, so I gave in with good grace, mentally planning a second tour later. I was bent by many sins, including pride, gullibility, and suspicion. Worst of all was a positively common curiosity that had been the despair of Theresa and led me into worse scrapes than I cared to remember. At this point I had no one to answer to but myself, and for not the first time I decided to indulge myself as soon as I got the chance. In the meantime . . .

"That would be delightful, Miss Fenwick," I said sweetly. "Mildred, then," I amended as she raised one of her talonlike hands. For the first time I noticed the surprisingly beautiful sapphire ring, and I wondered how an émigré servant could own such a fine piece. Her alert eyes caught my expression. Instead of offering an explanation, however, she quickly hid her hand in her lap, away from my prying eyes.

I was not one to take my proper cues, however. "What a lovely ring, Mildred! Is it a family heirloom, or a token from some admirer?"

The look she cast me was one of strong dislike, quickly masked by an innocent simper. "A token of affection, Miss Charlotte. I seldom wear it . . . it's too large for my delicate hands." She made no effort to show me her trophy, however.

"But what a shame! You should have it adjusted. I am persuaded that was a particularly fine sapphire."

"Oh, heavens, no, my dear," she tittered, beads of nervous perspiration breaking out on her lined forehead beneath the frizz of orange bangs. "Merely a very pretty quartz. What would I be doing with sapphires?" She laughed again, nervously. What indeed? I thought grimly. Something very strange is going on at the Palazzo Eden- tide, and it doesn't all stem from the villainous count.

The rest of the tour would have been tiresome were it not for the oppressive yet strangely beguiling ornateness of the palazzo. Centuries of Venetian artistic genius had gone into the making of this dainty, elegant mansion, and centuries of Venetian love of beauty, art, and music had tempered the almost Eastern opulence with a sly charm, rather like a child dressed in its mother's clothes, dignified yet playful. As I wandered through the remainder of the forty rooms of what Mildred stigmatized as a "small dwelling," I found myself responding once more to the enchantment of the Queen of the Adriatic. Were it not for the depressing correctness of my companion, I could have danced down the dust-specked halls, waltzed in the huge abandoned ballroom with the bright Venetian sunlight as my partner and the glorious ceiling (painted by Titian himself, Mildred assured me) smiling down on me. As it was I did neither, merely nodded solemnly at Mildred Fenwick's continuing round of plaintive remarks.

We ended our tour in the bowels of the house, the dark and dank-smelling kitchen. The room was steamy and odorous, a combination of oil, boiled mutton, freshly baked bread, and human sweat. Not terribly appetizing, I thought critically, and then turned to greet the cook with surprise and unfeigned warmth.

Mrs. Wattles was so round, so rosy-cheeked, so good- natured and so very English that I could have thrown my arms around her in sudden delight. Here was something I recognized, a part of England that would never change no matter to what heathenish places it was transplanted. Women like Florence Wattles had been ruling wealthy British kitchens since the time of William the Conqueror and perhaps even before. The very permanence of her sturdy frame and cockney accent set my mind at rest for the first time since I arrived in the strange, enchanted city.

Apparently I had almost the same effect on Mrs. Wattles, for she dabbed at her bespectacled eyes with her spotless apron with great sentimentality. "Eh, and it's a bit of old England like I thought I'd never see again. You're a blessed sight for these old eyes, miss, that you are. Only a pure young English girl could look like you, with that guinea-gold hair and the kind of skin these Eye-talian lovelies would murder for. It'll be a rare pleasure to serve you, miss."

For not the first time I wondered how such insipid looks as mine could command such admiration, but I dutifully smiled and blushed and thanked the dear lady.

"And good English food you'll be having, just like you're used to," she reassured me, shaking her head up and down vigorously so that her chins shook. "Master Luc won't stand for no Eye-talian food. Hates the smell of garlic, he does. Why, I once used just a touch in a pot roast; thought I might spice it up a bit, and do you know what happened?"

I confessed I didn't, and the voluble creature continued, "He walked right out of the house. Rose up from the dinner table, threw down his napkin, and stormed out without a word. And him having twenty guests to dinner at the time, mostly Austrians and Frenchies and the like." She sniffed. "Not that they deserved better treatment. Pack of foreigners. But it's a funny thing, miss. I was sure Maddelena told me to use garlic that day. I must have been mistaken." She sighed gustily, and I caught the faint trace of gin on her breath.

"Yes, you must have been," Mildred cut in coldly, and I could see there was little love lost between the two English ladies. We beat a hasty retreat as Mrs. Wattles invited me to stop in anytime and we could have a comfortable coze, but I was caught up in the sinister implications of the strange little episode that had preyed on the cook's doubtless far from insightful mind. The count had a desperate hatred of garlic, had he? Now why did that ring such an ominous bell in my usually excellent memory?

"You'll have to excuse Mrs. Wattles," Mildred murmured conspiratorially, trying to slip one of her hands through my arm with ingratiating friendliness. With a fair amount of subtlety I evaded her pawing. "She's getting on in years and is prone to fancies. Besides, she drinks."

"Fancies?" I echoed.

"About the garlic. She's been listening to the Italian servants and refined too much on it. I do hope you won't be so gullible."

I stopped still in the middle of the hallway, the dark and gloomy ancestors of the Del Zaglia family staring down at the two English ladies with amused disdain. "What would I have to be gullible about, Miss Fenwick?"

"Mildred," she corrected coyly.

I waved that aside impatiently. "What would I have to fee gullible about?"

"Why, the supposed curse of the Del Zaglias. It's all nonsense, of course. Do you think I'd work here if I believed a word of it?" Nevertheless, the older woman peered over her shoulder with a sudden nervous start.

"I have no idea what you'd do, Mildred. I scarcely know you. What is the curse of the Del Zaglias?" Some deep- seated cowardly part of me didn't really want to know, and for a moment I considered turning my back on her and running all the way up two flights of stairs to my bedroom before she could frighten me further than my too-believing mind had.

She lowered her voice ominously. "It is said that the Del Zaglias are . . . are . . . vampiros."

"Vampiros!" I questioned. My excellent Italian had not encompassed that word, but there could be little question of its English translation.

"Vampires," she whispered. "The living dead."

"That's absurd," I lowered my voice also, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

"Of course it is," she proclaimed stoutly, her slightly protruding eyes darting nervously around in her head. "But still, there are disconcerting coincidences. No one ever sees the count when the sun is up. He never seems to eat anything, never attends church. And he hates garlic. You will also notice there are no mirrors in the house, except for your room."

I pulled myself together. "That's awfully little to condemn a man on," I snapped. "You should be ashamed of yourself, spreading such rumors."

"You would have heard them sooner or later," she sniffed indignantly. "Better you heard it from someone who was on the count's side, and not one of his far-too- numerous enemies." She moved closer to me, and her scent was overpowering. "But I swear to you, miss, half of Venice believes it of him. They are all terrified. And sometimes when I see him, looking so much like a . . . a prince of darkness, I can't help but wonder . . ."

This was too much, even for me. Grimly I fought the thrill of horror that ran along my backbone. "You are a foolish, gossiping woman, Miss Fenwick," I said sharply. "You should be defending your employer, not spreading lies. I have a good mind to mention this to the count." I would do no such thing, but I was horrified by her reaction.

Mildred Fenwick screamed, a shrill, terrified shriek, and clutched at my resisting hand, babbling in her terror, "Oh, please, miss, don't. You wouldn't be so cruel, miss, you wouldn't! He'd kill me as soon as look at me, I know he would. Please, miss. And I'll return the ring, I promise."

It took surprising strength to pry loose her clinging hands. "Calm yourself, Mildred. I promise I won't mention it. But I trust you won't be so foolish as to mention this ever again. It's both absurd and wicked."

"Oh, yes, miss. Thank you, miss. May God bless you, miss, for your kindness!" The poor woman must be a little mad, I thought with both distaste and pity.

I turned away and left her, making my way directly back toward the dubious haven of my own room, unable to rid my mind of the sight of Mildred Fenwick staring after me, a haggard expression on her pinched face, a look of fear and . . . was it pity? . . . in her faded blue eyes. Just as I couldn't wipe from my mind the hideous image of Luci- fero, so like the fallen angel, bending over some poor young thing and draining her of her life's blood. It wasn't my fault if in that image he seemed more like a lover than a murderer.

And I remembered Jean-Baptiste Perrier's ghoul of Venice, and I couldn't help but recall the cold, amused expression on the count's face as he listened to the atrocities. In an upsurge of unreasoning terror, I picked up my skirts and ran the rest of the way to the third floor, locking the heavy door firmly behind me.

Chapter Eight

I slept fitfully that night, not to my great surprise. I ate the large, garlicless meal sent up to me by Mrs. Wattles more out of duty than pleasure, ignored the bitter red wine after a tentative sip, and roamed the confines of my room, pacing back and forth while I tried to reason with that base, superstitious, cowardly part of myself that usually remained blissfully hidden. For there was no denying that a good part of me was completely and totally terrified, believing in Mildred Fenwick's demon of the night and all the horrors accompanying it. Now I understood the looks, the terror, the horror on so many previously friendly faces when I spoke my guardian's name.

But that's absurd, I informed myself with a stern good sense that would have pleased cold and practical Theresa. The poor man can't help being desperately romantic- looking, rather like that previous intermittent Venetian, Lord Byron. It was his dark and brooding beauty that gave rise to these foul rumours, coupled with his unfortunately cynical manner. But any number of coincidences do not a fiend from hell make. Pleased with my oratory, I retired to a fitful and dream-tossed sleep. To my horror and displeasure, my dreams were of Count Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia, but they did not present him in the guise of a murderer. Instead he kept intruding into my somnolence in the most disturbingly romantic fashion, those cynical topaz eyes meeting mine with promises better left unspoken while his elegant white hands stroked me in ways no man had ever attempted. The bloodstone ring gleamed against my pale skin. When I awoke I was hot all over, despite the chill damp of the room, and my hands trembled. Moonlight was streaming in my balcony, calling to me. Nobly I tried to ignore it, shutting my eyes against its silver beams. But the excess of sleep I had enjoyed in the past few days had finally taken its toll, and the night was far from still. Male voices seemed to echo through the ancient walls of Edentide, and I wondered whether our neighbors were having a party.

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 was 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.

In silent wonder I watched the last dying rays touch the city with fairy light. In two short days, housebound days at that, I was being beguiled by this absurd, waterlogged place, and I could feel a treacherous little clutching at my heart as the sun dipped below the horizon.

A deep sigh escaped me, almost as if I watched my life slip below the surface with it.

"Why so sad, Carlotta?" Luc's voice came quietly across the room, making me start a bit out of my chair in fright.

"You scared me to death!" I said reproachfully after I had managed to catch my breath. My heart was still fluttering strangely beneath the low-cut bodice of the new dress as I turned and faced my guardian, keenly aware of those hooded amber eyes taking in every detail of my appearance with a disturbing mixture of amusement and fascination.

He looked no different than before, despite the horrid rumors surrounding him and the brief stirrings of infatuation that had taken me by surprise last night. Indeed, as I took in his slim, elegant, black-clad length, the pale face with the black hair curling around it, the odd mixture of the sensual and the spiritual playing over his arresting countenance, I could see how people could believe such absurdities as Mildred whispered. In the early dusk I half believed them myself.

"Not quite to death," he corrected gently, moving into the room with a sort of graceful glide. "You must strengthen your nerves if you are to survive in this damp place. Otherwise you will be seeing ghosts in every corner." He moved to the window and looked out over the still canals, then turned back to me. "Who knows, you could turn into a completely nerve-ridden mental incompetent and I would be forced to have you committed to an asylum. Leaving me with your healthy fortune." And he smiled, that beguiling smile that made his lightly spoken words all the more chilling.

Lucifero laughed then, a hearty, amused laugh with none of the mockery that had marred it previously. "I wish you could see your face, my dear ward. It is so expressive!" He left the window and moved closer to me, so close that I could feel my breath constricting in my chest, almost as if my stays were too tight, and I was not blissfully, sensuously free of the armor. He looked down at me from his great height, and there was an expression of tenderness in those hypnotizing eyes. "You must learn, mia Carlotta, not to believe everything I tell you."

I stared up at him in mute silence, unable to say a word. He had hit the nail squarely on the head. I believed every word he said, and I had the unfortunate suspicion that I would continue to do so.

Hastily I cleared my throat, hoping to break the spell he cast over me with such little effort. "I will try not to," I said gamely. "But I am very gullible."

He laughed again, and released me from the hypnotizing gaze. "I know, little one. I know." He moved away, and I let out a silent breath of relief. "It amazes me that one with your intelligence could be so."

The stillness then was awkward, to say the least. I watched him with sudden suspicion. "Intelligence?" I echoed in my lightest voice. "No one has ever accused me of that before." I batted my eyelashes in what I hoped was a dim-wittedly entrancing manner.

Luc was unimpressed. "Liar," he said softly. "But it is of no importance. For the time being you may keep your secrets, and I will keep mine." He took my arm in the lightest, politest of gestures, and it was all I could do to keep from pulling away from his scorching touch, it unnerved me so. That sardonic little smile pulled at the corners of his mouth once more. "If you have no objections, my dear, a visitor awaits you in the east parlor. A very correct young Austrian soldier, I believe."

"Holger?" I demanded, delight sweeping over me. Here was rescue from my more wicked side.

"I have no idea." The boredom in his voice was belied by the quickening of interest beneath his drooping lids. "We shall soon find out."

An uncomfortable thought struck me. "You'll let me see him alone, of course?"

"Of course not," he corrected gently. "Since I have decided to dispense with a duenna there is nothing for it but that I must serve in her place. Young ladies of good breeding do not hold conversations with young gentlemen un- chaperoned."

"But I do with you!" I protested, and then wished I had kept my very large mouth shut for once. The smile on his face, instead of chilling me, warmed me in a most uncomfortable manner, so that I entered the room where Holger stalked around with a deep blush staining my cheeks. Fortunately Holger, like most men, assumed my blushes were caused by shyness at meeting him once more, and he puffed up like a pouter pigeon as he bowed low over my hand, all the while unable to keep himself from stealing worried little glances at the tall, saturnine presence of my silent guardian.

I had wanted to throw myself onto Holger's manly bosom, so relieved was I at his return, but Luc had successfully put a damper on my high spirits, and I greeted my noble swain with a speaking look from my large blue eyes and a firm pressure from my hands. Holger didn't seem to notice.

"I am delighted to meet you, Count," he greeted Luc with great seriousness, pumping his hand energetically for all the world as if he hadn't called the man a spawn of the Devil a few short days ago. "Your friendship for the Austrian Empire has been an excellent example for your not-so-amiable countrymen. I wish there were more like you."

I couldn't help letting out a little choked gasp at this, and quickly tried to turn it into a cough. One Luc del Zaglia was all the terrified town of Venice could stand.

Luc hadn't missed my reaction. Indeed, nothing seemed to escape those seemingly somnolent eyes. He smiled at Holger with great charm. "I thank you for your kind words, Captain. I am always happy to be of assistance to the glorious Austrian Empire and their representatives in our little city." The sarcasm was so obvious I wondered how Holger could miss it. But Holger, I was fast learning, was one to see only what he wanted to see, so he nodded in an odiously pompous manner and took my suddenly residing arm in his. "If you will excuse us, Count. Charlotte and I have much to discuss."

He started to lead me into an adjoining room, but Luc moved smoothly in front of us, detaching me from the Austrian with so light a touch I scarcely would have noticed if I hadn't been so overly aware of everything about my guardian.

"Miss Morrow," the emphasis was light but unmistakable, "would love to talk alone with you but unfortunately it cannot be." He shrugged, and the gesture was almost a parody of an Italian stage character's. "Society has certain rules, and we, alas, must follow them."

Holger looked affronted, taken in by Luc's absurd playacting. "I've never heard that Luc del Zaglia was one to abide by the rules of society," he said sharply.

The demon-count smiled slightly. "Ah, but that is for myself, Captain. When it comes to my innocent young ward, the rules are quite different. I am sure I can trust you to obey them." With that he led me to one of the more uncomfortable sofas in the room and with gentle force seated me beside him. I could feel the heat emanating from his body, and it so disturbed me I barely heard a word of the long, tedious conversation I held with Holger. Since I had found out previously that the Austrian did not seem to be overloaded with intelligence it required only half my brain to keep up with him; the other half was busy trying to figure out how to move farther from Luc, how to appear unflustered when his nearness was making my pulses race, my heart beat far too quickly and the breath constrict in my lungs. Never before had I had such a reaction to a man and the thought of such strange and unaccustomed weakness on my part bothered me almost as much as the symptoms themselves. Try as I would to forget, my mind kept returning to last night in the moonlit garden, and his careless, affectionate caress that had overset me so.

I cast a surreptitious glance at his profile, the hooded eyes, delicate nose and high cheekbones, the expression arranged in an attitude of courteous attention to Holger's boring monologue. Could it be possible that he really was a creature of darkness, and the absurd and undignified things I was feeling were the results of a . . . a spell?

The idea seemed laughable, but I didn't want to laugh, Love was a comfortable emotion, what I could learn to feel for Holger, for Jean-Baptiste, perhaps. Warmth, affection, a yearning to take care of the silly creature. I could never love anyone that left me so bewildered. This quickening of my pulses and heat in my stomach could have nothing to do with those warm feelings that Theresa had reluctantly allowed existed between men and women. It must be the climate, I told myself. I was unused to the long, slow, warm days and the damp, chilly nights. I was also unused to such strange and overpowering creatures as my guardian. As soon as I got to know him better he would lose his appeal, his awe-inspiring qualities. He would be just another man, no wiser, no handsomer, no more enticing than any other. Once I understood exactly what he was, everything would be fine. I only wondered whether I would ever be able to do so.

Holger said only two things during his hour-long visit that were able to distract me from my worried thoughts of Luc. The first was his mention of the murders.

"Another one gone a few nights ago, I hear," Holger said, with an uncomfortably sharp glance at my impassive guardian. "We're having the devil of a time catching up with this insane monster, but never fear, we will!"

"You think the man's insane, then?" I questioned abruptly.

Holger frowned at my daring to question his judgment. "Obviously," he replied shortly. "Only a madman would drain innocent young girls of their blood. All this talk of a vampire is so much nonsense. Simply some poor fool gone over the brink. We'll catch him soon enough."

"Let us hope so, Captain," Luc said gently, a smile hovering around his lips.

"In the meantime, Charlotte must not venture out unless she is accompanied by me," Holger announced with the air of an occupying army. As indeed, he was, I thought uncomfortably. "I will pick her up tomorrow in the afternoon and take her on a small bit of sightseeing."

"I beg your pardon," Luc corrected with great charm, "but Miss Morrow will tour Venice with her guardian and anyone else I choose to deputize. As for tomorrow, I'm afraid a rival has been before you, Captain. She is already bespoken."

He flushed an unbecoming red. "You allow her out with just anybody? Have her cancel the appointment!"

"I do not think Monsieur Perrier would appreciate that," Luc murmured. "Perhaps the next day, if she is not too tired."

"She is going with Jean-Baptiste Perrier?" At Luc's nod Holger let out an angry snort. "That little idiot! He cares more about his clothes than his country! I would think you would find her more of a man, Count." Obviously he thought himself the perfect candidate. Luc was not impressed.

"My dear Captain," he protested, "how was I to know of your existence when this previous appointment was made? My so-dutiful ward had failed to mention your obviously lengthy acquaintance, and she neglected to tell me entirely that you planned to call on us. So naughty!" He chucked me under the chin with one long finger, and I glared back into his impassive eyes. He was not pleased with me for omitting to mention Holger, and I tried not to let that unnerve me.

"I had always heard that you were a friend to Austria, Count." Holger was still sulking. Luc had obviously had enough of my admittedly boorish suitor, and he rose with languid grace, holding out one slim hand in obvious dismissal.

"I am a friend to Austria," he said gently, "and to France. Indeed, I am a friend to all, unlike some of my hot-blooded compatriots down at the Caffe Mondelo. Revolutions are so tiring."

"You would not find them so if you were trying to control them," Holger snapped, shaking the count's hand with obvious distaste, then bowing low over mine and slobbering all over me. "The day after tomorrow, Charlotte," he announced, more a threat than an invitation. "No excuses."

I smiled sweetly. "I would be delighted, dear Captain. Till Saturday then."

A curious silence reigned over the room when the captain had departed, shown out by the very correct Thornton. I had the feeling Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia was not pleased with me. It was to my great surprise that I watched him look from the ancient bloodstone ring he was contemplating and smile at me with his full charm.

"And where did you meet your stalwart young suitor?" he questioned idly, with an idleness I knew was false. "I had no idea you were so well acquainted with members of the occupying army."

"Do you disapprove of the Austrians?" I countered sweetly.

"I disapprove of no one and nothing," he returned lazily. "I do not make judgments. You didn't answer my question."

"I met Holger on the coach. I'm sorry if I didn't think to mention him, but I doubted I'd ever see him again." I hated to apologize but in this instance I felt Ms well- concealed annoyance might be justified.

"You underestimate your charms, my dear. Why shouldn't he follow up your no doubt delightful relationship?"

I hesitated, but only for a moment. I was being baited, a thing I disliked above all else, and Luc was a master at it. "Because the moment I mentioned my guardian's name all my fellow travelers turned pale and crossed themselves in horror. My sturdy swain was visibly shaken at the thought of you. However, he seems to have recovered in short order."

He seemed completely unmoved by my recitation. A gentle smile played about his thin, well-shaped lips. "How very interesting, to be sure. And where did Von Wolfram join the coach?"

"Just north of the border. Why do you ask?"

"Mere curiosity, little one. How extremely coincidental that Holger von Wolfram should pick your coach of the many that pass through on their way to Venice. I would advise you, my dear, to be wary of the good captain. He is not entirely the fool he appears." He rose and sketched a negligent bow in my direction. "And now, my dear Charlotte, I am desolated to inform you that I must leave you once more this evening. I'm sure Mrs. Wattles will provide you with an excellent repast."

"But . . . where are you going?" I had the temerity to ask, momentarily bewildered. I had certainly displeased him greatly—"Charlotte" was so cold and unfriendly compared to the warmth of "mia Carlotta."

He smiled that charming smile once more. "Why, to visit my mistress," he replied sweetly. "And to gamble away your fortune. Buona notte, little one." And he was gone, leaving me with a curiously bereft feeling I told myself was relief.

Chapter Ten

My tour of Venice the next day was the first relatively normal time I spent since I first arrived. Jean- Baptiste Perrier, nattily attired in a coat of bottle-green linen, fawn-colored trousers, and gleaming boots, was all attention and subtle flattery, treating me with the combination of deference and incipient attraction that I had come to expect from the men I had met. Only Luc seemed immune to my charms. This was no doubt a much needed blow to my disgusting complacency, but the thought made me frown.

"But why do you look so fierce, ma petiteT' Jean- Baptiste murmured solicitously as we skimmed the dark green waters of the Grand Canal in an exceedingly elegant black gondola, past the pink and gold fairy palaces that leaned this way and that in the spring sunshine. I admired them with impartial approval, but secretly I saw nothing to touch the decadent, eroded, brave beauty of Edentide. "You aren't a victim of . . . of seasickness, are you?" The idea creased his handsome brow, no doubt from the worry that I might disgrace myself and soil his too-elegant clothes.

"No, I'm a born sailor," I replied, smiling at him with my best smile. Hoping to obtain some information from him, I threw caution to the winds. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking about my guardian."

My companion had been leaning closer than I would have deemed proper, but at this he leaned back, an unreadable expression on his attractive face. "Indeed?" His voice was not encouraging.

There was nothing like coming to the point, I decided. "How long have you known him, Monsieur Perrier? What is he really like? To tell you the truth, the man terrifies me.

He permitted himself a smile at that, showing a set of small, perfect teeth. "I'm sure that is just what dear Luc has in mind. He loves to frighten people. It's only a game with him, Mademoiselle Morrow. You mustn't take him seriously. Underneath his rather frightening exterior Luc del Zaglia is just another aristo, with too much money and too much time and too little to occupy himself. So he spends his time frightening ignorant peasants and silly little girls." He shrugged, letting out an indulgent little laugh that grated annoyingly on my nerves.

"As for what he really is like," he continued smoothly, "who knows? Without a doubt he is frighteningly intelligent. I have never seen him do a kind deed or say a good word about anyone. His sexual and financial appetites are reportedly rapacious, his sense of honor perhaps strong enough when he cares to exert it. The games he plays are silly, Mademoiselle Morrow, but underneath it all I think Luc del Zaglia might be a very dangerous man. I would advise you to be careful."

"It isn't really up to me, is it?" I replied, somewhat nettled. "He is my guardian, completely in control of me and my fortune. He could do anything he pleased."

"You need have no fear for your fortune, Mademoiselle Charlotte," he soothed, his brown eyes nonetheless perking up at the mention of money. "Luc has no need of it. He's unbelievably rich. Perhaps the richest man in Venice."

"But he gambles all the time! He said he has lost his fortune," I protested.

"Luc does indeed gamble all the time. And he always wins. That is part of the cause of his satanic reputation. Half the people he plays with believe he can't lose, because he's made a pact with the Devil. Personally, I disagree."

"Do you play with him?"

"Of course. And I lose. But one day I won't." There was a note of steel beneath his light tone, a note that made me suddenly very uncomfortable, rather like looking into a still pool of water and seeing a dead toad floating on the clear blue surface. I was to remember those words long afterward, when it was almost too late.

Sensing my unease, Jean-Baptiste smiled at me with a charm that couldn't begin to come close to the hypnotizing enchantment of the demon-count's smile. "As for your fears, cher mademoiselle, you must banish them. Luc is my friend, but I have no intention of letting him hurt such an enchanting little flower such as you."

I didn't know how to reply to this, so I contented myself with a small, tentative smile. It was the proper gesture, for Jean-Baptiste secured my willing hand in his strong, well- manicured one and held it tightly for the rest of the trip. And try as I would to derive some small bit of comfort from the touch of his warm flesh, my heart remained stubbornly disturbed.

I was on my way up to my bedroom when a door on the second floor opened and Rosetta stepped out. I stopped to stare at her in amazement, my stupidly innocent mind uncomprehending why she should be so disarrayed. Her long black hair was loose and tangled around her sensuous face, her eyes were dreamy, her cheeks flushed. Her white peasant blouse was still undone, showing an indecent amount of her full, milky breasts, and she was barefoot. Her eyes met mine, and her full red lips curved in an insolent smirk.

"What . . . what were you doing in there?" I stammered, caught off guard. The smirk broadened.

"Those are the count's rooms," she replied.

A hot flush mounted my pale skin and I cursed myself for being such a naive fool. "Oh," was about all I managed before taking to my heels and practically running the rest of the way up to the third floor and the sanctity of my bedroom. I was consumed with an overwhelming, burning rage that I told myself was disgust for my guardian's libertine propensities. The fact that it was Rosetta's eyes I wanted to scratch out and not Luc's made no difference to my rationalizations. But I couldn't control my imagination, couldn't keep myself from seeing those slender, white hands reach out and fondle Rosetta's olive skin. I slammed the door behind me as loudly as I dared and sank into an overstuffed slipper chair, staring disconsolately out the window.

If I would only face the truth, I would have to admit that Luc del Zaglia fascinated me for the very things that would have revolted most properly bred young ladies. His flagrant sex life should have horrified me. Instead I was filled with a burning rage that I couldn't avoid recognizing. And for a brief, cowardly moment I wished I was back in England, not so terribly beyond my depth in the mysterious and ancient city of Venice.

Dinner was served in my room again. Rosetta, now properly attired and shod, served it, her magnificent brown eyes chastely lowered and her nasty Italian tongue miraculously silent.

For my part I ignored her as best I could, sampling the plain baked chicken and polenta without much appetite. I remembered Luc's words about the wine and sniffed it tentatively. It smelled bitter, and I put it away from me, feeling restless and irritable. "I presume the count has gone out?" I finally broke down and questioned my unwilling maidservant.

She nodded, obviously not eager to give me any more information than she had to. All right, my girl, I thought, pushing away the tray and rising. If Luc was safely out of the palazzo till near daybreak I would be damned if I would stay cooped up in my elegant prison. Reaching into my already well-stocked wardrobe I pulled out a warm wool shawl. In another moment I was out of the room and down the stairs, leaving a suddenly terrified and incoherent Rosetta babbling after me.

The formidable Thornton was lurking about the hallways as I reached the front door. I should have known he would be on duty only when I wished the cursed fellow elsewhere. He stared down his long, thin nose at me with rampant disapproval.

"Where, may I ask, miss, are you going? It is not at all proper for a young lady to venture out unchaperoned after dark."

I smiled sweetly at him, but there was no softening in his pale, granitelike face, and I wondered how he could, arouse such tender feelings in Mildred Fenwick's skinny breast. "I am going for a short walk, Mr. Thornton. I will be back directly." I started forward again, but his smooth voice brought me up short.

"May I suggest, miss, that you take Miss Fenwick along with you? Or at the very least Rosetta?"

If he thought Rosetta would be protection along the narrow alleyways that passed for streets in Venice he was sadly optimistic. She would more likely stab me in the back and dump me into the canals. For some odd reason she considered me a rival. I could only wish I were.

"No, thank you," I replied politely, waiting for him to open the door for me. "I will be fine by myself."

The man was obviously torn. His dislike of me was warring with his sense of propriety, not unmixed with a probably healthy fear of his employer. "The count won't like it," he warned, verifying my suspicions.

Since he couldn't make up his mind I pulled open the massive front door myself, surprised at the silence and ease with which it opened. "Blast the count," I observed sweetly, and swept out into the murky Venetian twilight.

The freedom was delightful, a physical aura that made me feel like skipping down the cobbled alleyways in my morocco slippers. The streets were practically deserted, and a light mist was falling, accompanied by a deep fog that made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of me. But I was too determined to wrest my bit of freedom from a tyrannical fate, and I firmly made my way toward what I hoped was the small square, or campo, that I had seen from one of the drawing-room windows. A short stroll around it and then back to the palazzo. No harm would have been done, and I would feel like a different person. I needed to feel that I could . ? .

"Bon soir, mademoiselle," a husky voice spoke in my ear, and a burly arm went around my throat before I could cry out. "It is such a pleasure to see you, mademoiselle, after these many days. I have been waiting, watching the Palazzo del Zaglia. I knew you would venture out alone sooner or later, and I was right. And now, if you'll be to good as to come with me."

I had no choice. I was being dragged through the fog- shrouded streets, a hand clapped over my mouth so that I could not scream, that arm still around my throat, choking me. I drummed my heels against the cobblestones, kicking at my enemy, but he seemed possessed of a superhuman strength. It is hopeless, I thought. The ghoul of Venice has gotten me, and in the dense fog no one could see us, no one could help.

"How unfortunate that Del Zaglia did not see fit to place a better guard upon you," the man chuckled in my ear. "If he weren't so high-and-mighty, he would know that I am not a man to be crossed lightly. I saw you first, and I intend to have you. It was promised. Once we're back in my room it'll be too late, eh? And then what good will it do for him to rant and rave?"

I stiffened with recognition. I had heard that voice before, had felt those cruel, punishing hands on me. It was the lecherous Frenchman from the embassy. Georges, Luc had called him. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a particularly vicious yank slammed me against a stucco wall, dazing me. When my head cleared we were in a dark, foul-smelling stairway, with Georges dragging me up the steps regardless of my straggles. As I banged against the risers I gathered my breath to scream loudly.

"Go ahead and scream," he offered jovially, having divined my intention. "Anyone who can hear you will pay no attention. I have had other women here in my rooms. Other women have screamed." He laughed, a low, incredibly evil laugh, as he reached the landing and kicked open the door. Flinging my aching, frightened body into the pitch-black room, he turned from me and locked the door. I lay there in a trembling huddle, wondering what in the world I could do.

"Del Zaglia will kill you," I said bravely, struggling to rise from my ignominious position on the floor with an attempt at dignity. "He is not a man to be trifled with."

"He will not dare make a scene," Georges scoffed, lighting one of the lamps and illuminating a filthy, cluttered room that stank of sour wine, garbage, and unwashed clothing. He was very drunk, but that didn't mitigate the danger. He was obviously the sort that too much wine makes a little mad, and there was no reasoning with a madman.

He swayed back and forth, staring at me out of feverish, swollen eyes. "Del Zaglia would not lower his aristocratic self to brawling over a woman of ill repute."

"I am not a woman of ill repute," I said hotly. "I am his ward."

"Is that what he calls you?" Georges snorted. "It makes no difference to me. Take off your clothes."

"Go to hell," I snarled, rising to my feet and edging back to the door. "Do you think Del Zaglia's pride would allow him to let you take his possession? He'll rip you into pieces."

"I doubt it," Georges spat meditatively. "But you just might be worth it." And then he lunged.

Chapter Eleven

If Georges had been expecting a frail little English flower he was doomed to disappointment. A proper maiden would have stood there and screamed, calling on the Lord and other sundry intangibles to deliver her. Being more practical, I made a last minute dart out of the way, so that his heavy body hit my shoulder, knocking me against the wall instead of onto the tumbled bed. A moment later he was on me, mouth slobbering at my shoulder as he ripped away my dress. I lay there passively for a moment, just long enough to lull his suspicions, then brought my knee up sharply into his groin.

His scream brought me a great deal of satisfaction, as did his rolling over in pain, clutching himself and groaning. "I'll kill you," he panted, struggling to rise.

"I think not," I answered pleasantly, bashing him on the head with the first thing at hand, which happened to be a full bottle of wine. The bottle broke, splashing my tormentor with the red stuff that mixed with the frightening amount of blood as he collapsed in a stupor on the littered floor of his room. I stood over him, panting, ready to do battle with the broken shards if need be. But the fight had gone from Georges.

I prodded him tentatively with a foot, wondering if I had killed him. The thought didn't move me particularly, but I must confess to some relief when he moaned. Dropping the rest of the bottle on him, I quickly found my shawl, wrapped it around the remains of my dress, and ran from the room out into the streets of Venice.

The mist had risen, making the streets once more visible. Much good it did me. In that headlong flight I had had no chance to see where Georges was dragging me, and having never been out of the palazzo except by gondola, I knew this area of Venice not at all. I remembered that it hadn't taken long for Georges to reach his filthy little room. Indeed, I probably hadn't been gone from Edentide for more than an hour. Huddling deeper into my shawl, I struck out in what I hoped was the direction of the palazzo, keeping a weather eye out for a resurrection of Georges.

It was well over an hour later that I finally found the narrow little campo that stood a few short steps away from the Del Zaglia mansion. From the street side Edentide bore no resemblance to the palazzo I knew, and I passed it twice in the twilight before I recognized it. In my desperate search I had had to fend off the helpful suggestions of half a dozen men; three Austrian soldiers, two Venetians and a French merchant. Even now I could feel masculine eyes appraising me from a distance, and, lifting my sodden skirts, I ran the rest of the way down the alley, nearly slipping on the damp, slime-covered steps as I collapsed against what I hoped to God was the right door, sobbing with fright and exhaustion as I pounded helplessly against the unwelcoming portal.

A moment later I was inside, the warmth and light momentarily blinding me. I looked up to thank the unyielding Thornton, and instead met the compelling golden stare of my demon-count, who towered above me.

"Out for a stroll, my dear Charlotte?" he murmured icily, those extraordinary eyes narrowed in fury at my disobedience.

I stared up at him, feeling the color drain from my face. All my superstitions came to the fore. "I . . . I . . ." I stammered helplessly, and then compounded matters by dropping to the marble floor in a dead faint.

I couldn't have lost consciousness for long. The next thing I knew I was being carried through the dark, damp halls of the palazzo in a strong pair of arms. I could feel the slow thump, thump of his heartbeat beneath my head and I remembered feeling a small, silly surge of relief. Surely a real vampire couldn't have anything as mundane as a beating heart.

He kicked open the door to the west parlor. A blazing fire welcomed me, and I thought it time to bestir myself. I squirmed, but the iron bands around me only tightened. Moving across the room with effortless grace, he deposited me on the comfortable settee.

I considered continuing my providential faint, but my curiosity got the better of me. I opened my eyes and stared up at the imposing figure of my guardian.

The expression in his golden eyes was unreadable, but the set of his mobile mouth was not. Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia was in an absolute fury, and I shrank back among the cushions.

"Thank goodness you've found her!" Mildred Fenwick fluttered from the doorway, wringing those thin, clawlike hands that were now free of jewelry. "I was afraid something terrible had happened."

Luc didn't bother to raise his eyes from me. "I rather think something terrible did happen. Bring some warm water and bandages." A slender, pale hand reached out and gently pulled the shawl away from me, exposing my ripped gown, the bruises and bite marks on my shoulder.

"Oh, my goodness!" wailed Mildred, starting into the room.

"At once!" he ordered, not bothering to look away from me. Without another sound she vanished, leaving him to touch my aching cheek gently, bringing his hand away stained with blood. He stared at it meditatively, and I wondered whether it whetted his appetite.

As if he could read my absurd thoughts, his eyes met mine and he smiled, that gentle little smile that so unnerved me. "I was about to scold you quite severely for leaving the house unescorted, but I do think you have learned your lesson, poveretta." He reached out once more and smoothed the tangle of blond curls away from my face. "Haven't you?"

I was caught like a rat in a trap. "Yes," I whispered, aching for him to continue touching me, continue soothing away the terror and upset of the last few hours. A moment later Mildred was back, followed closely by Maddelena.

"What has happened?" the latter demanded in Italian, eyeing me with surprising concern.

"I have yet to find out, Maddelena," he answered. In English he said, "I will take care of my ward alone, thank you, ladies. If you could see that a bath is brought to her room, and a fire laid, I'm sure she'd be very grateful. Wouldn't you, my dear?" Still caught by his inexorable will, I nodded, watching them leave me in his clutches with a wave of desperation. I didn't know if I could bear to have those slim, sensual hands ministering to me. Luc del Zaglia knew far too much about arousing women. I fancied he knew very well that his touch on my face was exciting rather than soothing me, and was doing it deliberately.

He dipped a cloth in the warm water, touching it to my face with a gentle hand. "And now, mia Carlotta, you will tell me who did this to you, and what exactly happened."

I hesitated, sensing beneath his tender care of me a deep, killing fury that I was terrified of arousing. But I knew he would have the truth from me sooner or later, and it would go easier with me if I told him what he wanted to know. "The man from the French embassy," I said after a long moment. "Georges. I don't even know his last name."

"Martin." He gave it the French pronunciation. "Not that it matters. He won't have it for long." And I knew from that soft voice that I had signed his death warrant. "Continue."

In as few words as possible I told him of Georges's abduction in the campo, the long haul to his rooms, the fight therein. A small laugh escaped him as I recounted the efficacy of my knee, all the while he was carefully washing away traces of blood from my face and neck, his hands seeming to caress my skin, the bloodstone ring shining in the candlelight, hypnotizing me.

"And then I hit him over the head with the wine bottle and escaped." I finished, my breath suddenly constricted as he pulled the torn gown away from my shoulder, exposing even more of my breasts than the indecent gown had. Luc, however, seemed unmoved, and I supposed he had seen a great many women in far less clothing than I was wearing.

"How very resourceful of you, little one," he murmured. "Did you kill him?"

"I don't think so," I confessed. "There seemed to be a great deal of blood. I rolled him over to see if he was dead, but he groaned a bit. So I left him there."

"How unfortunate. It would have saved me a bit of trouble. I shall have to kill him myself, then." This was said so casually that I barely took in the meaning.

I sat up quickly, holding my tattered dress against me. "Must you?" I questioned. "A severe beating would do just as well, wouldn't it?"

"Such a violent child. No, a severe beating would not be at all the thing. It would only enrage the man further, so that he would be obliged to try to kill either you and/or me at the first chance. Besides, I shall enjoy killing him. Your tender heart does you credit, mia Carlotta, but I'm afraid I can't allow myself to be swayed."

"He doesn't need to die!" I insisted, chilled. "He . . . he didn't rape me, he only tried. Surely you could show a little mercy?"

"Do you think he would have shown you any mercy?" he questioned coldly, throwing the cloth back into the water with a splash. "And are you certain you knocked him unconscious before and not after the fact? English girls are notoriously innocent; perhaps you didn't realize what he was doing, eh?"

A deep flush flooded my face. "I am not quite a fool. I would know if I had been . . . had been . . ." the words failed me and Luc's lip curled in silent amusement. He was so damnably close to me that I couldn't think straight, couldn't talk straight.

"Perhaps," he said, running his hand along my neck, the skin burning mine, "I should find out. Just to set our minds at rest." His head bent down toward mine, and I shut my eyes, waiting for the feel of his mouth on mine.

It never came. A moment later I felt him move away in a sudden rush. I opened my eyes to see him standing by the balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, his back to me, while Mildred Fenwick, unaware of the devastating scene she had interrupted, fluttered around me with wringing hands and chirping noises.

"A bath is all ready for you, my poor child. And then into bed you go! I'm sure this has all been too alarming. But that's what comes of living in a city full of heathenish foreigners." She colored, casting an apologetic glance at Luc's rigid back. "Begging your pardon, Count."

He ignored her, turning back to me with a bland expression on his pale, handsome face. "I'm going out. I trust you have learned the folly of disobeying my orders, Charlotte. You are lucky you didn't suffer any more serious consequences. See that she gets straight into bed, Miss Fenwick. And make sure she drinks her wine," he added sharply, striding from the room before I could get out a single word of the many things that I wanted to say to him. I stared at my innocent helper with sudden dislike, but she was far too busy clucking over me to notice. In an hour I was bathed, dressed in a warm flannel nightgown, and tucked safely into my large, comfortable bed. Stoutly refusing the soporific wine, I lay awake for long, restless hours, turning among the suddenly constricting sheets, fighting against the smothering pillows, listening for the sound of Luc's return. He would have to return by sunrise, I thought sleepily, determined to stay awake that long. When I heard him come in I would tiptoe downstairs and confront him. Beg him once more to spare Georges's life. And perhaps have him finish what he started in the west salon of this crumbling palazzo.

Chapter Twelve

It was well past noon when I awoke the next day. The sun was directly overhead, reflecting off the canal and shining with translucent green light into my bedroom. I lay unmoving in the bed, waking very slowly, aware of my stiff, aching body, that same dry taste in my mouth, and a profound sense of unease. And then I remembered last night.

A tray rested beside my bed, a cup of cooling chocolate beside the now empty glass of wine tempting me to arise. Slowly I sat up, sipping at the rich sweet stuff as I tried to remember when I had succumbed and swallowed the bitter- tasting wine. It was all a hopeless blank to me, and I turned my cloudy brain instead to the problem of how to save Georges.

Without a doubt I detested the creature with his cruelty and brutish, animal lusts, but I certainly did not want to see him dead on my account. Beaten, humiliated, yes, but not dead, and certainly not at Luc's hands.

And then the memory of Luc's hands made me grow hot all over, and I could only be grateful that the madness of last night seemed to vanish in the golden light of the sun. Would I have really gone down and confronted him last night upon his return? It would have been tantamount to throwing myself into his arms. I shook my head with disgust at my own weakness. If I was not more careful I would end up being seduced and abandoned by an unprincipled and no doubt degenerate rake. I would do far better to concentrate on the heavy but intermittent attention of Holger, or the flattering regard of Jean-Baptiste. Luc del Zaglia, as the Frenchman had pointed out, was a very dangerous man. Surely I had too strong a sense of self- preservation to want to be caught in that whirlpool he represented.

My reflection in the mirror was not reassuring. A large welt cut across my neck and shoulder, a mark that would surely be obvious in my low-cut dresses. Even worse was the scrape on my cheek, the bruises on my throat, and my cut lip. Georges had done his work well, and I shuddered to think what would have happened if I hadn't managed to stun him with that bottle.

The sight of my wounds should have aroused me to a vengeful fury, but I remained adamant in my determination to save the wretched Georges. As soon as I dressed I drafted a short note, warning Georges that Luc intended to kill him. Sooner or later I would find some way to have it delivered, and then my conscience would be at rest. Georges had been terrified when Luc interrupted him at the embassy. Apparently Luc del Zaglia was enough to put the fear of God into anyone, not just a gullible little fool like me. A warning should manage to frighten Georges out of the city, with luck, out of the country. And if he happened to meet with a shipwreck or carriage accident on the way, I could greet the news with unimpaired good cheer, as long as I knew neither Luc nor I was responsible.

For a short time luck was with me. No one was in sight when I made my cautious way downstairs, a heavy shawl pulled around the low-cut shoulders of my gown, my slippers silent on the dusty marble stairs. I was able to find Antonio with no sharp-eyed witnesses around to watch as I slipped both the note and my small remainder of money into his greedy paw. With mixed feelings I watched him disappear down the corridor. I had no great hopes that the warning would reach Georges in time, but I had done my best.

"Signorina Morrow is feeling better?" A soft, sly voice broke through my reverie, and I turned to meet Maddelena's seamed face with what I hoped was unruffled calm. I couldn't tell whether or not she had seen me talking with Antonio, but I could only trust that she hadn't. I would have to continue on that assumption.

"A bit," I replied faintly. "I'm quite hungry."

"A good sign. If you would go into the smaller dining room Rosetta will bring you something shortly." She turned her squat body away and started down the hallway, in the same direction Antonio had taken.

"Where are you going?" I betrayed myself by asking nervously.

She turned back, smiling a bland smile that disclosed brown and broken teeth. "Why, to see what you gave Antonio, of course."

I watched her go with a sense of fatality. I couldn't have the horrid man's blood on my hands, more particularly I didn't want Luc's beautiful pale hands further stained (if stained they were already). Antonio would hand over the message (though not the money) without further ado. There was nothing I could do but warn the man myself.

A few short minutes later I was making my furtive way through the cobbled alleyways of Venice. I had no idea how to get to Georges's hovel by gondola, and indeed, thought it safer to slip through the streets, swathed as I was in an enveloping black cape stolen from Mildred, hunched over like a woman three times my age. I caught no more than a couple of curious glances as I scuttled through the streets, clasping an exceedingly sharp and lethal-looking letter opener I had purloined from the Chinese desk in the west salon. I had only the slightest doubt as to my ability to defend myself from Georges's attack, and that element of doubt was somehow justified by my determination to stop any bloodshed. So preoccupied was I in my thoughts and fears that I nearly ran full tilt into an Austrian officer in the street outside Georges's flat.

"Watch where you're going, you old hag!" I heard my beloved Holger snarl, shoving me against the wall with rude force. I was tempted to throw off my enveloping cape, but thought better of it. I watched in disbelief as what appeared to be an entire battalion of Austrian soldiers milled around in the streets outside, the sun shining on their spotless white and gold uniforms. And even before I could make out the murmured comments of the soldiers I knew I had been too late.

One poor fellow, who couldn't have been more than seventeen, was leaning over and vomiting into the street. His friends were looking pale and unwell, and, deciding to risk unmasking, I hunched closer to my erstwhile swain.

"It must have been a large dog or wolf," a greenish- pallored lieutenant was saying, mopping his brow despite the cool spring breeze. "I've never seen anything like it. Just torn to shreds, he was."

"Nonsense," Holger maintained stoutly. "There are no wolves in Venice, and no large dogs on this island. It could only have been done by a man."

"What sort of man could inflict such carnage?" the other demanded. "Back in Austria we found a young boy half eaten by wolves during a bad winter. That pales in comparison with this."

"Then what do you suggest?" Holger asked coldly. "Perhaps the ghoul of Venice is taking other forms now. First a vampire, now a werewolf, eh?"

"I . . . I never said a word about werewolves," the man stammered, crossing himself ardently. "There . . . there are no such things."

"Nor are there such things as vampires, my friend. Some fiendishly clever human being is murdering people in and around Venice and making it look like the work of supernatural beings."

I watched Holger with dawning surprise and suspicion. Gone was the dim-witted, pompous young suitor. The pomposity remained, but a shrewd intellect that had so far escaped my attention was making itself apparent. I felt a sudden chill, and, stumbling a bit, turned back toward the doubtful haven of Edentide. I had seen enough for one day. I had been too late for Georges, and were it not for my fears for the demon-count, I would not have been sorry. As it was, I was now more frightened than I had ever been.

I made it back to the palazzo with only a few minutes to spare. No sooner had I taken off the enveloping cape and smoothed my tumbled blond curls than an imperious knock sounded at the front door. Quickly I ducked into the west parlor to straighten my shawl about me, keeping a sharp ear out for our visitor. But the walls of Edentide were thick and the noise from the canal even louder than usual, so I had to content myself to wait until the somber Thornton appeared at the door, accompanied by not one but two of my suitors.

Jean-Baptiste rushed to my side, barely leaving me enough time to appreciate the sumptuous effect of his pearl-grey costume. "Ma pauvre petite," he murmured, taking one slim hand in his and planting a respectful kiss upon it. "Luc has told me of last night's outrage. That man shall pay for it, I swear to you! If Luc has not yet seen to it you may count on me to defend your honor."

Holger was only a few paces behind him, a sternly disapproving mask over his ruddy features. "That will be unnecessary, Perrier. For either you or the count."

Jean-Baptiste stood back and met Holger's icy blue eyes with a smirk. "Ah, my good Captain, have you already seen to the villain?" He bowed low. "My compliments on your speed. We both heard of it at the same time, and yet you took care of it with such dispatch." He sighed. "I am all admiration."

"I didn't do it!" Holger countered impatiently. "Someone else finished off Georges Martin before either of us could even plan a suitable punishment for his impertinence."

"Either?" I questioned, watching the two of them.

"Any of the three of us," Holger amended graciously, but I was no longer fooled by him. "I'm sorry to say that Georges Martin has been brutally murdered."

"That is a regrettable circumstance," Jean-Baptiste responded with false sorrow. "I was hoping I would have the pleasure of killing him myself. Or at least watching Luc do the honors."

Holger eyed the Frenchman in obvious disgust. "If you are so eager for the sight of blood, Perrier, you may view the carnage in Martin's apartment. I'm sure it will no longer bother the poor fellow."

"Gentlemen!" I held up a restraining hand, feeling quite dizzy. My imagination had always been overdeveloped. At the sight of my pale face they broke off their bickering, vying with each other to lead me to the frayed sofa.

"What monsters we are, liebchen, to talk of such a brutal thing in front of you," Holger murmured, his icy blue eyes not in the least sorry.

"What brutal thing?" Jean-Baptiste demanded irritably. "You have yet to tell us how the wretched Georges met his end."

Holger paused significantly, no doubt to savor the full effect of his disclosures. Fortunately I had a good idea of what his gory news would be, and I was prepared.

"Georges Martin was ripped to pieces by some very large and savage animal," he said solemnly, his cold, rather small eyes never leaving Perrier's unmoved countenance. "Either that, or by a madman."

There was a silence, one I felt called upon to break. "Oh, dear," I murmured inadequately, leaning back against the cushions and fanning myself uselessly with one limp hand. "How ghastly."

"Ghastly indeed, fraulein," Holger said heavily, the concern in his accented voice unmatched by the speculation in those eyes I no longer trusted.

"It does seem, Von Wolfram, that the Imperial Army is doing a wretched job of policing the canals and alleyways of Venice. This latest sounds like a variation of the work of our resident vampire."

"Don't be absurd," I snapped, much to their surprise. "There are no such things as vampires."

Perrier raised one of his immaculate eyebrows. "Really, my dear? I think you should ask your superstitious Italian and English servants if they agree with that." He took my limp hand in his small, neat one and brought it up to his lips with a gesture that a week before would have thrilled me. "You and I know it's nonsense, of course. As does the good captain."

"Indeed," Holger broke in, taking my other hand in an effort not to have Jean-Baptiste outdo him, "there is no ghoul of Venice, no werewolf or vampire. Merely a very clever, very dangerous man. As soon as I find out what is behind these seemingly random murders it will be only a short step to finding the villain. He must be an exceedingly brilliant, dangerous criminal, with an entirely fiendish mind . . ."

"You wouldn't by any chance be discussing me, would you?" Luc's smooth voice startled the three of us, and we turned in unison to the door, where my erstwhile guardian lounged in Stygian splendor. Damn him, I thought, feeling the color rise in my face at the memory of our last meeting, of his gentle hands on my poor battered body.

"Luc!" Perrier let my hand drop lightly, not before bestowing a reassuring squeeze that reassured me not one bit "You're up early today. The sun has barely set."

This was supposed to be a jest, but I couldn't help the little shiver of apprehension that ran down my backbone at the sinister implications of his lightly spoken words. Luc merely cast a cynical glance at his friend before entering the room, moving across the stained marble floor with a pantherlike grace that made my stomach contract in the most alarming fashion. Taking my hands in his cold, compelling grip, he pulled me to my feet, those mesmerizing eyes sweeping over me in a manner that should have been solicitous, but in reality had the power to leave me more disturbed than I already was.

"I trust, my dear ward, that you have recovered from your upsetting experience of the previous evening?" The voice was soft and soothing, and for a moment I thought he referred to our almost-embrace in this very room. Then I realized he meant my near rape, and my color heightened even more.

"I am quite well, thank you," I murmured, dropping my eyes from that amused glance that knew all too well what I had been thinking of. "Were it not for this latest horror . . ."

I expected him to show surprise, demand information, but to my dread he seemed to know all about it. "The unfortunate fate of Monsieur Martin?" he questioned lightly, dropping my hands and moving over to the bell-pull. "A most unpleasant fate, to be sure, but one he richly deserved. He hadn't long to live, anyway. I had intended to dispose of him this evening, but the ghoul of Venice seems to have forestalled me."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Holger pull himself stiffly upright. "Are you sure it wasn't yourself that took care of Georges?" he demanded with a touch of belligerence that almost bordered on rudeness. "I wonder how you found out so quickly. I gather you only just arose?"

Luc met Holger's angry gaze with bland self-assurance. "My dear Captain, at least three of my servants informed me, complete with unnecessarily gruesome details, about Martin's sad end. You should know by now that nothing stays secret in Venice for very long." As if on cue Thornton appeared at the doorway.

"You rang, sir?"

"Yes, Thornton. We would like wine for my unexpected but of course most welcome guests. And you may also inform the good captain of the cheerful news with which you greeted me this evening."

"About the Frenchman's murder, Count?" Thornton asked politely, and Holger's ruddy face flushed a darker, unbecoming shade.

"Exactly," Luc said smoothly. "Thank you, Thornton, that should be sufficient. I think a good claret would be in order."

As the butler withdrew a small moment of silence reigned in the room, broken only by the lap of the water against the riva, the sounds of the gondoliers as they called their directions echoing through the twilight room. Both Perrier and Holger seemed abstracted, while Luc watched them with a small, unpleasant smile curving his expressive mouth.

It wasn't until Thornton returned with the crystal decanter of ruby wine that my suitors bestirred themselves. As if suddenly coming to his senses, Perrier returned to my side, his manner as smooth and flattering as before. With a great deal of expertise and delicacy he began to flirt with me, so gracefully that I couldn't help responding, all the time remembering the cold, speculative expression in his brown eyes as he watched my guardian, and knowing with a growing sense of irritation that he had no more real romantic interest in me than had Holger, who was now making Jealous moves to push Jean-Baptiste away. They were both playing a devious game, one that included me as bait, and I thought I knew quite well who their quarry was: my indolent, sinister guardian, who watched all this attention with an indulgent eye.

My over inflated self-esteem had been dealt a mortal blow. No doubt I deserved being taken down a peg or two, and I thought with a twinge that I had asked for it, after accepting their slavish devotion with such an unquestioning complacency. As my two false swains wrangled over the right to take me to a band concert early the next week my rueful eyes met my guardian's from across the room. For the moment I hadn't bothered to shield my expression from him, and he read my newfound knowledge as easily as he might read a book.

He smiled then, a very gentle, mocking little smile, as if to say all men are fools, and lifted the wineglass to me in a silent toast. And I smiled back, in self-deprecating agreement, that all women were fools, too—and thereby took another dangerous step down the road of infatuation with my romantic and devious guardian.

A few moments later he arose with one of those abrupt, liquid gestures that startle me so. "I think, my dear Charlotte, that you should have a quiet supper and an early bedtime. Perrier and I have plans to go out this evening, and we shall of course include the good captain, leaving you to a quiet night alone. Unless you plan to disregard my warnings and go for another solitary stroll?"

I flushed under his mocking regard, the moment of charity gone, leaving me with unaccountable irritation and disappointment. Rising with great dignity, I wrapped my enveloping shawl around me to ward off the damp chill that seemed to creep through the windows from the canals below. "An early evening is an excellent idea," I said composedly, ignoring his acid comments. Bidding them all a graceful good night, I stopped before each one and gave them all my small, white hand.

Holger saluted smartly, his heels clicking together in a satisfactory manner as he planted a loud, wet kiss on my hand. Jean-Baptiste was more delicate, murmuring a French endearment I pretended not to understand as his warm dry mouth followed Holger's. And then I stopped in front of Luc, holding out my suddenly trembling hand.

He smiled down at me, not a trace of mockery this time, and took my shaking hand in his strong, fine-boned grasp. Once more he brought it to his lips, kissing my palm in a gesture that was so intimate I felt half faint.

"Good night, mia Carlotta," he murmured, leaning over and brushing a stray lock out of my eyes. "And lock your door," he added in a low voice that only I could hear.

I stared at him in wonder for a moment, and then he released me. Without another glance I ran out of the room, across the hall and up those long flights of marble stairs. When I finally reached my room I did just as he suggested, locking the inlaid door against the terrors of the night.

And later, as I picked at the simple but nourishing meal Mrs. Wattles had thoughtfully sent up to me, I wondered what exactly Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia inspired in his gullible little ward, whether it was superstitious terror, or, to my suddenly observant mind an even more frightening possibility: Was it an absurdly ill-placed attraction that was skirting the dangerous and illogical borders of love?

The moonlit canals of this romantic city met my troubled gaze, and gave me the answer I least wanted to hear.

Chapter Thirteen

When I awoke the next day, late in the afternoon, my head was like cottonwool and my tongue like chicken feathers. I lay back among the linen sheets and soft goose- down pillows and closed my eyes against the late afternoon sunlight, too tired and muddle-headed to move.

"Are you awake yet, my dear?" Mildred Fenwick's bright voice disturbed the gentle daze in which I was floating, and reluctantly I turned my now throbbing head.

"Yes, Mildred," I sighed.

She bustled busily into the room, her pale orange dress matching her orange frizz of hair, both festooned with dark purple ribbons. "Thank goodness, dearie. You've slept like one dead. I've been in here every hour on the hour, looking for some sign of life, but you've been safe in the arms of Morpheus."

A quick dread pulled me fully awake. "Has something happened? Is Luc . . ." I let the sentence trail, misliking the cunning look in her milky blue eyes.

"No, my dear. Nothing new has happened. Not that I'm aware of. Apart from the fact that Count del Zaglia left last night for parts unknown. I wondered whether your unusual somnolence had any connection with the count's sudden departure."

A hazy memory began to materialize in my mind, rather like coming closer and closer to a scarcely seen vision in a deep fog. Ribbons of mist began to dissolve away, and I stared back into my memory in mute fascination, until Mildred's noisy snorting sound brought me back into the present.

"I beg your pardon, Mildred," I apologized absently. "I was just remembering the most extraordinary dream I had last night. I had no idea Luc had plans to leave us, but I'm sure in his absence we'll all be a great deal more comfortable, don't you?" I looked pointedly at her ringless hand, and the spinster flushed unbecomingly.

"I'm sure you're right," she agreed after a long moment. "In any case, both your young men have called today, asking after you. I told them you were slightly indisposed but would be delighted to receive them tomorrow."

"That was very kind of you," I said with charming insincerity. I had no desire to see either of my so-ardent suitors. "In the meantime, if you could see to tea, my dear Mildred . . ."

It took more than a few subtle suggestions to rid myself of the inquisitive creature. It was a good ten minutes before she left me alone to lie back in my bed and reconstruct the strange and compelling dream of last night.

I had dutifully drunk most of the sour, foul-tasting stuff Luc deemed suitable wine for a young lady, and, as usual, it was not long before I had fallen into a deep sleep. But this was not the long, deathlike trance I had heretofore enjoyed since my stay in Venice. From the very first I was troubled by noises, voices whispering and shouting, footsteps scuffling on the dusty marble floors, doors opening and closing.

As if from a distance I watched my sleeping body rise from my bed and move to the door, soft linen night rail trailing in the dust, bare feet numb to the chill. I watched myself move as if in a trance through the darkened hallways of Edentide, moving nearer and nearer to the voices, the footsteps, the doors . . .

"Who's that?" A voice called out in broad Venetian dialect, but the sleep-dazed creature that was and wasn't me paid it no heed. A moment later a rough-looking peasant appeared from out of the darkness, grabbing me in a bruising grip that somehow I failed to notice, twisting my arms behind my back. I suffered all this with blissful unconcern.

Another voice broke through the stillness. "If you value your life, friend, you will release the girl immediately." Luc spoke in the same rough dialect, and his garb was as sturdy and simple as the peasant's.

"She's been spying," the man replied, loosening his grip slightly. "We can't afford to have witnesses tonight."

"I would think you would know by now to let me decide what risks we can afford to take," Luc said with silky menace. Detaching the man's steely grip, he continued smoothly, "This is the young lady of the house. She is English and very stupid. Besides that, any fool could see she is sleepwalking. She is still asleep—she'll remember nothing of you or me tomorrow morning."

With one strong hand on my arm he began leading me away, back the long dark hall I had traversed so blindly. My mind seemed wholly suspended from my body, so that while my brain worried about his proximity my body was safe, and my body could revel in his nearness without the torment of an overworried mind.

There was an unusually grim expression in the count's dark, handsome face, and the golden eyes were bitter. I wasn't worried, however. I followed him happily enough, mindlessly, blankly assuming he would take me upstairs to his bed. In my dream it seemed like an excellent idea.

"I will take her from here," Maddelena appeared at the top of the stairs, and my anger and disappointment was so great I almost woke.

He stopped and looked down at my blank, guileless face, and his mocking reproach tore at me. "You gave her too much of the drug tonight," he said in a flat, dead voice. "I found her wandering down in the cellars. Giorgio was ready to cut her throat first and ask questions later."

"A thousand pardons, Signor Luc. But with such a stubborn one as this it is very difficult. Some nights she doesn't touch the wine, some nights a sip, some nights she drains the whole of it. There is no way to be certain; she is so willful."

"The drugging will stop, Maddelena," he ordered abruptly, still staring down at me out of those sad, beautiful eyes. Without any warning he pulled me gently into his arms, so that my head rested quite comfortably on his shoulder. I could feel the hardness of his chest in the rough peasant cloth press against my breasts through the thin night rail, and our hearts beat as one.

"What have we become," he murmured against my hair, "that we would drug a poor, innocent child like this? How could we have become such strangers to decency?"

Maddelena made some articulate cry of dissension but Luc ignored her. A hand came under my chin, forcing my head up to meet him. "Poor, lovely, lost child," he murmured in sweet, gentle Italian. "Whatever shall I do with you?"

Needless to say, I found all this very agreeable. With Luc's strong arms around me I felt safe and content for perhaps the first time in my life. The soft, soothing words made me want to purr like a contented kitten.

Abruptly he released me. "Take her away, Maddelena," he ordered hoarsely. "Before I forget myself." And he vanished into the night like a creature of darkness, leaving me bereft.

As I dressed that late afternoon, trying to blot from my mind the weakening and embarrassing memory of last night's dream, another strange thing happened. I heard a loud thump just outside my balcony, and without hesitation I flung open the shutters, determined to confront the eavesdropper.

Sitting at my feet was the largest cat I had ever seen in this city of large cats. Coal black as the prince of darkness himself, he stared up at me haughtily out of golden eyes that were a twin to Luc's amber orbs. Had I been a devout Catholic I would have crossed myself.

Instead I stumbled back into my room, controlling the nervous shriek that bubbled up within me.

"So that's where he's gotten to," Mildred's querulous voice floated in. "Nasty, dirty creature. I can't abide cats, but he is by far the worst!"

Reaching down, I lifted all twenty-some pounds of him and held him against me. "Where did he come from? I've never seen him before."

She sniffed disdainfully. "His name, I believe, is Patrick. I gather from Maddelena that he haunts the count's rooms exclusively. I, of course, would have no idea about that." Here she sniggered coyly. "The rest of us never see him unless the count is gone. Here, let me take him." She reached out her thin hands and Patrick showed the good taste to spit at her.

"Evil creature! If it were up to me I'd see him drowned. You'd best be careful, Miss Charlotte. He could carry rabies."

I hugged the huge creature closer to my breast, which seemed to bother the immense feline not one bit. "I'll be careful, Mildred." I scratched behind his ears, and he looked up at me with dignified adoration. "I'll be very careful."

Chapter Fourteen

"Must you walk so quickly, Mildred?" I demanded irritably, struggling to keep up with her long-legged stride as her beanpole figure made its way hurriedly through the teeming crowds. "We are in no particular hurry, are we?"

She turned back with a guilty expression on her plain, aging face beneath the fruit- and feather-trimmed bonnet. "No, of course not I beg your pardon, Charlotte. Since you expressed an interest in Florian's I naturally thought you would be eager to arrive."

I sighed. "I am eager to arrive. But a few minutes won't make much difference one way or the other, will it?"

"Perhaps," my companion murmured cryptically, speeding up once more, her clawlike hand in the pale, lime- colored gloves digging into the tender flesh of my arm. Giving in, I quickened my footsteps to match hers, undeniably grateful for my first trip out of the oppressively beautiful Palazzo del Zaglia in two long weeks—weeks that had left me bored and solitary, with only the large black cat, Patrick, for company. I would have been ready to die of boredom, had it not been for the amusingly obvious attempts of my false suitors to gain information from me.

"I have absolutely no idea where Luc has disappeared to," I replied limpidly to the fulminating Holger. "He certainly never confides in me. You'd do much better to ask Jean-Baptiste where he's gone to."

But Jean-Baptiste had been equally curious, if a trifle more subtle. "Surely, ma petite, Luc would never have left a charming, defenseless creature such as yourself without a word? He cannot have simply disappeared with not a mention of his destination?"

"I'm afraid he has," I replied, smiling with an equally fraudulent charm at the Frenchman. "One day he was there, the next he was gone. Pouf. Like magic." I was not above having a part in increasing Luc's supernatural reputation. "Maddelena probably knows where and how, but whenever I ask her she pretends not to understand."

"Ah, then you too are curious?" Jean-Baptiste pounced.

I opened my china-blue eyes as wide as I could, fluttering my long eyelashes provocatively. "But of course, Monsieur Perrier: I am exceedingly curious, about that and other things. After all, what else have I with which to occupy my days?

He allowed himself a small snort of frustration, and I leaned back, satisfied. He left with indecent haste, and it would have taken a dim-witted lady indeed to have clung to the belief that he had any interest in my heart. My supposedly shallow brain with its untapped store of knowledge, perhaps. And he might not have refused my pink and white body, if it were offered. Curiously enough, such debasing knowledge caused me only a momentary pang.

I tripped over a cobblestone, bruising my ankle and cursing pungently in Arabic. Mildred forgot her haste long enough to fasten her fishlike stare at me.

"What was that?" she demanded, fascinated.

"Bad words, Mildred," I replied. "Very bad words indeed. You are too young to know the meaning."

She flushed then, absurdly pleased, and patted her too- youthful orange frizz of ringlets. And then her demon of speed caught up with her once more. "We must hurry," she panted. "The count is expected home tonight . . . I doubt he'd approve of this little foray."

My heart gave an uncontrollable leap. "He is? When did you find that out?" If my voice was breathless it was only to be expected at the speed we were rushing through the narrow lanes and squares of Venice.

Mildred shrugged her thin shoulders. "It seems obvious enough, though no one has said a word. Suddenly, after two weeks of sloth and idleness the Italians are making halfhearted attempts at cleaning. Your wretched cat has taken to stalking through the place looking for all the world like his master, and Maddelena has been uncommonly close-mouthed since last night. None of us had heard a thing, of course, but just watching that old witch scurry around has convinced Mrs. Wattles to plan on a full dinner."

"With no garlic," some demon prompted me to add, remembering with a fondness the nice garlicky meals we had enjoyed in Luc's absence. Mildred was too preoccupied to have caught my implication, for she merely nodded.

"If my guardian is returning tonight," I questioned patiently, "why did you wait until today to invite me out? We could have gone any time during the last two weeks."

"But he only asked to meet you yesterday," she replied artlessly, her eyes scanning the crowds at the cafe in the Piazza San Marco as we came to an abrupt stop.

"He? Who?" I demanded, soundling like an owl. "Who asked to meet me? What's going on?"

An ugly flush stained her faded cheeks, and she ducked her plumed head. "There he is now. Come along, dear." The clawlike hand fastened once more on my silk-clad arm, and she half pulled, half dragged me through the tables. I made no more than a token resistance, my curiosity thoroughly aroused.

A moment later we were standing in front of an exceedingly attractive, exceedingly British young man, while Mildred was making stammered introductions, beaming proudly, like a mother hen presenting a prize baby chick. I met the calm blue eyes of the well-dressed gentleman opposite me and nodded coldly.

"Mark Ferland," Mildred's voice died away as she saw the chilly expression on my face. I turned on her with an icy glare.

"So, it is not an innocent visit to Florian's you had in mind after all, Mildred," I said acidly. "For some reason the two of you," my withering glance swept over Mr. Ferland, "have concocted this scheme. I wonder what my guardian will have to say when I tell him of this afternoon's work." I reflected with some compunction that I was becoming a wretched little tattletale, but as usual I made the proper response for the superstitious Mildred.

"Oh, no!" she said faintly, obviously distressed. Her accomplice put one strong, tanned hand on my arm, forcing me to meet his troubled gaze.

"I hope you won't do that, Miss Morrow," he spoke for the first time in a slow deep voice, and despite my irritation I warmed to him. "Not before you've given me a chance to explain. You've been deceived, you're angry about it, and I can't blame you. But if you'll just give me a few minutes of your time you may find it in your no doubt generous heart to forgive me for this deception."

I regarded him coolly for a moment, half tempted to turn on my heel and leave him with the fluttery Miss Fenwick. He smiled then, such a nice, handsome smile, as different from that of my saturnine guardian as the day was from the night, and I told myself there would be no harm in at least giving him a chance to explain himself.

"All right," I said in the same cool tone, not giving him any encouragement. "You have ten minutes."

Once more he flashed that dazzling smile as he hurried to pull out a chair for me. In another moment he had placed an order for two strong coffees with the waiter and seen to the disappearance of Mildred.

"Where has Miss Fenwick gone?" I demanded as he seated his long, sturdy frame opposite me.

"She had graciously consented to let us alone for this short time. She, like most spinsters, has a very romantic nature."

Some hard little part of me broke at this, and I spoke with far more frankness than I usually reserved for the male sex. "If you are about to tell me, Mister Ferland, that you have conceived a desperate passion for me, and that all you desire is my company and, as a side benefit, information about my guardian, I will tell you right now you are wasting your time!" I sounded quite snappish, but the fumbling flirtations of Holger and Perrier had tried me more than I had realized, and I was damned (mentally I savored the sound of that word) if I would add another to my list of spurious beaus.

The Englishman looked momentarily disconcerted, and then he charmed me completely by laughing—a light, infectious laugh that melted an inch or two of my suspicious nature. "Very well, Miss Morrow. I will have to be frank with you. I was told you were very beautiful, but no one happened to mention that you were also equipped with a brain. I wouldn't have attempted subterfuge if I'd known you could be reasoned with."

Naturally I was not displeased with this blatant flattery, but I kept my stony expression. He sighed, and wasted more time stirring the steaming little cup of coffee the waiter presented him. Finally he looked up, his unassuming blue eyes smiling into mine in a way that would have charmed harder hearts than my poor starved one.

"I need your help, Miss Morrow," he began with just a touch of diffidence. "Or, to put it more correctly, we need your help. The situation here in Venice is volatile, to say the least. The Venetians are moving inexorably toward a revolt against the Austrians. We want to be ready and able to assist them if and when that time comes."

"Assist whom?" I demanded, all at sea. "And who are 'we'?"

"Assist the Venetians, of course!" He looked shocked that there could be any doubt. "And 'we,' my dear Miss Morrow, are merely a group of concerned Englishmen who have banded together to give our unofficial aid to the Italians if and when they need it. With the unspoken consent of our own government, of course."

I considered whether or not to believe him. "Very well," I said after a moment. "What is it you want from me?"

"It is suspected, Miss Morrow, that your guardian is not what he appears to be," he began, and then broke off in confusion at my somewhat hysterical laugh.

"That would be a great relief to me," I said after my inappropriate merriment subsided. "But I would be greatly interested in what you think Luc appears to be."

"An indolent Venetian nobleman, with nothing to do but game and wench and frighten peasants. Oh, we've heard rumors, Miss Morrow. Supernatural suggestions which we have, of course, discounted. But the more we have watched him, the more we are convinced that Count Lucifero del Zaglia is definitely playing a dangerous game. What we need to know is what his affiliations are, what he knows, and what he's planning. Is he in the pay of the Austrians, the French, or is he a Venetian patriot rallying to the cause of a free and united Italy?"

I sipped at the strong poison those in Venice called coffee and watched my companion over the rim of the delicate little cup. "He does not strike me as a man with an ounce of idealism in him," I replied cautiously. "So I doubt he has any interest in a free Venice. Beneath his courtesy I suspect he detests the Austrians and mocks the French." I set the cup down in the saucer with a little clink. "No, I think you are mistaken, Mister Ferland. Count del Zaglia is nothing more than an idle aristocrat . . . it makes no difference to him who rules Venice, as long as it does not interfere with his self-indulgent pursuits." Harsh words from his dutiful ward, but I had been nursing a grievous hurt since his abrupt disappearance two weeks ago.

"Perhaps you are right, Miss Morrow. But I don't think so. Would you . . . would you be willing to assist us and indirectly the British government in the meantime and disprove our suspicions?" This was suggested in a bland voice, but I wasn't lulled.

"Are you asking me to spy on my guardian?" I demanded bluntly, outraged and angered and secretly thrilled. Life had been very boring with Luc gone.

He frowned in sudden concern, his broad, sensitive brow wrinkling. "Perhaps I've been wrong to confide in you. I may have misunderstood the situation. I was informed that there was nothing between you and Del Zaglia. Was I mistaken?"

Now I was indeed angry. "Are you suggesting, Mister Ferland, that I . . . that I . . . ?"

"No, no, of course not. It is merely that your reluctance to aid your government in a small matter concerning a man you met barely three weeks ago seems quite strange to me. You must forgive me for jumping to what seemed an obvious conclusion."

"You think that because I'm reluctant to spy on my guardian I must be sleeping with him?" I demanded, and was pleased to see the handsome Mr. Ferland flush at my plain speaking. "And of course, to prove my innocence I must now agree to all your ignoble suggestions, trespass on the count's hospitality and betray him to you . . ."

"I believe it is your money that is supporting the count, not vice versa," he interposed gently, taking the wind from my sails quite effectively. "Large sums have been withdrawn from your accounts by your guardian during the last few weeks, you know."

The sun was beginning to set, and I felt an unaccustomed little chill pass over me. I met Mark Ferland's eyes with sudden panic. Luc would return tonight, would return in the darkness, where he belonged, and I was frightened.

He placed a strong tanned hand on mine in a comforting gesture, as if he could read my thoughts and fears. "It's not a very nice thing we're asking of you, Miss Morrow. If there was any way we could get the same information without involving you we would do so without delay. We need you. England needs you."

There was no way I could resist that. I was hit with a sudden wave of homesickness that threatened to make me burst into tears in the middle of Florian's Cafe. I bent my head lower so that he couldn't see the unshed tears in my eyes, and let my hand remain in his strong, comforting one.

"What would you have me do?" I said after a long moment, my voice husky and momentarily cowed.

He permitted himself a sigh of relief, squeezing my hand reassuringly. "Not much. Just watch, and report back to me when you discover anything. You're far more observant than you pretend to be, and these Italians usually consider women to be of small intellect, rather like household pets. It shouldn't be any trouble to find out who Del Zaglia's visitors are, what his political ties are."

"I doubt that he has any," I interrupted numbly, purposely dismissing my troubled dreams.

"And, most importantly, keep an eye out for any important papers that happen to pass through his hands, particularly if he has a secretive air about him."

I laughed again. "Luc always has a secretive air about him. I doubt I'll be of much help, Mister Ferland."

"I have complete faith in you," he said stoutly. "I may as well tell you: The Austrians have a very talented and productive spy, and it would greatly aid us if we were to discover that spy and unmask him."

"And if Luc is that spy? What happens then?"

'Then it would be up to his paymasters to protect him. Though it strikes me that Luc del Zaglia is very able to take care of himself. You needn't worry about him, Miss Charlotte. Unmasking him will simply curtail his usefulness without in any way endangering him. So you see, what we are asking of you is small indeed, with no harm in it for anyone."

"And you don't think I'd be in any danger? That no one would want to prevent me from finding out the truth?" Gently I disengaged my hand. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"No one would harm you. I swear, on my honor. I wouldn't let anyone touch you." This was stated with such passionate sincerity that I blushed and looked away. Despite his businesslike demands, Mark Ferland seemed a great deal more infatuated than my two other suitors, and my faltering self-esteem rose a trifle in the face of his flattering regard.

I began gathering my things together, and as if on cue, Mildred reappeared across the square and began threading her way back to my side, a sentimental expression on her face. Standing up, I reached out one gloved hand and placed it trustingly in Mark Ferland's, unable to stifle the small thrill his sturdy grasp sent through me. "Good day, Mister Ferland," I said pleasantly.

"But will you help us?" he asked urgently, clinging to my hand while Mildred looked on with mawkish tears in her cloudy blue eyes.

"You give me little choice, Mister Ferland. I will do my best, but I make no promises."

"That is all I ask, Miss Morrow. I will look forward to seeing you agaain soon." Reluctantly he released me, and as I turned away I allowed myself a romantic sigh. I would do as he asked for a variety of reasons—reasons consisting of boredom, anger with my guardian, and an insatiable curiosity I usually kept well under control. I was just as eager as Mark Ferland to find out what secrets lay behind Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia's inscrutable behavior. Not totally unimportant to my motives was the chance of seeing such a splendid specimen of the British male as Mark Ferland once more. And besides, there was that perfectly valid and troubling reason: What was Luc doing with my poor inheritance? I doubted that I'd be able to stop him from throwing it away at the gaming tables, but I'd at least like to know such a thing was really happening.

The ride home through the rapidly darkening twilight was spent fielding Mildred's questions. For reasons best known to herself she decided we'd return by gondola, and in the end I was glad she did, although usually I preferred to walk, savoring each tiny moment of freedom in this un- free society. We had scarcely disembarked from the gently rocking boat when the stiff, unyielding form of Thornton appeared at the door. One look at his gloomy face and the curt beckoning gesture and I knew Luc had returned.

Chapter Fifteen

"Quickly," Mildred whispered. "You can sneak up the servants' stair if you're very quiet. I'll go in and meet him."

I remained stubbornly where I was, foolhardy to the last. "Why should I sneak?" I demanded. "There is nothing wrong with our going out to Florian's, is there?"

She cast me a look of exasperation mixed with dislike. "You do not think he will object to your meeting the handsome Mr. Ferland while he is away? The count is obtuse about certain things, but I don't think this will be one of them."

"Perhaps you are right," I conceded, pleased at the thought. "I don't think I would care to explain . . ."

"Explain what, my dear?" Luc's voice interrupted me, the very gentleness of his tone panicking me. He appeared on the green-stained marble steps, and for a moment I was totally and completely horrified at myself, wondering what in the world had induced me to agree to spy on this frightening creature. In the two weeks of his absence I had forgotten quite how disturbing an effect he had on my brain and my senses. His tall, sinister form stood framed in the doorway, an ironic smile on his wickedly handsome face as he held out one slim hand to me in a gesture of command rather than welcome, and the bloodstone ring gleamed dully.

As I felt myself slipping back into that abyss of terror and superstition that threatened to engulf me, I thought back to the safe, handsome face of Mark Ferland, and from somewhere deep inside me I was able to call forth hidden reserves. I straightened my spine, threw back my head, and met Luc's clear amber eyes with a fine show of bravery. "Explain why we were so late in returning to Edentide and not here to welcome you properly. Though of course, we had no idea when you were to return, any more than we were prepared for your departure." Some waspish part of me made me mention this. "Miss Fenwick was kind enough to accompany me to Florian's this lovely afternoon. I hope you haven't been here too long."

I sounded like Theresa at a garden party, the cool English lady making polite conversation, even to a demon. Luc smiled, moving forward and taking my unwilling hand in his strong, cool grip.

"Little one, I have angered you," he murmured gently, mockery in his light eyes. "I would never have deserted you without a word if I knew you minded so much."

"I minded not one bit!" I snapped, pulling my hand away from him. "I merely have been bombarded by your friends day and night, asking over and over again where you are and when you will return."

"Which friends?" He said it softly, but I wasn't fooled into ignoring the seriousness beneath his light tone.

"Holger and Jean-Baptiste. They seemed most eager to get in touch with you."

"You undervalue yourself. I have no doubt it was merely an excuse for them to call on you while your ogre of a chaperon was away. You seem to have wreaked havoc on hearts all over Venice."

"Perhaps," I said slowly. It wouldn't do for him to realize just how observant I was. "But I place no reliance on either of them."

"You are wise not to do so," he observed, leading me into the warmth and light of the palazzo. "Never fear, mia Carlotta," and his voice caressed my name, "in due time I will find you a suitable husband. You are still little more than a child."

Needless to say I found this generous offer totally infuriating. "No, thank you, signor. I am entirely capable of finding my own husband."

"I'm sure you are, my dear," he said gently. "But I think I prefer to choose." He smiled down at me from his great height, and once more I was reminded of the rumors that flew around Venice. He had never looked more satanic, with those light, piercing eyes, that cynical mouth, and the black wings of hair above his high, pale forehead. Satanic, dangerous, and very, very handsome. I tried to summon up the image of Mark Ferland, and failed.

Dinner that night was slow and stilted. Luc was preoccupied, staring, eating nothing as usual, drinking surprisingly large quantities of the dry red wine he favored. To my surprise no wine was offered me, just as none had appeared on my dinner tray during the time he was gone. I toyed with my food, wondering whether to try to initiate a new topic. Any remark I made he would either ignore or reply in absent tones. There was evidently a great deal on his mind, and I would have given much to find out what it was.

Finally he rose from the table, leaving me with my mouth half full of a rich, creamy rice pudding. "I'm afraid I must abandon you once more, little one. Various duties call . . ." he let it trail as I stared up at him, stricken. "But don't look so desolate! I promise to remain home tomorrow and you may tell me all that you did while I was gone. I am pleased to see you care so much for my company."

At this cynical remark I flushed, swallowed the last of my dessert and rose also. "It is entirely up to you," I murmured nonchalantly.

"That is right, my dear. It is entirely up to me," he interposed gently. "Now go to bed like a good little girl."

Needless to say, at the advanced age of almost twenty, one doesn't like to be called a little girl. "But where are you going?" I asked in as innocent a voice as I could manage.

He hesitated, then shrugged. "To see my mistress," he replied, watching my expression with some amusement. "And to gamble more of your fortune away. I trust that meets with your approval."

A surprising flash of hatred swept over me, hatred for his mocking of me, hatred for my own vulnerability. And in that flash of fury a dangerous idea came to me, and once there in my fertile brain refused to be dislodged. "As we have discussed previously," I said primly, "it is entirely up to you. Good night." I turned on my heel and stalked out of the room, outrage plain in my upright bearing. The soft laugh that followed me only stiffened my resolve.

When I got to my room I didn't bother to change from the elegant black silk evening dress I had worn to dinner. I knew I wouldn't have time. It was only fortunate that decadent Venice still had frequent masques, and ladies of quality could appear in public in domino and maschera to protect their reputations. I barely had time to change my shoes to my sturdier walking slippers and grab my reticule, thankfully full of soldi, and the kitchen knife I had thoughtfully retained, before I sped silently down the seldom-used back stairs and out into the alleyway. Creeping into an arched doorway I had noticed earlier, I waited for my guardian to appear.

I hadn't long to wait. The fog was lighter than usual, and in a few minutes I made out his tall, graceful figure through the thin ribbons of mist that swirled around the streets. He was alone tonight—Jean-Baptiste apparently had no idea his erstwhile friend and constant companion had returned. It would make it a little harder, with no chattering friend to distract him from the sound of light footsteps dogging him, but there was nothing I could do about it. I could only be thankful he hadn't taken a gondola, but was preparing to walk. Surely luck would be on my side tonight.

I waited for him to turn the first corner, and then slipped out after him. He would be easy enough to spot in a crowd. Most Venetians were far shorter than he was, besides lacking his almost theatrical presence. By the time I rounded the corner, however, he was much farther away than I would have expected. I had failed to take into account his long legs and the surprising energy he could exert on rare occasions. I sped up, desperate to keep him in sight as he turned still another corner, heading down an alleyway that led nowhere. I ran after him, turning at the same street and speeding down the narrow, deserted little lane until I ended, full tilt, against a man's broad chest.

I barely controlled my muffled shriek of terror as I felt my wrists caught in an iron grip, and as I looked up to meet the cold, cruel eyes of Luc del Zaglia through my half-mask a wave of terror swept over me. It did me no good to struggle; his strength seemed supernatural, and after a moment I stood still, panting and staring up at him like a frightened rabbit. My one reflection was that at least he could have no idea who I was.

"It seems, signorina, that you were desirous of some company tonight, eh?" he spoke in a slow, deep voice. "Surely you are either very brave or very stupid, to have set your sights on me, when there are countless other gentlemen abroad tonight who would be glad of your company." He gave me a little shake. "One of your friends should have warned you about me, signorina. I have no need of paid companionship. If you were to offer yourself for free . . ."He let it trail, a trace of a smile on his distant face. And then without further warning the hands on my wrists pulled me closer and his mouth descended on mine, ruthlessly, more to punish than to pleasure.

For the first kiss in my lifetime it was a shattering experience. Vainly I struggled with him, but I was no match for his incredible strength, for the inexorable demands of his mouth on mine. And just when I decided that I no longer wanted to fight, he let me go abruptly, so that I fell back against the stucco wall of the house behind me and stood there, awash with conflicting emotions, foremost among them disappointment. Disappointment that he had released me. He laughed then, and I reached out to slap his face. His strong white hand caught my wrist and twisted it until I cried out.

"You don't learn, do you?" he said softly, loosening his grip on me and running his thumb with sudden tenderness on the bruised part. And then I realized what had eluded me during the past few minutes. He had spoken in English the entire time.

I looked up into his handsome face with sudden suspicion, suspicion that was justified when he smiled an innocent smile that ill-accorded with his saturnine countenance. "The question is," he continued, "what shall I do with you now, mi a Carlottal Shall I send you home to languish in your room? Or, better yet, shall I assuage the no doubt mighty curiosity that sent you out alone in the night and take you to the den of iniquity I haunt nightly?"

"I . . . I would like to go home, please," I said in a small voice. His fingers continued to massage my bruised wrist in a hypnotic way.

"No doubt you would," he replied. "But your wishes have not much place in my scheme of things." He reached out and took off the mask, looking down into my eyes with a curiously tender expression. "I think it would be useful if you learned your lesson tonight. Besides, Silvana has been most curious about you. I cannot abide curious women." He tossed the mask into the street and forcibly placed my hand on his silk-clad arm. "Perhaps after tonight you will both keep your curiosity under tighter rein."

He set off again, back out the alleyway and down the street with me struggling to keep up with him. "Who is Silvana?" I questioned after a moment, my breath still coming quickly from the speed with which we were traversing the narrow streets of Venice and the proximity of the demon-count.

"Still more questions? Silvana is my mistress. One of them," he amended, and drew me up the steps of an elegant, brightly lit palazzo only slightly smaller than Eden- tide.

Chapter Sixteen

The sudden juxtaposition of heat and light, noise and laughter replacing the dark, lonely, fog-shrouded streets of Venice made me sway as we entered the gaming palace, and it was only Luc's strong arm supporting me that kept me from falling. Ca' Bellini was one of those glorious pink and gold palazzos that lined the Grand Canal, but in this case the interior was more in keeping with the sumptuous, fairylike exterior. Lights blazed in every corner, the walls were hung in deep rose silk, and the furniture, adorned as it was by the flower of the demimondaines, looked both elegant and comfortable.

I shook my head slightly, to clear away the mists, still too benumbed to prevent my guardian from removing my domino, exposing me in my deep black evening gown with the practically nonexistent bodice, with none of the shawls I usually wore to preserve my modesty. I couldn't ignore the fascinated looks of those present. Blond hair was not that unusual in northern Italy, especially in towns occupied by Austrians, but my hair was an unusual tawny gold that always drew far more than its share of attention. Coupled with my flatteringly indecent garb and my dramatic escort, I felt I was the subject of almost every conversation, and the sensation was proving extremely unpleasant.

I pulled at Luc's arm. "Please," I whispered once more, beseechingly. "Let me return home. I'm sorry I followed you. Please."

He took no more notice of me than if I had been a gnat, and I gave up protesting. He was determined to shame and embarrass me, forcing me to associate with people I would never have met in England. I could see by the gowns and painted faces of the women present that in comparison I must look like a nun, and determinedly I kept my eyes straight ahead of me, ignoring the shrieks of laughter from the darkened corners of the far rooms, the indecent caresses that were going on around me.

With a careful solicitude that would have done credit to a knight of old, Luc drew me into the main gaming room, carefully pulling out a chair for me and providing me with champagne. I sipped slowly, taking in my surroundings and Luc's companions with wide-eyed wonder. No doubt they viewed me with the same surprise.

There was no way I could make sense out of the solemn and incredibly complicated game that held most present enthralled. Luc was the one exception—the look on his face signaled only intense boredom as he played hand after hand, and the huge pile of money grew beside him.

Jean-Baptiste was right: He never lost. If he was using my money for gaming I would be very rich indeed if he were to share even a small portion of his winnings. And as I thought of Perrier I found myself longing disconsolately for his presence. He was too much of a gentleman to let me languish here in boredom and embarrassment.

I drained my champagne, and at an almost imperceptible signal from Luc my glass was promptly refilled. I continued to drink, enjoying the dry bubbly stuff far more than the sour red wine Thornton had served me.

"We have missed you, Count," a voice spoke from behind in soft, slurred Italian. "Something of great importance has come up." Luc gestured him to silence with a brief move.

"Later, Giorgio," he murmured gently in the same language. "When we are alone." He turned back to his gaming, for once less observant than usual. Had he paid more attention to his idiot of a ward, he would have seen her stiffen with shocked recognition. The indolent, well-dressed nobleman who had just spoken was none other than the threatening peasant of my so-called dream.

After that the hours dragged. Sipping on the light champagne Luc provided for me, I watched him gamble and win huge sums of money with apparent unconcern, all the time my mind working feverishly. How could I have been so stupid, so obtuse, for so long? Now if only I had some inkling of what was behind Luc's plotting and scheming, his secret meetings. I stared at my guardian with an angry pout, and then found those golden eyes fixed on my mutinous face. He cast a brief, meditative glance at Giorgio and then back to me, just long enough to know part of what I had guessed.

"Why so angry, carissima?" he murmured, mocking me. Those eyes knew very well the cause of my outrage.

"You . . . you . . ." words failed me. Angrily I drained my champagne, and immediately my glass was refilled.

" 'You' . . . what?" he prompted with a benign interest. Coldly I averted my gaze, but the sudden numbing pressure of Luc's hand on my wrist brought back all my attention. "I would suggest, mia Carlotta, that you quickly forget anything your busy little mind might think it has discovered. Vapid ignorance is much more appealing in innocent young girls."

"But I don't wish to appeal to you," I lied convincingly, biting my lip to keep from crying out with pain.

"You are wise beyond your years," he murmured, letting go of me suddenly. "In the meantime I think a quiet corner would suit you much better. As I have business to discuss," and his expression dared me to ask what, "I would be happier if you were safely out of the way."

The alcove to which he led me was free of the lovely, loose-mannered women that abounded in this elegant house. Once I was comfortably ensconed on a Recamier sofa with champagne at my right Luc took his leave, pausing long enough to place a gentle, lingering kiss on the red, throbbing mark on my wrist where his cruel fingers had so lately rested.

"Do not be too curious, mi a Carlotta," he murmured softly. "For your sake as well as my own."

Needless to say, I paid no heed to his warning, but little good did it do me. It was impossible to keep track of all the people who desired a few words with Luc. He carried on at least twenty conversations, in French, German, English, and Italian. I strained to hear every word from my distant alcove, but the conversations could have been completely innocent, or completely damning. I leaned back on my silken sofa and sipped more champagne.

It was past two o'clock when Luc finally pushed back his chair and rose from the tables. The pile of money in front of him was astounding, even more so the fact that he left it as if it bored him, leaving his fellow gamesters to pounce on it with an avidity that chilled me. Taking my arm once more with great courtesy, he led me through the brightly lit halls, still as heavily populated as they had been hours earlier, into a small and quieter salon. Sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by perhaps a score of attentive and admiring men of varying ages, was what seemed at first the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

Her hair was a rich auburn, her pale white skin creamy and smooth and unblemished by any trace of freckling. Her nose was noble, her mouth overgenerous, her dark green eyes sparkling with an allure she was providing all for Luc del Zaglia. Her plump white shoulders rose out of a pale pink gown that was not, however, quite the fortunate shade she undoubtedly thought it was. Her somewhat petulant face lit up at the sight of Luc, and she lifted one plump arm in greeting.

Dragging his reluctant and slightly drunken ward behind him, Luc moved across the room to her side with his customary grace. His kiss upon the heavily beringed hand was all anyone could hope for, and it was only wishful thinking on my part that made me imagine a mocking overemphasis. The lady laughed; a light, high laugh that no doubt charmed her admirers. Being a woman, I immediately noticed she was older than I had first thought. There were lines on her aging neck, a calculating look in those dark green eyes, and an expression of dislike as she glanced over my sober figure trailing behind Luc.

"Silvana, my jewel," Luc said with a charming smile, "may I present to you my ward, Carlotta Theresa Sabina Morrow?" There was always just the slightest emphasis on my third name, that curse from a classically minded godmother. I curtseyed properly and murmured a polite, if somewhat slurred, good evening.

Milady Silvana responded stonily, turning to Luc in a flood of Italian as patrician as her elegant bearing. "What a charming little girl she is, Luc! You did not tell me she was such a beauty. Life must prove a great deal more entertaining at Edentide since her arrival. Perhaps that is why you haven't been to see me in so long."

"My dove, you should know as well as I that I had business in Genoa these last weeks," he said in a gently chiding undertone. "I returned only this evening, and the first thing I did was fly to your side."

"With a stop at the gaming tables on the way?" Her pretty lip curled. "Does this one know anything?" She gestured to me with a graceful arm. "Does she understand Italian?"

"Supposedly not," he replied imperturbably. "Giorgio said you might have information for me?"

"She does not look as if she were burdened with much intellect," the divine Silvana said cattily, switching to a poorly accented and ungrammatical German. "But one can never be certain. I have a most interesting paper for you, my dear Count. I was hoping to be able to deliver it to you in private." She swept a look of acute dislike over my innocent face. "Apparently that is not to be."

"I beg your forgiveness, my goddess," Luc replied in his flawless command of the same tongue, and I wondered that the silly wench should be taken in by his outrageous flattery. "Shall I kiss your lovely hand once more and you can give it to me?"

She sniffed haughtily. "Giorgio will place it in your cloak before you leave. I believe he may have already done so. I had given up on you ever finding the time to spare for poor Silvana. I may remind you," she added, switching to an even more atrocious French that clearly revealed her well- hidden plebeian descent, "that I am not to be toyed with. My lovers have always been completely devoted to me until / dismissed them, and I am not about to be betrayed for a wretched little pink and white schoolgirl. Not by anyone, Luc del Zaglia, not even by you!" Two blotches of angry color stained her pale white cheeks as she cast an angry glance in my direction.

"My angel," protested Luc, obviously much amused, "are you jealous of my little ward?"

"She is ugly and stupid and no doubt an Austrian whore in the bargain," she purred, "but I do not trust you, my friend. Remember," she finished, still in her terrible French, "that I have had the richest and most powerful men of Europe at my feet."

"And no doubt you trampled all over them just as you demolish their languages," I snapped in my perfect French, unable to control my temper a moment longer.

Silvana's rage would have been magnificent enough, had it not been augmented by Luc's burst of laughter. The divine Silvana responded with some pungent and extremely idiomatic references in Italian to my parentage and sexual habits. I immediately replied in kind, shocking even myself. Silvana then added a few choice remarks about Luc, which fascinated rather than repulsed me, and I finished with a long and beautifully phrased denunciation of her predilection for Austrians, Arabs, and horses.

This was too much, even for Luc. Still laughing, he dragged me out of the room, barely in time to avoid Silvana's lunge at me. The room was abuzz with horrified conversation as half a dozen men endeavored to placate Silvana's outraged sensibilities, and, as I realized the last extremely obscene exchange had been in Italian, I felt a flood of mortification sweep over me. I had not time for apologies or self-recriminations, for we were out of the house in a few short moments, with a still-amused Luc pausing only long enough to feel for the crackle of paper in the pocket of his elegant black cape before he hurried me into the early morning streets of Venice.

During the short and silent walk home I several times considered apologizing, and several times thought better of it. Each time I remembered exactly what I said to his mistress, and the extremely indecent things she had replied, my resolution failed. We had reached the steps of Edentide before I could bring myself to speak.

I put out a hand to stop him. In the dark of early morning I couldn't read his expression, which was perhaps easier for me. "I am sorry if I insulted your mistress," I began stiffly.

"If?" There was a muffled laugh from the tall, cloaked figure. "Do you think there is any possibility that she wasn't insulted?" he inquired sweetly. "I am sure your suggestions left little room for misunderstanding."

I could feel myself flush, and damned the man and the champagne I had drunk in excess that night. "Your mistress," I observed charitably, "is a fishwife."

"True," he allowed. "But she has her uses." I thought back to the mysterious paper that now resided in his pocket, and wondered whether I would have any chance of retrieving it if I fell in a deliberate swoon into his strong arms. And then, remembering the feel of his mouth on mine, decided I would rather jump in the canal than suffer the mixed torment of being in Lucifero's arms once more, and let the moment pass. Sweeping ahead of him, I mounted the stairs and marched past the amazed form of Thornton, into the dark and damp corridors of the Palazzo Edentide.

Chapter Seventeen

When I awoke the next day it was a little past noon. The bright spring sunlight was fighting its way through my louvered shutters, giving my green damask paneled room its customary underwater atmosphere. The lithe form of Rosetta moved among the furniture with surprising stealth. I cracked open one eye, fascinated, while she pawed through my chest of drawers, through the delicate lace- trimmed underwear Luc had supposedly chosen for me, as she rummaged among my dresses hanging so neatly. There were almost twenty of them at this point, half of which I had yet to wear, and I wondered whether I should make a peace gesture and offer her one of them. We were close enough in size so that it wouldn't require much alteration. With this Christian thought in mind I rose up among my linen covers.

She let out a shriek, jumping nearly a foot in the air, and then turned on me with a malevolent expression on her beautiful face, a face that almost, but not quite, equaled her rival, the divine Silvana. "Stupid English cow," she spat in Italian. "You frightened me. Why don't you go back to England where you belong? You will only bring disaster upon him."

I hesitated only a moment. My secret was out in the open after my indiscretions last night, so I answered her in the same language. "Stupid Italian cow," I replied sweetly, "I intend to stay right here. What were you doing, going through my closets?"

Her mouth dropped open, revealing two rows of less than perfect teeth. It took her barely a moment to recover her composure, though, and she immediately took the offensive once more. "So, you speak Italian! It's not to be wondered at, such a dishonest one you are. And what he will think when I tell him you have understood every word he has said over the past few weeks, I shudder to think!"

I climbed out of bed and moved to open the shutters, wanting fresh air and sunlight to cleanse the room of her dislike. "You needn't trouble yourself, Rosetta. He already knows. And now, if you would be so good as to bring me my coffee . . ."

I had pushed her a little too far with my grande dame manner. Beneath my irritation I felt sorry for her, caught as she was in the trap of poverty and a hopeless infatuation with the demon-count. I could sympathize with the latter problem only too well, and remembered my earlier resolve to befriend her.

I took a step in her direction. "Rosetta, I'm sorry if I've been rude. There is no need for us to fight all the time. I promise you, Luc has no interest in me whatsoever. Not a bit."

My propitiatory gesture was in vain, however, for the look she gave me out of her magnificently flashing black eyes would have shriveled a stronger soul than mine. "You are sorry for me!" she hissed. "How dare you! It is I who am sorry for you, stupid English girl. For I will win, and you will lose, and then I will laugh. Laugh, do you hear?" And she demonstrated, a deep guttural sound that was frightening in its malice. "In the meantime, I will be glad to bring you some coffee. And I hope you will be fool enough to drink it!"

With that she slammed out of my room, leaving me trembling slightly with the aftermath of her venom. From now on, it was obvious, I would have to take my meals directly from the hands of Mrs. Wattles. Rosetta apparently had some Borgia blood in her veins, and I didn't choose to be her victim.

My night of debauchery didn't have much effect on my spirits or my appetite. A slight, nagging headache disappeared after I gorged myself on some of Mrs. Wattles's freshly baked scones, accompanied by two full-size cups of Venetian coffee. With more energy than I usually commanded I found myself alone and bored in the west salon, with a full four hours before Luc would awake stretching ahead of me.

Not that his rising would make any difference to me, I quickly assured myself. The sooner I was away from his pernicious influence the happier I would be. To that end I decided my immediate duty was to recover that mysterious slip of paper before Luc had a chance to dispose of it. I could hardly search his rooms while he lay sleeping—the very thought terrified me. But a truly clever man wouldn't be likely to leave his secrets out in the most obvious place. I would make a casual search of some of the other rooms before sneaking into Luc's while he was at his inevitable gaming, though whether the divine Silvana would welcome him tonight was another question.

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 sorry 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.

I was only unconscious for a few moments. I was vaguely aware of my sturdy English body being lifted by someone with seemingly unlimited strength. I made a brief attempt to struggle, still befuddled by the blow on the back of my head, when to my horror I felt myself being tipped out into the cool Venetian air. Soft breezes swept by me as I hurtled downward, and a moment later I was immersed in the cold, dark waters of the canal.

I seemed to sink down and down. Instinctively I had held my breath when I first hit the canal, and by the time my feet touched the slimy bottom my lungs were near to bursting. I gave myself a push, and felt my foot stick for one horrifying moment. And then I was spiraling upwards.

A moment later my head was clear, and I sucked in deep gulps of air with tearful gratitude. Carefully I treaded water, recognizing with despair that my waterlogged skirts would drag me back down before long, opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my lungs.

That forced me back under water, and this time I swallowed quarts of the filthy stuff. I came up again, gasping and choking, and screamed again. Unfortunately the room I had exited so precipitously overlooked a small side canal, one free from traffic and witnesses. The noise of the Grand Canal must have drowned out my calls for help, and as I screamed again I felt myself slipping back into the water for what I knew would be the last time. Even the best swimmer was helpless against the weight of four petticoats and a heavy skirt. My lack of shoes was the only thing that had preserved me this long.

The water closed over my head once more, and I felt myself sink into the blackness.

When my senses returned I was lying face down on the cobbled alleyway, vomiting canal water, while my back was being pushed and pummeled by a pair of pitiless hands. I tried to call out for mercy but nothing more than a croak issued forth. My rescuer must have heard, however, for I heard an exclamation of relief as I felt my poor soaked body being turned on its back. The sight my dazed eyes met was the worried blue gaze of Mark Ferland.

"Are you all right?" he demanded, his hands passing over my body to ascertain my wounds in an entirely pleasant manner. "I was nearly too late."

I smiled wanly, and reached a limp hand to touch his dripping face. "I'll be fine," I croaked, fighting down the urge to rid myself of more lagoon water. "How did you happen . . . ?"

"I've been watching the palazzo," he admitted, looking & trifle abashed. "Ever since you agreed to help us I've been worried about you. Luc del Zaglia can be extremely dangerous. Apparently my worries were justified."

"You think Luc did this?" I questioned in a hoarse whisper. My throat ached from the water and the subsequent retching. "He couldn't have!"

"Then who else?" he demanded logically.

I just shook my head before such a natural question. "I have no idea. Three people heard me say this morning that I couldn't swim. It must have been one of them." I shook my head to try to clear away the confusion. "Holger or Jean-Baptiste or Rosetta." I tried to recall a fleeting impression I had had, just before I had been hit. One of sense or smell. But it escaped me.

"Captain von Wolfram is on duty in the piazza at this moment," Mark corrected me. "I saw him scarcely an hour ago. And Perrier and the Italian girl went off some hours earlier, heading in the direction of Torcellano. There is no one else it could be."

I still refused to accept it. "Luc knows I am spying," I admitted reluctantly. "He is very suspicious of me. But there are easier ways of ensuring my silence than bashing me over the head and throwing me in the canal." I struggled to sit up, and his strong, gentle hands went behind my wet back. "We shouldn't rule out the servants. There is something underhanded about them."

"Tell me."

I quickly related the tale of Mildred and the magnificent sapphire ring, the odd conversations and strange looks I had observed. Mark shook his head as he helped me to my feet.

"It's possible," he admitted, "but I doubt it. Mildred is harmless and silly—I can't see her tossing you out a window." He looked down at me, deep concern in his warm eyes. "It's amazing you survived that long in the canal, not knowing how to swim."

"Oh, I know how to swim," I reassured him. "I merely used it as an excuse not to accompany Jean-Baptiste on his little picnic. I don't trust him."

"And I don't trust Del Zaglia, for all your determined championing of him. Let's just hope that next time he won't be more fortunate when he decides to dispense with his rich little ward."

I began to shiver then, more from reaction than from the warm spring air. I looked back up at the palazzo, the sinister marble walls with the green lichen seeming to ooze from the stones, and I wondered if I could see a face peering down at me from the third floor. I squinted, and made out the elegant form of my feline friend, Patrick. A moment later the apparition vanished, and I decided not to mention anything to my stalwart companion. But somehow I could not feel easy.

"I'd better go in and change before the servants wake up," I said reluctantly, struggling to my bare feet. "There is no way I can thank you." On impulse I reached up on tiptoes and bestowed a grateful kiss on his smooth-shaven -cheek.

Absurdly, he blushed, and my heart warmed to him even more. "I wish you didn't have to go back," he said mutinously.

"You were the one who asked me to help," I pointed out fairly if cruelly.

"I know. I've regretted it ever since. Just remember, I'll be watching. Either I or a friend. And if anything goes wrong you can send a message to the little tailor's shop in the Campo San Paolo. Ask for Giacomo."

"IH remember," I promised, lifting up my wet, heavy skirts and running off around the corner on bare feet. Both doorways, I knew, would be guarded by a sleeping Cerberus—Antonio on one, Thornton on the other. My best way in was the ground floor balcony that led off the dining room. I had eyed it carefully on previous occasions and it appeared low enough for a lady of sufficient athletic prowess to scramble up to and down from. In my wet and weakened condition it took considerably more effort than I had imagined, but within five minutes I had half crawled, half jumped onto the outside lip of the ledge, indelicately hoisted myself over the wrought-iron railing, and sped upstairs, hoping the puddle marks would dry in the hot sunlight. I could place no reliance on the marks obliterating themselves in the cool, damp hallways, but with luck no one in this haphazard household would notice. If they did, I could always come up with a suitable lie.

As I rubbed my naked, shivering body down with a rough, thick towel and tried to assemble something passable out of my stringy, canal-drenched hair, my mind kept wandering to my demonic guardian. I couldn't help wondering whether he had braved the terrors of the daylight to cast me out of the third-floor window so that I would surely drown, leaving only Patrick as a mute witness to the regrettable accident. Or whether he had sent a henchman. Or whether, as I hoped and prayed, it was someone entirely different, with no ties with Luc del Zaglia except an unceasing enmity. And I wished with all my heart that Jean-Baptiste hadn't been on a picnic with my self- proclaimed enemy, Rosetta, and that Holger had not been so noticeably on duty. I would have gladly believed murder of any of those three, rather than of Luc.

Pulling on a warm wool wrapper, I gave in to my exhaustion and the still energetic revolutions of my stomach and lay down on my bed. A large thud sounded, and Patrick, a concerned expression on his elegant face, stalked across the room, leapt on my bed, and proceeded to curl himself up at my stomach, purring noisily. With a brief caress for my self-appointed protector, I leaned back and slept.

Chapter Nineteen

After my harrowing experiences of the afternoon, I was in no mood to put up with Luc's sardonic innuendoes. For once I hoped he would spend the evening out, so I would not have to endure his disturbing company. As luck would have it, for the first time in weeks he showed no disposition to rush away from the dinner table. He merely sat there, toying with a bone-handled fruit knife, as his topaz-colored eyes watched me in silent absorption.

It quite put me off my feed. Even Jean-Baptiste's unusually jovial company failed to lighten the atmosphere, and our stilted conversation petered out after the cheese course.

"Did you know, Perrier," Luc's voice suddenly broke the uneasy stillness, "that my poor ward narrowly escaped death this afternoon?"

I looked up, startled, and my eyes flew to Luc's unreadable face. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Frenchman's look of suitable concern, and yet a suspicious and totally unjustified thought entered my mind. Perhaps the news of this afternoon's near drowning was not totally unexpected.

"What's all this?" he demanded after a pause that was just a shade too long. "You never mentioned such a thing, my dear Mademoiselle Morrow."

"No, she didn't, did she?" Luc said softly, and a chill ran down my spine. "Perhaps she didn't want to alarm me. Nevertheless, she fell into the canal, and it was only the fortunate and highly coincidental appearance of a fellow countryman of hers that saved her life."

"No!" Jean-Baptiste protested, suitably amazed.

"Yes, my dear fellow," the demon-count corrected. "The noble hero dragged my fair ward to the side of the quay and rescued her from certain drowning. I am still at a loss, dear Charlotte, as to how you happened to be in the canal in the first place, and how this young man happened to be so fortuitously close at hand. It is still too early in the season to attempt swimming in our lovely waters."

I knew I was pale from the strain, and I glared at my mocking guardian with suitable rage that failed to quell him one bit. "I was pushed out of a window," I replied stiffly, and was enraged to see him stifle a little spurt of laughter. "Probably by you," I snapped, tossing down my napkin angrily. "As for the Englishman, it is sheer luck that he appeared. For all you could care I could have drowned. Were you by any chance watching all this, hoping I'd sink into the canal and leave you in control of my fortune?" My voice was unpleasantly shrill, but the day had been too much for me, and all my fears and suspicions were coming to the fore.

"Mademoiselle Morrow!" Jean-Baptiste remonstrated, shocked at my plain speaking.

"No, don't stop her, my friend, I find it fascinating to hear of all the terrors an adolescent mind can concoct. No doubt she was doing her usual job of rummaging through some deserted chest of drawers or desk in one of the unoccupied rooms, tripped on a frayed rug, and over the balcony she went. Tell me, caristsima," he continued, and his voice was silky, "have you ever read Northanger Abbey by one of your so-talented countrywomen?"

"Certainly," I replied stiffly, at a loss. "I have read all of Miss Austen's works. What has that to do with the matter?"

He smiled enigmatically. "You should take the time to reread it, little one. It might keep you out of trouble, instead of wasting your time snooping around. You were probably leaning across the balcony, trying to peer into our neighbor's bedroom, I would put nothing past you."

"Luc, I must object to your unkindness," Jean-Baptiste protested nobly. "The poor girl must have suffered a dreadful shock; there is no cause to berate her like this!"

"Am I berating her?" Luc demanded innocently of the world in general. "I put up with her prevarications and curiosity with the patience of a saint. Even her outrageous suspicions I accept with equanimity. Tell me, mia Carlotta, did you know this English fellow?"

"I have no idea who he is," I muttered ungraciously, feeling curiously and irrationally in the wrong.

Luc smiled, his brilliant, blinding smile. "You see, my dear Perrier, another lie. The man is Mark Ferland, he is in some way attached to the British consul, and my ward and the redoubtable Miss Fenwick had tea with him at Florian's not two days ago." He shrugged his black-clad shoulders expressively, a demonic gleam in his light eyes. "I will have to talk with Mister Ferland himself. Perhaps he will be more willing to come up with the truth." He rose then, in the warm glow of the candelight towering over me. "Let us go in search of the gentleman, Perrier. Secrecy wearies me."

Jean-Baptiste rose hastily, sneaking a worried glance in my direction. His warm brown eyes met my pleading ones, and he gave me a slight nod, just enough to reassure me. Perrier would not allow my guardian to commit what might be another in a long line of brutal murders. The episode of Georges Martin would not be repeated.

I simulated a, yawn. "Do as you wish. Your suspicions are quite as outlandish as you deem mine to be. Nevertheless, if it will set your mind at ease, I hope you find Mister . . . Mister Ferland, did you call him? . . . and that he will be able to satisfy your questions." I yawned again, and rose. "Good evening, gentlemen." I was inordinately pleased with my indolent act as I glided by my two companions. Before I was out of reach, however, Luc's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip.

I stifled my instinctive moan, determined not to cry out in pain. I looked up into his eyes, and found no enjoyment of his cruelty, no delight in hurting me, just an expression of mocking sadness that somehow tore at me more than anything else might have. I bit my lip to stop its trembling, and he loosened his punishing hold on my wrist. Without another word I turned and ran from the room.

It was very sudden. One moment I was deeply asleep, the next wide-eyed and motionless in terror. I lay unmoving beneath my heavy covers, not even daring to turn my head. Moonlight streamed through my shuttered balcony door, casting patterns on the marble floor with its elegant rugs. The silence was so deep I could feel it pressing on me from all sides, and yet I knew, somewhere deep inside of me, that evil was in the room—an ancient, terrible evil so vast I couldn't even begin to comprehend it, an evil with its roots in eternity.

Summoning all my courage I moved my head a mere fraction of an inch, then a bit more, then completely around. My lovely, elegant room, which at times seemed more a prison than a haven, was deserted. Not a living creature was in sight, not even Patrick, and yet I knew I was not alone. Something so awful it defied description watched me, waited for me. Slowly I turned my head back to the moonlit reflection on my floor, and watched with horror as a figure just beyond the slatted balcony door blotted out those lines of light.

My nerve broke, and I rose out of bed, shrieking like a banshee. A moment later I had flung open the door and was down the hall, dressed skimpily enough in a thin cotton nightdress, barefoot, with my hair tangling down my back like a wild woman. And just behind me, so close I could imagine its foul breath on my neck, was the indescribable horror I was trying so desperately to escape.

I practically tumbled down the long flight of marble stairs, catching myself just in time, twisting my ankle in the process. The few second's delay brought the sounds of pursuit even closer to my panicky ears, and, sobbing with hysterical fright, I ran on, down to the first flight, trying vainly to peer over my shoulder into the dark from whence I came, afraid I would see what frightened me so. In my blind panic I ran straight into a very large, solid body in the middle of the first floor hall.

My reactions have never made sense to me. When I looked up and met the unreadable topaz eyes of my guardian, I should have shrunk away in horror. Instead, with all the illogic I alone seem to possess, I threw myself, cowering, into his arms, whimpering and sobbing like a child in unreasoning relief.

Strangely enough, he asked no questions. His face was grim as he enfolded me into his strong arms, and through my tears I noticed that he was in his shirtsleeves, the white linen shirt unbuttoned to the waist, exposing a tanned, smooth chest, the significance of which escaped me until many days later, when it was almost too late. His heart was pounding beneath my head, slow, even beats at variance with my fluttering pulse.

"There . . . there is something in my room," I managed to stammer after a long while. "Something cold and evil and . . . and horrible."

"What?" he asked flatly, perhaps hoping to calm me by his prosaic question, his hands gentle but firm on my trembling body.

"I don't know," I cried, shaking all over from cold and fright, and, I must admit, excitement caused by Luc's proximity. "I didn't see anything more than a shadow on the floor, but I felt its presence. It was real, and horrid!" I was still crying, unable to stop it, and he reached out a slim hand and brushed away the tears.

"Very well, little one, I will go and check on this 'thing' that frightens you out of a good sleep. And you will see it is nothing more than bad dreams." But he made no move to release me, and I clung to him in desperation, more terrified than I had ever been in my short, eventful life at the thought of being alone in this damp and decaying palazzo, alone and victim to that ageless evil.

"Please!" I pleaded through my tears. "Don't leave me.

I . . . I . . ." As I realized what I was asking I fell silent, biting my hand to try to still the sobs that were racking my body so inexorably. I could feel him looking down at me. Without another word he scooped me up into Ms strong arms and started down the hall.

His bedroom was very dark. Only the moonlight provided illumination, shining on the large bed, still neatly made. Kicking the door shut with his foot, he moved across the floor on silent feet, making light of his burden. Patrick's golden eyes glowed from the foot of the bed as he watched us with sleepy curiosity.

With the grace that comes from long practice Luc stretched out on the bed, still holding my shivering body in his arms with a tenderness I wouldn't have thought him capable of. Slowly, gradually, my sobs lessened and then ceased altogether, and I nestled closer, my head against the hollow of his shoulder.

A few moments later all that was left of my hysteria were a few lingering, shuddering sobs, and then, lying so safely and comfortably in the demon-count's arms, I slept.

Chapter Twenty

It was in those dark, still moments Immediately preceding dawn that I awoke. In my first few moments of half- consciousness I was aware only of the most profound serenity I had ever known in my turbulent life. Totally at peace for perhaps the first time, I snuggled closer to the object that seemed to emanate such warmth and protection.

And then suddenly I was completely awake, still not daring to move a muscle, as I became chillingly aware of exactly where I was: lying in the demon-count's arms, for all the world as if that was where I belonged.

Through the darkened shutters I could make out the first traces of daylight, a daylight that was surely never allowed to penetrate into the secure reaches of Luc's bedroom. Slowly, carefully, I moved out of the protecting circle of his arms, almost crying out with the physical pain of separation from him. Sitting up on the still-made bed, I looked down at my guardian's smooth, untroubled face.

He slept as one dead, did Lucifero del Zaglia, an unpleasant notion on my part that I couldn't rid myself of. At some point during the night he had drawn a rich velvet throw over us, and with an inaudible sigh I slipped from beneath it, my bare feet cringing as they touched the chill marble floor. Pulling my disordered nightdress around my chilled body, I was conscious of two overwhelming emotions. First was a desire to crawl back into that bed beside him, and second, outraged and illogical pride that the demon-count, self-proclaimed lecher and despoiler of virgins, had allowed his ward to sleep the night through unmolested in his arms. Was I so unattractive? I demanded of myself. Did he agree with Rosetta's estimation, that I was a stupid, ugly English cow? Surely I had practically offered myself to him last night, and he hadn't even bothered to take me! I could hardly acquit him of noble motives: I doubted he knew the meaning of morality.

Suddenly my eyes fell upon a beautifully inlaid rosewood desk beside the bed. On it was a book, with a sheaf of papers hastily stuffed inside it. I hadn't the nerve to read them—Luc could awake at any time and disprove the rumors of the supernatural that surrounded him. But I doubted he would.

Hastily I took up the papers and tucked them down the front of my thin night rail. I turned back to look at my guardian.

Staring down at the chiseled perfection of his alabaster profile, I wanted to scream and weep and hit him. I had to content myself with slamming the heavy, inlaid door very loudly behind me.

In the early hours of the dawn the halls of Edentide lost their terrifying qualities. Indeed, before last night I had never been frightened, and in the rational light of day I decided it must have all been a nightmare, an unexpected reaction to my near drowning of the previous day. So silent was I on my cold, bare feet that I crept up on the redoubtable Thornton, still in rather grimy shirtsleeves, as he perused some small, fascinating object in one of his meaty paws.

"Good morning, Thornton," I greeted him serenely, and was diabolically pleased to see him jump with unaccustomed nervousness, dropping the small object he had been fondling onto the floor where it rolled and came to an abrupt rest against my toes. Thornton dived for it, but I was too quick for him. I retrieved the object, suffering only from a bruised forehead as Thornton careened against me. He drew himself stiffly upright, his clear, colorless eyes taking in my scanty clothing, bare feet, and generally tumbled appearance with an interest mixed with an unlikely nervousness.

"If you please, miss," he said in a wheedling tone of voice, holding out his thick hand. "That's my property you've got there."

What I "had there" was a small, exquisitely-shaped sapphire heart, obviously designed to be worn as a pendant. It seemed curiously familiar, and as I cast my mind back, for once my hazy memory did not fail me. A dark, damp-stained portrait in one of the unused third-floor bedrooms portrayed a typical Venetian beauty, with her heavy blond curls, large drooping eyes, and imperious nose. On her somewhat thick neck rested this very pendant, and on one plump hand was the sapphire ring Mildred Fenwick had paraded about with earlier.

I smiled sweetly. "I think not, Thornton. What would you be doing with a sapphire pendant?"

Being unoriginal, he came up with the same excuse Mildred had offered. The beads of nervous sweat stood out on his high-domed forehead. "Sapphire, miss? Surely not! That there is a piece of quartz. Belonged to my dear old mum, God rest her soul. The only thing she could leave to her Bert, and I've treasured it always. It's not worth much, miss, just sentimental, y'know." His perfect butler's accent was slipping in the agitation, and he rubbed his bony hands together nervously.

"Really?" I said innocently. "And what were you planning to do with this worthless little souvenir?"

He licked his thin lips, his pink tongue darting over them like a snake's. "We all fall upon hard times, miss. The master isn't one to remember to pay regular, and I've had a few unexpected expenses. I was planning on selling it, much as it breaks my heart to do so." He held out his hand again, and I could see it trembling slightly. "Give it o'er, miss, please."

"How glad I am to hear you say that, Mister Thornton,"

I chirruped with bright enthusiasm that secretly made my head ache. "Unfortunate that you have fallen on hard times, but fortunate for me. I have taken an instant fancy to this worthless piece of quartz, and I shall have the count reimburse you for it. I'm sure once he sees it he'll decide on a suitable recompense for you, my dear Thornton."

And then, with the jewel still clutched tightly in my hand, I swept up the stairs, for all the world like a duchess in full court dress, rather than a barefoot, thinly clad English girl a little too foolhardy for her own good. I left Thornton babbling strangled protests and excuses in my wake.

My room was just as I left it the night before. The bedclothes were tumbled on the floor, the shuttered balcony door still tightly shut against intruders and the bright Italian sunlight. Suddenly I was very, very tired.

I retrieved the papers from their uncomfortable nest in my bodice and stared at them absently. They made little sense to me, and I wondered if it was my faulty Italian that made the hastily scribbled words appear like gibberish. Or was it perhaps a code?

I would let Mark sort it out. At that moment I cared not one bit about Lucifero del Zaglia. That son of Satan was more than capable of taking care of himself.

I tucked the papers under my pillow and turned to face my room. Pulling the dresser that contained my frivolous lace underclothing against the door to prevent unwarranted intruders, I pulled the bed back together and crawled wearily beneath the sheets. Whatever evil had entered my room in the dead of night, it would certainly never bother me during the blessedly safe hours of daylight. And with an idiotically free mind I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The sun was beginning to set when I finally awoke. My room was in an eerily murky half-darkness, and the remembered terrors of the night came rushing back. With admittedly trembling fingers I lit the lamp beside my bed, illuminating the thankfully untenanted corners of my vast room. The sapphire pendant winked at me from the bedside table, and I decided that the first order of business would be to hide it until I decided what I would do with the lovely thing. I was loath to present it to Luc, and yet let Thornton get his ham-handed fists on it I would not do.

I climbed out of bed and was suddenly assailed by a weak, dizzy feeling. My mind quite naturally jumped to the conclusion that I was drugged again, when I belatedly realized I hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours. For a solid trencherwoman like myself that was something of a record.

Sapphire still clenched in my fist, I hurried to the large armoire, determined to dress in the first thing at hand and then sneak down the back stairs to raid Mrs. Wattles's better than well-stocked kitchen. I swung the door open and stood there, numb with horror.

A moment later, the still, bloodless body of the once- lovely Rosetta tumbled at my feet, her pansy-brown eyes staring sightlessly in that white, cold face. I stumbled backwards, but by some hideous misfortune the dead girl had landed on my trailing hem, so that inadvertently I dragged the body part way across the room before it lessened its death grip. I stumbled back against the bed, gathered sufficient energy and began to scream, loudly and shrilly, over and over and over again.

I accepted the proffered glass of wine gratefully, draining it with indecent haste after one long suspicious look in Luc's direction. My eyes strayed around the small, formal little salon Holger von Wolfram had chosen for his base of operations. The candlelight successfully hid the fraying carpets, the soiled slipcovers, the chipped and peeling paint. The look my one-time suitor cast upon me was cold and unsympathetic, and I wondered that I had ever been taken in by his spuriously dull-witted demeanor.

"Perhaps, fraulein, you will be good enough to repeat for me the happenings of last night," he ordered stiffly, glancing down at some mysterious papers beneath his heavy fist. "I would like to be clear in all matters before I make my arrest."

"You know who did it?" I asked breathlessly, leaning forward, my eyes carefully avoiding the unreadable, dark expression on Luc's face. He was leaning negligently against one damask-covered wall, having ironically declined Holger's offer of a seat in his own house. I had yet to exchange a word with him since the previous midnight, and my poor, tortured mind was beset with conflicting emotions as far as my demonic guardian was concerned. Outraged pride, anger, embarrassment, and most of all, a sneaking, overwhelming fear for his safety made my hands tremble so that I had to clench them tightly in my lap.

Holger cast a meaningful glance at my unconcerned guardian. "I have a very good idea," he said pompously, and I felt the fear clutch at my heart a little more tightly.

"I awoke in the middle of the night," I began, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair in an attempt to appear at ease. "I felt there was something in my room, something . . . something evil." Even now, remembering my unreasoning terror of the night before, my mouth went dry. "I could see someone's silhouette out on the balcony, outside my shutters."

"And?" he demanded impatiently.

I was aware of his determination, his furious regard, as I was aware of Luc's golden eyes watching me from across the small room. "I . . . I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs," I stammered.

"Did you call for help?"

"No, at least, I don't think so. I was too frightened even to think." I looked up into Holger's grim face with my most appealing expression, and for a moment the stern lines softened into what might hopefully have been considered sympathy but bore more of a resemblance to lust. "I thought I was being chased, though now I realize that is not so."

"Why do you realize that, fraulein?" he pounced.

"Because I ran into the count, and there was no one following me. No one at all."

Holger turned to Luc. "Is that true?" Skepticism was heavy in his accented voice.

Luc shrugged. "True enough. My ward was most probably terrified by some nightmare. She had suffered an unfortunate dip in the canal yesterday, and it must have upset her more than she realized."

"That still does not account for the serving girl," Holger snarled. "Have you some easy excuse for that?"

A brief, chill smile flitted across his saturnine face. "But of course, my dear Captain. This house is easily accessible if someone truly wanted entry. No doubt the ghoul of Venice decided my house would be a perfect place to dispose of his most recent victim. Maniacs quite often have bizarre senses of humor, I've been told. He must have crept in one of the ground-floor entrances, followed Rosetta upstairs, and murdered her, stuffing her body in the nearest available closet. Which sadly belonged to my impressionable ward."

"Very convenient. And when do you think all this happened?"

I could feel the trap closing in, and I wanted to call out, to warn Luc to be careful. But for once, wisely, I kept my mouth shut.

"I would imagine sometime in the early evening," he replied. "While we were at dinner, no doubt. Before Charlotte went up to bed."

"And that's where you are wrong!" Holger shouted, causing me to jump nervously. "I place you under arrest, Count Lucifero del Zaglia, for the murder of Rosetta di Serbelloni, among others."

"My dear Von Wolfram," Luc protested wearily, "Whatever for?"

"Because the surgeons say without a doubt she died somewhere between the hours of midnight and dawn—the hours when you are free to roam this damp, wretched city, committing foul and loathsome crimes. No one else in this house would be free to wander around during those dark hours without arousing comment. You have been watched, Del Zaglia, and we know for a fact that you never left this house last night. No, you stayed here to claim your newest victim. I only wonder that Fraulein Morrow has survived In your hellish clutches for so long!"

All this was very stirring, but Luc rose to his full height, almost half a foot taller than Von Wolfram, a tired expression on his face. "Are you sure you're not Italian, Captain? Such a love of melodrama, to be sure. I did not murder Rosetta between the hours of midnight and dawn."

"So you say," the Austrain sneered. "But where is your proof?"

For the first time since I had left Luc's bed my eyes met his, and the rueful expression in their golden depths threw a new fear into me. He would not say a word, would be convicted of a murder I alone knew he couldn't have committed, rather than speak out and sully my reputation. I almost burst into tears at his nobility, determined to speak out myself and save him. I needn't have bothered.

"My proof sits in front of you, my good Captain. Miss Morrow was with me from a little before midnight until dawn this morning."

All of Holger's regard for me could not have been specious, for he blanched visibly at Luc's idly spoken words. "No!" he protested.

"Yes," Luc mocked him. "Is it not true, little one?"

I threw him a glance of intense dislike. "As Count del Zaglia has so chivalrously stated, I spent the night with him," I said in a cold, slipped voice.

"In his bedroom?" Holger gasped.

"In his bed."

Suddenly the Austrian crashed his fist down on the delicate papier-mache table in front of him. "I will not have it," he screamed in German. "It is lies, all lies!"

"It is the truth," I replied wearily in that same tongue.

"Do you realize, young woman, that this will very likely be reported in the newspapers?" he demanded after a long moment. "The international press has been most concerned with the ghoul of Venice. Any news about his latest atrocities are sent by correspondents all over the world. The London papers have been especially interested, and will be likely to reprint your guardian's alibi. How would your friends and relatives react to that, eh? Your name, besmirched before all the world?"

"I'm sure they will think it no more than I deserve," I replied wearily. "And now, if that is all . . ." I rose, keeping my eyes away from that area of the room that Luc dominated.

"I have not dismissed you," Holger snapped.

Suddenly I was very angry, at Holger and Luc in particular and men in general. They sickened me, and if I spent another minute in their company I would lose control completely.

"Well, I have dismissed you!" I shouted suddenly, slapping at his restraining hand.

"I must warn you, gnadiges Fraulein, that this man will not escape me for much longer. That he had wickedly seduced you is to be expected, that you would lie for him is also obvious. But his free days are numbered, and where will you be once your protector is gone?"

I pulled against his hand in vain. "Don't you realize," I said wearily, "that you are mistaken? He didn't murder Rosetta. I wouldn't lie for a murderer."

He sneered. "I care not whether he murdered a hundred maidservants. If you have no idea what his crimes are far be it from me to enlighten you. Perhaps he will tell you next time you are in bed together."

Unthinkingly I reached out and slapped his bovine face. It was like hitting a boulder. "And when we have your beloved Luc, and have dealt with him as we deal with all traitors, then you will have to turn to me, my dear fraulein. And after I have suitably disciplined you I'm sure we will get on quite well." He turned and smiled evilly at the demon-count. "She will be quite amenable after a while. Tell me, my dear Count . . ." The next words were so incredibly obscene I could scarce understand him. Luc was not so afflicted.

A moment later I was free from Holger's steely grasp, and the Austrian was lying on the floor, holding his stomach and groaning in pain.

"Go to your room, Carlotta, and lock yourself in," Luc ordered, his negligent grace vanished.

"You don't have to tell me that," I snapped. "But I'd rather use another room."

A brief smile lit his dark face. "You are frightened of ghosts, little one? You may of course stay in my room."

My reply was slightly less obscene than Von Wolfram's question, but Luc only laughed. "Maddelena will show you to a room that is at least halfway clean."

Holger was beginning to drag himself to his knees, groaning and clutching himself as if in mortal pain. I turned to go, and then my wretched weakness forced me to turn back. "You will be all right?" I questioned reluctantly. "He won't imprison you for striking him?"

An expression I couldn't read flitted across his dark, handsome face. "Do not worry about me, little one. I don't deserve it. Besides, the Devil looks after his own."

There was nothing left for me to do but leave the two men alone with their mortal enmity.

Chapter Twenty-one

For one who had suffered through such an incredibly varied and eventful thirty-six hours I slept surprisingly well. Maddelena, with an ill-concealed contempt, showed me to a smaller, less grand back bedroom on the second floor. The clothes still in the closet left little doubt that this had been Rosetta's room, and that fact, coupled with the room's unfortunate view of the side canal that had provided me with my recent bath did little to reassure me. The cold gleam in the housekeeper's black-currant eyes added to my unease. I had ventured to say something suitably sympathetic about Rosetta, but the old witch had forestalled me with a shrug of her heavy shoulders.

"That one!" she spat, which couldn't hurt the dust-caked floor. "She was born to die thus. If it hadn't been the vampiro it would have been one of her many lovers."

"The . . . the vampiro?" I echoed nervously.

Maddelena's laugh was not pleasant. "That's what they are saying, signorina. Best to lock your door tonight."

That was my second warning, one that I did not need. "I have every intention of doing so," I replied with dignity, "though I don't see how a locked door would keep a vampire out if he truly wanted to enter."

"True enough," she nodded seriously. "You must rub the door and windows with garlic. They can even sneak in through the keyhole. They have been known, signorina," she leaned closer, "to take the shape of bats in order to gain access to their victims. I should beware of night-flying creatures if I were you."

Her heavy breath left me no doubt that she'd be safe from the garlic-hating fiends of the night. "I could tell you many things," she added in a deep growl. "Many ways to protect yourself. A cross made of rose thorns, wolfbane, a mirror. But I think you are wise beyond your years. If the vampiro truly wants you, nothing will stop him." She moved away, leaving me quaking in cowardly terror.

"Of whom do you speak?" I demanded in a frightened croak. Quickly I cleared my throat. "Are you talking about Luc?"

An amazed expression crossed her evil, suetlike face. "The count?" she echoed, astounded. "But no, signorina. I speak of the ghoul, the vampiro, not of my noble master." And without another word she left.

It was well into the next day when I awoke, and for a moment I lay in the strange bed, wondering where I was. A noisy purring reminded me that I was not alone, Patrick having deserted his master for one more in need of consolation. I was blessed with forgetfulness for only a few moments. All too soon it came back to me.

Mentally I reviewed my position. I was a golden English virgin of almost twenty years, possessed of a large fortune and an evil guardian who was most likely a murderer, a vampire, an embezzler, and a spy. I was also quite stupidly attracted to the man. Or should I say creature?

I had further complicated my life by severing my ties with England and placing myself in this monster's hands, then turning around and promising to spy on him for the sake of my country and a young man's lovely blue eyes and broad shoulders. Two people I had known were dead, brutally murdered. Hidden in my room was perhaps incriminating evidence, evidence that could free me from the torturous hold Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia had over me. Hastily I put aside any doubts, any feelings of guilt I might have. After all, I could trust Mark to do the right thing, couldn't I? Hadn't I, without more than a few meaningful glances, to be sure, been ready to promise my lifelong faith and trust to him?

Before my better self could rise up in protest, I jumped from the bed. By instinct rather than thought I dressed quickly in the cleaner of Rosetta's two dresses and surveyed myself in the mirror, only the second I had seen in this mirrorless house. The clothes were big on me, to be sure, and nothing could disguise the disgusting "Englishness" of my appearance, but unless anyone looked closely I could pass. The Austrians had occupied Venice for years before I was born; there was no reason why I couldn't be the offspring of those fair-haired invaders and a local woman. After perusing the empty hallway I started out the door. I could only hope no one had bothered to rummage through my bedclothes. If the incriminating papers were gone so was my last hope.

The third floor was deserted. Since I had been moved it was now completely untenanted, and the brief glimpse I had had of the new girl brought in to take Rosetta's place assured me that she would rather face the fires of hell than venture onto the haunted third floor. I knew I could trust the vague and fluttery Mildred and her cohorts to feel the same way.

My room was just as I had left it, with the fortunate exception of Rosetta's body. I couldn't keep my nervous eyes from darting to the spot where she had fallen, searching for bloodstains. But of course there would be none. Holger had only verified what I had known instinctively. When the poor dead beauty had been placed in my closet she had been practically drained of her rich red blood.

Quickly I averted my eyes. For one horrid moment as I scrambled around my bed I thought the papers were gone. A moment later I was dizzy with relief. During my nightly tossses and turns I had merely dislodged them. They were bow down around the foot of the bed, happily disguised by the rumpled bed linens. Of the sapphire pendant there was no sign, and I could only surmise that Thornton or Mildred had taken advantage of the confusion and repossessed it.

I did not even pause for a cup of the rich, strong coffee Mrs. Wattles made so well. I was out of the house before anyone could stop me, marching briskly down the narrow streets. The sun was beating down on my head, gilding the oriental domes of the city, turning the dark green canal waters a silvery color. And suddenly it felt very good to be alive, very good indeed. Not dead and bloodless and in some pine coffin like poor, unhappy Rosetta. My feet gave a little skip over the cobblestones, and I met the smiling faces of the Venetians I passed with equal cheer only slightly dampened by my guilt. I had no right to feel happy with the horrible things that had been happening around me. But youth, ever resilient, had reasserted itself in my tormented breast, and as I strode onward my feet in their thin sandals took wing.

In my present costume I didn't dare stop at Florian's for a desperately needed breakfast. Looking as I did, I doubted they would serve me. Indeed, it was a little too close to the Quadri, the cafe frequented by the hated Austrians, for comfort. Holger von Wolfram was the last person I cared to run into on my current mission.

Instead I had a delicious breakfast of coffee, sweet rolls and rich, creamy butter at the small cafe in the same campo as Giacomo's tailor shop. Once I had eaten, my spirits soared even higher, and I contemplated never returning to the dark and decaying palazzo on the Grand Canal.

"Why do you ask for the Inglesi?" the small, dark little tailor demanded, perhaps fooled by my excellent Italian into thinking just what I wanted people to think.

"Why should I know him?" he added, shrugging hunched little shoulders. "I have done work for many Inglesi, many Austrians also. I cannot remember every one."

"But he told me," I insisted somewhat tearfully, my earlier good mood vanishing at this sudden setback. "He said I could get in touch with him here. His name is Ferland, Mark Ferland."

There was no softening in the black, unreadable eyes of the tailor. After a moment he shrugged again. "Perhaps I can help you, signorina, perhaps I can't. I would suggest you return home and if I run across this Mr. Ferland I will have him get in touch with you."

"But I daren't!" The thought of trying to hide the papers that now seemed to burn against my skin terrified me. I knew that if I didn't place them in Mark's strong, capable hands soon I would weaken, my resolve would crumble, and Luc would once more win.

"Then you will have to wait," he said resignedly. "Perhaps he will show up today, perhaps not. If you refuse to return home you may stay in the back room. If he is going to come he will be here by three."

"Three!" I could feel fresh tears starting. "That is hours away!"

"Four hours, signorina," he grumbled. "I do not want you here any more than you wish to be here. It could cause me great trouble with the Tedeschi. Already I have been indiscreet. Either retire to the back room or leave my shop."

I had no choice. As I slipped behind the heavy curtain into the dark, airless little cubicle Giacomo had optimistically referred to as a room, all my fears and doubts came crowding back. I sank down into a corner of the stuffy, garlic-laden closet and leaned back against the wall. At least, I thought with the last glimmering of humor I would muster for the next three hours, I would be safe from vampiros in this atmosphere.

During the next four hours I alternated between hope and despair, anger and a cheerful courage, determination and a treacherous weakening whenever I envisioned the tall, sinuously graceful form of the demon-count. Surely I was doing the right thing, giving my cares and worries over to Mark Ferland. There could be no doubt, could there? And if Luc was not doing anything wrong, it could do no harm. If he was as evil as people imagined, then he deserved whatever punishment fate meted out. Fate, or me, I wondered guiltily.

The bell in the small campo outside the tailor's shop tolled three o'clock, slowly, sonorously, and I climbed stiffly to my feet. I should have been furious, saddened, exhausted. But, truth to tell, I had slept through a good part of those four hours, and now I was free from having to make any more choices. I had tried to tell Mark, truly I had. That he hadn't shown up was no fault of mine. I could in all good conscience return to the palazzo, destroy those papers, and meet Luc's golden, all-seeing eyes with bland innocence. He would come to no ' trm through me, much as he doubtless deserved to. A great weight lifted off me.

"Charlotte?" A soft, British voice whispered, and the weight descended full force. Mark had arrived after all.

The walk back through the narrow, twisting alleyways was filled with mental torment. Even having my limp hand held in Mark's strong, capable one did little to allay my fears and doubts, and most of all my guilt.

"This is magnificent, Charlotte!" he had crowed, sweeping me into his arms in surprising exuberance when he'd perused the papers. "I couldn't have asked for anything better. The code should be simple enough to decipher—just a few days, more or less."

"What . . . what will it say?" I asked faintly, staring at my treachery with a jaundiced eye.

Mark shrugged those broad, sturdy shoulders. "Who knows? That Del Zaglia is a traitor, perhaps. But a traitor to whom, that is the question. In the meantime, your work is done. You have only to wait until I send word for you. We can leave Venice before the week is out."

"Leave?" I echoed vaguely. "We?"

A crestfallen look came over his tanned face. "You'll come with me? I know it's been far too short a time, but I thought, considering the circumstances . . ."

"You thought what?" I demanded, a little more in control.

"That you might be willing to come stay with us for a while. I've told my mother all about you. I know she'll love you at first sight. Perhaps I've been a bit too precipitate, but I thought you might reciprocate my feelings . . ."

I could feel an unaccustomed blush rising in my fair cheeks. "I am not . . . indifferent to you, Mister Ferland. I would be charmed to meet your mother," I said with stilted formality. "It's just . . . so sudden."

A light blazed in his warm blue eyes. "I wouldn't have dared to bring it up so soon, Miss Morrow, but I doubt that Venice is a very safe place for either of us much longer. There's so damned little time."

"So little time?"

"Von Wolfram grows more and more suspicious of the interfering English, as he calls us. He's a lot more powerful than he appears to be, and not a good enemy to have."

"I've become aware of that," I noted drily.

"There is a ship leaving within the next two days. I've reserved a cabin . . ." Here, ridiculously, he blushed. "You can, of course, have the cabin to yourself. I'm sure there will be room to stow a single man."

"I think, Mister Ferland, that you should stop calling me Miss Morrow if we are to travel together," I said shyly, and found myself swept into a crushing embrace that was eminently satisfying. If it lacked the breathless, drowning quality of Luc's intermittent caresses, neither did it contain any fear, of my suitor or of the deep black depths of the unknown. And it was no one's fault but mine if I emerged just a trifle disappointed.

Fortunately, Mark was too caught up in making plans for our future to notice my abstraction. Being a serious and sober Englishman, he never openly proposed, but I was well aware that he had no intention of letting me escape the parson's mousetrap, once, of course, his mother approved.

He didn't want me to return to Edentide, but we could think of no way to avoid it. The ship was not ready to take on passengers, and I could hardly stay in Mark's rooms. Legally, I was still the property of Luc del Zaglia, and Mark could be prosecuted for making off with me.

Against my better judgment he left me beneath the balcony. The tall, brooding windows of the old palazzo looked lifeless in the late afternoon sun, and yet a strange prickling on the back of my neck told me someone was watching.

"You should go now," I whispered, ducking into the shadows under the marble ledge. "If anyone should see you . . ."

"If anyone should see me they'll think twice about interfering with you," he said with reckless confidence. "You're not alone any more, Charlotte."

The disloyal thought came to me—how much pleasanter, more sensuous was the name Carlotta than plain, stuffy Charlotte. I summoned up my best smile, forbearing to tell him that I was indeed alone, and would be until I was safely aboard that ship. In answer to my smile Mark pulled me into his arms, kissing me with a healthy ardor that left me dangerously unmoved.

"Only a few more days, my dear, and we'll be safe," he said in a damnably loud voice. I tried to look misty-eyed, but my nervousness was quickly overpowering me. I pushed him away as gently but firmly as I could, returning his quick, impassioned kisses and wondering if I had made a very grave mistake.

But no, I thought, watching him hurry down the street until he was out of sight. The mistake I was making was in having any doubts at all about the suitability of the match. He loved me; he was kind, handsome, comfortably well off. And I loved him. Didn't I? I simply had to!

Tired and frightened, I leaned against the cool marble wall and watched the sun sink below the roofline of the ancient city. A real man, I told myself angrily, would not have let me return to this den of demons. A real man would have taken me back to his room and hidden me there, and damn propriety and people and everything.

But no, Mark Ferland would never so dishonor me, I thought bitterly, scrambling up over the iron railing and landing lightly on my thin-soled sandals. He must be a perfect gentleman, he must respect me enough to put my life in danger. If I made it safely back to my room I would lock my door and stay in there until Mark came to get me, I thought mutinously.

"Did you have a pleasant walk, Carlotta?" Luc's soft, menacing voice came from directly behind me. I whirled around, wondering whether I should leap off the balcony and risk a few broken bones rather than meet those hypnotizing golden eyes and the graceful, delicate, murderous hands of my guardian, adorned so prophetically with the gleaming bloodstone ring.

I put my hands back on the railing, about to leap. "Don't be any more of a fool than you've already been," he said sharply. "Your stalwart young lover isn't around to catch you. It's a great deal safer climbing up than jumping down."

I hesitated for a moment longer, but in the rapidly growing darkness the cobblestones below looked far away indeed. Squaring my shoulders, I turned and walked into the room. After all, what could he possibly do to me?

By the time I got close enough to see his face I nearly broke and ran. Beneath the cool, icy composure was an expression of such dark, bitter rage that I quaked at the sight of it. I felt smaller and weaker than I ever had, but some last vestige of bravery forced me to come directly up to him, my tousled blond hair reaching only to his shoulder.

He was dressed all in black, as usual, with the obligatory trace of white in his linen shirt that was open to the waist. He must have just risen, I thought stupidly, and found I was lost.

I looked up into those brooding, haunted eyes in his pale, sensual face, and a feeling of inevitability came over me, so that I stood there, motionless, mesmerized, trapped by his inexorable will. After a time that could have lasted seconds or hours, he spoke.

"Where are the papers, Carlotta?"

I didn't bother to deny it. "I gave them to Mark."

No expression crossed his face. "I should have known. I underestimated you, little one. A fatal mistake, it seems." His hand reached out and gently stroked my neck above the low-cut peasant blouse. His skin on mine seemed to burn with an icy fire. "You look quite fetching in Rosetta's clothing. Have you some unconscious wish to be with her throughout eternity?"

I knew then that I had very little time left on this earth. This small, pretty, decaying little room would be my last sight on earth—that, and the handsome, decadent face of my murderer, who was looking down at me with such a closed, angry expression. He was all everyone suspected, a vampire, the ghoul of Venice, and I would be his final victim before Mark deciphered those damning papers and had him arrested. But by then it would be too late for me.

"No," I said, and my voice came out in a croak. I couldn't move; I was frozen in place with his hand on my neck, his golden eyes capturing my helpless ones.

"It is only what you deserve, little one," he murmured, and his mouth moved down and brushed my lips, very lightly. He kissed my eyes, my cheeks, my chin, soft hurried little kisses that made me feel dizzy and dreaming. This must be death, I thought, not minding one bit.

"Look at me, Carlotta," he commanded sharply, and, startled out of my reverie, I looked up. It seemed to me I had never seen a face so evil or so sad, so beautiful or so deathlike. Without further warning his head moved down and I felt his teeth on my neck, sharp and painful, felt the blood come just before the blackness closed in.

Chapter Twenty-two

There was something very wet and icy cold on my neck, interfering with my pleasant and decidedly erotic dreams, I batted away at the hands that were pressing the compress on me, and felt them imprisoned in a strong grasp. Stubbornly I clung to my state of sleep. I was dead, I had no intention of giving up this pleasant nightmare any sooner than I wished to.

My tormentor thought differently. My hands were loosened, and I snuggled back amid the soft covers, prepared to drift off once more, when I was spattered with myriad drops of cold water. My eyes flew open in rage.

"God damn it!" I began, and then faded out. I was in Luc's bedroom . . . the warm candlelight was strong enough to tell me that. Sitting on the bed beside me and holding a cold compress to my neck was my murderer, an amused, rueful expression on his handsome face. He reached into a golden basin and splashed me with more water for good measure. I was too astounded to say a word, just continued to stare at him in mute amazement.

"Little one, do not look at me like that," he pleaded, a note of laughter in his voice. "I couldn't resist; you looked so gullible. I had no idea you would faint."

His words made no sense. "Am I dead?" I decided to ask with great practicality.

He pulled the compress away, and I could see faint traces of blood on the wet cloth. Dipping it into the basin and wringing it out before reapplying it to my neck, he kept his eyes averted. I squirmed as the icy material touched my skin, and reached out to capture his hand. That was one of many mistakes.

"Am I dead?" I repeated, holding onto his hand like a lifeline.

He smiled, that sad, bewitching smile. "No, little one, of course not. I let my wicked temper and my even worse sense of humor get the better of me. You were staring up at me, convinced I was all sorts of fiends, and I decided to prove you were right. I only meant to scare you." He looked truly repentant, an unusual expression of Luc del Zaglia. Repentance and something else played over his expressive countenance.

Without another word I let go of his hand, sitting up abruptly, determined to leave the bedroom. I was unceremoniously pushed back against the pillows. Luc's contrition hadn't lasted long.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, and a shiver rand down my backbone.

I struggled against his hand, fury and embarrassment fighting for control. "To my room, of course. You've had your amusement at my expense. I want to leave."

"My dear child," he said sweetly, tossing the compress in a corner and bending over me, "I have not yet had my amusement with you. You are going to stay in this room until I send you away, and you will not leave a moment sooner."

As I looked up into his hooded, topaz eyes there was no mistaking his meaning. But I was still unable to grasp it. "You . . . you don't want me," I stammered stupidly. "I spent the entire night with you already and you didn't touch me."

A mocking grin twisted his lips for a moment. "I was, for once, a gentleman. You were cold and frightened, mia Carlotta, and I didn't want to take advantage of you."

"And now?" I demanded, a small knot of dread inside me warring with another, unspeakable reaction to his nearness. "I'm still cold and frightened."

He shrugged. "I can wait no longer for you, little one. You have precipitated things with your meddling and spying. I must leave at dawn, but not before I've taken from you what's rightfully mine."

Panic burst forth in me. "You're wrong. I'm . . . I'm no longer a virgin. Mark deflowered me weeks ago!" I added triumphantly, hoping he'd believe me.

He shook his head, amused. "I'm not interested in your virginity, my love. I had expected as much. What I am going to take from you," he said, leaning down and brushing his lips across my forehead, "and what you're going to give to me," his lips gently touched the wound on my neck, "is your love." And his mouth took possession of mine.

I felt as if I were drowning, drowning, with his mouth on mine, his tongue invading me, drowning and never wishing to surface. A part of me had wanted this since I first saw him. I had longed for him, been terrified of him, hated him. And damn me for a fool, I loved him.

As if by my own volition my arms were around his neck, pulling him down to me as I answered his mouth, inexpertly, to be sure, but with all the passion my young and ardent body was capable of. His hands were deft and gentle on my flesh, slowly and sensuously depriving me of Rosetta's baggy clothes before I even knew it, before I could summon some vestige of protest at his expert handling of me. I lay naked on his bed, the candlelight casting a golden glow over my slender body that was matched by the glow in his eyes as he lay beside me. My heart was pounding wildly as he leaned down and traced the smooth surface of my skin with his mouth, his hands running along the sleek lines of my hips, his breath coming more rapidly now, matching my own desperate excitement. I knew I must be mad, to let him take me like this, but I didn't care. I moved underneath his probing hands, sighing with surprised delight only slightly clouded with the thought of all the women and all the years that had taught him how to pleasure one so.

"Little one," he whispered in my ear, his tongue sending little shivers of delight through me. Obediently I followed where he led, mindless, thoughtless, a slave to the wild passion he was arousing in me. His skin was a pale, warm tan all over, like liquid gold, and I touched it with loving wonder, awed that he should have chosen me.

His hands moved lower. Vainly I protested, but he was inexorable, and in truth I didn't want to deny him, to deny myself. The first peak of pleasure took me by surprise, followed by a second, and then a third, so that I was sobbing against his chest, clutching at him in my need.

"Please," I whispered, not knowing what I was begging, not caring, only wanting him so that I thought I should die. He smiled down at me, no longer demoniacal, his topaz eyes warm with love and tenderness as he kissed me gently, his mouth fastening on mine and deepening as he moved over and covered me

As he felt me relax beneath him he began to move, slowly at first, then more rapidly as he felt me responding.

A long time later he moved away from me, still holding me close against his chest where I hid my face, content to hide from him, from myself, from the world. Now he knew that neither Mark nor any other man had ever had me, and I clung to him, uncertain of his response. But Luc was not one to let me take the easy way out. When my helpless little sobs had ceased, a gentle hand came under my chin, drawing me up to face him with tear-stained cheeks.

"Such a liar," he said gently, wiping away a tear with one long-fingered hand. "You are such a terrible child, I can't imagine why I love you."

My heart seemed to stop, then start all over again, beating against my ribcage as if it would break through. "What?" I whispered, not believing my ears.

He smiled, that same mocking, loving smile that so destroyed me, but he wouldn't repeat the words, so that I doubted I'd heard right. Instead he drew me back into the shelter of his arms, holding me like a child, until we both slept.

Chapter Twenty-three

The night passed far too swiftly. A few hours later he awoke me with a tray of hot, steaming soup and crusty bread.

"You probably haven't eaten in days," he smiled at me with that new, loving smile so devoid of mockery.

I watched him out of silent eyes, unmoving, both shy and wary at this new side of the formidable Luc del Zaglia. "Come," he said, placing the tray beside me on the rumpled bed. He was dressed in a pair of sleek, close-fitting black breeches, a snowy shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned around his tanned torso. His black hair was rumpled and his feet were bare. It was this last that suddenly loosed the hold on my tongue fright and timidity had placed there. I smiled up at him, a blush suffusing my pale skin as my eyes met his wicked golden ones.

"I can think of a great many things I would rather do than eat," he murmured, one long, thin hand tracing my neck with a light touch that sent shivers of delight through my responsive body. "But Maddelena is already fiercely disapproving, and it was all I could do to beg this from her."

I struggled to gather my wits about me, sitting up with the linen sheet clasped demurely around my nude body. "Maddelena?" I questioned, reaching for the soup with surprising hunger. "What about Mrs. Wattles? And the other servants?"

He shrugged, watching me eat with quiet amusement. "They have all decamped, all but Maddelena. And Antonio, of course. Apparently the word has traveled very quickly around Venice. My arrest is imminent. The Austri- ans now have proof that I've been working diligently for their overthrow for the last ten years."

I had the grace to blush in guilt and shame. "Arrest?" I echoed, the spoon halfway to my mouth. "Should you still be here?"

He smiled, and I blushed again. "No, little one, I should not. Which is Maddelena's contention. But I know Von Wolfram and his cohorts better than they know themselves. First light will be soon enough." He reached out and took a piece of bread from the tray, nibbling at it with desultory attention. "It is just as well the noble Thornton left with his female accomplices. I would rather not have to avoid their prying eyes when I leave this morning."

"They were stealing from you," I ventured.

"I know that quite well. It suited me to have it so. It kept them occupied and it cost me little enough. However, I did not go so far as to let them leave with the contents of my mother's jewelry box. Maddelena very cleverly substituted a bag full of costume jewelry for the real thing. I Imagine Thornton will be quite chagrined when he tries to arrange passage out of Venice with the proceeds from those trumpery pieces.

"I was able to discover, poveretta, that it was Mildred who threw you in the canal. Apparently you had stumbled upon their secret cache during one of your many searches, and she panicked."

"Poor Mildred," I sighed, leaning back. "Life cannot have been very pleasant for her. I can't say I'm not glad they're gone, though."

He took another piece of bread and sopped it in the dregs of the soup. He met my quizzical expression curiously. "What is wrong?"

I found that I, too, could shrug. "It's just that I've never seen you eat before."

He laughed. "Maddelena would bring me meals during the day. I used to watch you, staring at me out of those great blue eyes of yours as I drank my way through meals. You were so delightfully transparent." He reached out and moved the tray from the bed. I could feel my heart pounding beneath the sheets as I watched him, the shadows cast by the candlelight playing over his tall, lean form.

"Shouldn't you escape now?" I asked again. "Holger hates you—he isn't going to let you go easily."

He blew out one of the candles, turned to me and smiled. "Yes, Carlotta Theresa Sabina," he murmured tenderly. "I should leave. But I have no intention of doing so a moment before I am ready to. It is only just after midnight. I have a great deal I want to do before dawn." And he leaned down and pulled the sheet away from me with deliciously slow deliberation.

It was the sunlight that awoke me next. It was streaming in the shuttered balcony door, casting slats of light across my lover's face. I savored the word. As I lay beside him, trying not to waken him, I was conscious of many things. The first was my body, which ached in every muscle, every nerve ending, and yet had never felt so alive. I shut my eyes and reveled in the sense of completeness, of physical well-being that was at direct odds with the sudden onrush of overwhelming terror. It was way past dawn, and Luc was still here.

I opened my eyes and met his solemn golden ones, glowing in the early morning sunlight as he watched me. A slow smile curved his lips.

"You should be gone," I whispered. "It's late."

"True enough," he replied, stretching like a well-rested cat. I alone knew how little rest he had had. "You have worn me out, little one." With one lithe move he was out of bed, staring out the crack in the shutters with an unreadable expression on his face. "Let us hope it is not too late."

He turned back to me, and gone was the tender yet fierce demon-lover of the night before. "You will do several things for me, Carlotta," he said abruptly, pulling on his clothes.

I nodded obediently, trying to shut my mind to the overwhelming fact that he was leaving.

"You will meet with your handsome young Englishman today, as you have arranged." He ignored my gesture of repudiation. "You will leave Venice with him on the ship he has arranged, and you will marry him as you have planned."

All trace of languor had gone, and all trace of love, I told myself, staring at him in sullen rage. "I can take care of my own life, thank you," I said icily, casting about me for some remnant of last night's clothing. I came up with the shift Luc had worn, and I drew it around me with a chilly dignity.

He watched me gravely. "I am still your guardian, little one. Ferland is safe, secure, and he obviously loves you. You would be well advised to do as I say."

"And how will you enforce your will?" I snapped back, determined to let my anger keep the tears away. "I most certainly will marry Mark, if he'll have me after you . . . you dishonored me!" The phrase sounded ridiculous in my ears, so far removed was it from the night I had just spent. Luc apparently thought so too, for a small laugh escaped him, which inflamed me even more. I jumped out of the bed, pulling the silky folds of his shirt around me to preserve what shred of modesty I had left. "Damn you to hell," I spat at him. "I hope Holger catches you and hangs you."

"He may very well do that," he replied calmly, and the awful truth of that remark struck me dumb. I stared at him in shocked silence, the tears slipping down my face.

And suddenly I was in Luc's arms, sobbing with fright and anguish, my words incoherent. And through my tears I thought I heard the sound of soldiers outside Edentide. But it was still too early, it must be my tortured imagination.

He scooped me up, holding my frail, shivering body against him as he carried me across the room. A moment later we were in that little closet I had been imprisoned in just a few short days ago. It seemed like centuries. He put me down on the bed with great gentleness. He stood up, looking at me with a tender, loving expression that made me weep even more. He put one hand out to brush the tangled hair away from my forehead, and I grabbed it like a lifeline.

"Don't leave me," I begged brokenly, foolishly.

He took a deep breath, and suddenly he was beside me, on me, in me, taking me with a force and a loving brutality that sent me deeper into ecstasy tempered with despair. It was almost over before it had begun, and as I lay panting in his arms, trying to regain my tremulous control, his voice whispered in my ear.

"That is my seed within you, little one. Make sure Ferland brings up my bastard well." He pulled away from my clinging arms abruptly. "I would wish that you would make your home in Somerset," he added softly. "I have always had a fondness for that country, and it would please me to think of you living among those rolling green hills."

I heard him move to the door, and I shut my eyes, unable to bear watching him leave me. "Maddelena will let you out, mia Carlotta," he said, shutting the door behind him with a tiny click. I jumped up, running to the door and beating on it. It was no use, I was locked in.

I thought I heard him whisper from behind that heavy barrier. "Do not forget me, little one." And then the door to his room slammed shut, and I knew he was gone.

Suddenly other noises intruded in my ringing ears, noises more ominous than anything I had heard so far. I rushed to the narrow window, straining to see into the narrow street below. And all I could see was the white and gold uniforms of the Imperial Austrian Army. As I watched them mill around through dazed, dry eyes, I was suddenly aware of something clutched tightly in my fist. I opened my cramped fingers and saw Luc's bloodstone ring.

Hours, long, long hours later the door to my prison opened slowly. My eyes met the tear-ravaged countenance of Maddelena. "They have taken him," she said slowly, painfully. "He never had a chance. They have taken him to the New Prisons and they will execute him as a spy."

And something cold and hard formed within my breast, a pain so deep and terrible that not even tears could assuage it. I met Maddelena's accusing expression dry-eyed.

"Then we must get him out," I said defiantly. "Somehow, some way, we must get him out."

That, of course, was impossible for two women. I pleaded with Holger that afternoon, but to no avail. He merely smirked at me with open contempt and lasciviousness, the cruel expression in his ice-blue eyes promising worse to come. Jean-Baptiste answered none of my desperate missives, and all attempts to visit Luc proved useless. I returned to the palazzo at dusk, exhausted and in despair. It was not with any great joy that I greeted the news that Mark was awaiting me in the small salon.

I moved slowly down the hall, aching in every part of my body and soul. If I thought it would have done any good I would have fled upstairs and avoided him completely. But there was always the chance that Mark could undo the terrible wrong he had done. I opened the door and stood there, cold and still.

"Darling!" He rushed across the room and folded me into his sturdy embrace. "I came as soon as I heard. They have taken Del Zaglia?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Sensing my deep unhappiness, Mark drew away and looked down at me, his strong hands resting lightly on my arms. "And you blame me, my darling. You have every right to. If it weren't for my stupidity everything would have been all right. Someone must have been watching me for weeks, and I had no notion. I had just finished decoding the papers when someone hit me on the back of the head. When I awoke the papers were gone." Gingerly he rubbed the back of his head, wincing slightly to illustrate his point. "And it was all for nought. He was on our side—one of us. Word reached me from Lord Bateman this morning. Luc del Zaglia is a well-concealed patriot, not a traitor to Venice and his own people. He'd been working with our people for years, but of course they never bothered to tell me that." He sounded plainly disgruntled. "If only I'd known!"

"And now we are both responsible for a brave man going to his death," I said numbly, moving away from him to stand by the window. The dark green waters moved sluggishly beneath me, and numbly I wondered what it would be like to slip back into those chill, dark depths. "Mark, we must do something!"

"Charlotte, my dearest, I know. But what can we do? I have tried to talk with Von Wolfram, even had the English ambassador intervene. But it is useless. They mean to make an example of Del Zaglia, and nothing anybody does or says will make any difference. I doubt even the king could interfere!"

"Then he will die," I said dully. I could feel my aching body folded into Mark's comforting embrace, and I resisted only for a moment. I was so very tired.

"There is nothing we can do, my dear. Do not grieve so. It seems very likely that he was the ghoul of Venice. If he doesn't deserve to die for his political activities, he certainly does for his fiendish murders."

I turned on him in a blind rage. "Don't ever let me hear you say such a thing again!" I shrieked. "Luc is no more a murderer than you are."

A perplexed look crossed his face as he soothed me. "Of course not, dearest. You should know, of course. I have arranged for proper food and bedding to be provided for him until . . . that is . . ."

"Until they murder him."

"Until his sentence is carried out. Remember, he hasn't even been tried yet."

"A mere technicality."

"He did send a message, though." Eagerly I turned to him, hoping against hope for some word of love from the demon-count. A moment later my hopes were dashed. "He wants you to leave Venice immediately. With me or without me, he said. It's all the same to him. But leave Venice you must." There was no suspicion in his handsome, trusting face, only deep concern.

"I can't. Not until I know . . ."

"There is no doubt, Charlotte. I have arranged passage for us on the Devon Queen. The captain will marry us as soon as we leave port and reach the open seas. You must promise me you'll come."

"I can't marry you," I said lifelessly. "I spent last night with Luc." I waited for the anger, the repudiation to cross Mark's face, but he merely nodded sadly.

"I thought as much. It doesn't matter, my darling. I love you, and once you are free of his spell you will come to realize that you love me too. Maddelena has already packed your trunk. I'm taking it with me tonight, and tomorrow morning at ten o'clock we set sail. I'll come and fetch you."

"I won't go with you," I cried. "I can't leave."

"You'll go with me," he replied gently. "If for no one's sake but his." Once more he swept me into his arms, not kissing me, just holding me close against the warm strength of him, so that my resolve began to weaken. I was so tired, I wanted more than anything to give myself and my trouble up to his strong, comforting arms. I watched him leave in the early evening sunset, mixed feelings warring in my breast. So caught up was I that I failed to notice Maddelena's silent entry into the room.

"You will go with him," she stated. "There is nothing you can do for the master. It is better that you go."

I didn't bother to turn around and face her. "I am staying."

"Do not be a fool!" she flared. "If he has any chance at all of escaping do you think he wants to worry about whether or not you're safe?"

"He wouldn't worry."

"And if he cannot escape," she continued inexorably, "do you think he wants you there, watching, as he comes to a terrible, shameful end? If you think that, you are an even bigger fool than I thought you."

It took me a while, but I knew when I was defeated. I finally turned around and met her sad, angry little currant eyes. "And what will you do?"

"I have family in Genoa. I will go there, once I know there is nothing more that I can do for him. We must still have hope, signorina," she added in a kinder tone of voice.

"Yes, we must still hope." I moved listlessly across the room, my black silk skirts trailing in the dust. I could be more grateful that Luc had chosen black for me. Mourning seemed to be a constant state for me. "Mister Ferland will come to fetch me tomorrow morning. Could you awaken me by seven?"

Relief crossed her suet-pudding face. "But of course, signorina. I will call you."

Chapter Twenty-four

I slept fitfully that night. Despite Maddelena's protests I returned to Luc's rooms, determined to spend my last few hours in this decaying palazzo in Luc's bed. But the much-needed sleep eluded me—it was well after midnight that I finally drifted off, after having several times considered asking Maddelena if she still retained any of the drug she had used so cheerfully on me when I first arrived in Venice. When sleep came at last it was deep, only to be cut short by what I thought was the sound of rats scrabbling over in the area of the desk.

The lump at my feet, obviously Patrick, was unmoving, so slowly, carefully I opened my sleep-glued eyelids. A small glow of candlelight split the gloom, and I lay there, still and silent, as an obviously male shadow moved through the room. He was bent over Luc's desk, rummaging through the papers with a surprising disregard of the room's occupant. And then I realized my intruder probably had no idea I was there.

I contemplated screaming for help. But the only other person in the house was Maddelena, and she was three flights down in the bowels of the house, fast asleep in her basement quarters. She would never hear me.

And Antonio, Luc's valet. I had seen him skulking around, surreptitiously keeping out of my way. Perhaps it was he searching through Luc's papers. I kept my tired muscles rigid, too terrified to move. For suddenly that dark, dank, hideous sense of evil was upon me, and I knew without a doubt that the ghoul of Venice, Rosetta's murderer, was in the room with me.

The horror I felt was so complete that it must have communicated itself to the sleeping feline, for Patrick rose suddenly, his back arched, and hissed at the creature by the desk. The intruder whirled around to face my cowering form.

"What are you doing here?" My voice quavered as I attempted to question him with some degree of normal outrage. He was not fooled.

"Why, cherie," he protested with silky charm, "I would never have thought to find you here in Luc's bed. At least, not with Luc so tragically detained elsewhere. I thought I would have to search through this wretched pile of stones for you."

"You wanted to see me?" I sat up slowly, very slowly, so as not to arouse his suspicions. "Could not it have waited until tomorrow?"

"Ah, but it is you who wanted to see me," he replied smoothly. "Three desperate notes I received from your fair hand. I merely wanted to tell you that I am sadly unable to help poor Luc." He smiled then, displaying his small, pearl- like teeth, and something inside me snapped.

"You betrayed him," I whispered.

"But of course," Jean-Baptiste returned calmly. "It was necessary."

"Why?"

"Because Luc has proof that I am an Austrian spy. No one else in this damp, benighted city knows that, not even the noble Captain von Wolfram. If such news leaked out, my life would be worth nothing."

"Your life is worth nothing already."

He smiled again, that charming, terrifying smile. "A matter of opinion, ma cher. The French government still employs the guillotine, and I have no desire to follow my grandparents. But a man must make his fortune in this world, and one man's treason is another's patriotism."

A small silence reigned. "All right," I said casually. "So you are a spy, and Luc knows it. Now that you have taken care of him why are you here?"

"Various reasons." He waved one slim, small hand airily. "Proof still exists somewhere in this house of my so-called perfidy. And, of course, I had to finish with you." The smile on his face was ferocious, and I was suddenly very frightened. "You see, my dear, I have had to do all this without an appreciative audience, and I have this overwhelming need to confess to someone. You have been my choice."

"Lucky me."

"Lucky you, indeed. You will go to your death knowing the full scope of my genius. You alone will be able to appreciate my cunning."

"I will go to my death?" I echoed.

"But of course. Who do you think is the ghoul of Venice? Not Luc, with his theatrical flair and his midnight prowls, although he was the one who inspired me."

"You?" From the moment I had recognized that familiar sense of horror I had known, but couldn't quite believe it, "But why?"

He leaned back against the wall, negligently, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his immaculate suit. "Well, I must confess that the first murder was none of my doing. Some lovers' quarrel, no doubt. But because of Luc's supernatural affectations, suspicion pointed his way, although it was, of course, impossible to prove anything. That gave me my inspiration. I took care of the other young ladies, carefully leading all the evidence directly to Luc's door. But that damned Von Wolfram ignored it!" An expression of outrage came into his sulky voice. "Georges, of course, was the perfect victim. I thought after that there would be no doubt."

"You murdered Georges?"

Again that hideous smile. "Indeed. I also enticed him into abducting you. I have been very busy the last few months, doing everything I could to destroy Del Zaglia before he destroyed me." He stood upright and began moving across the room towards me. "Rosetta was simple enough, and if I had only been able to finish with you that night everything would have been so nicely resolved. I was very angry with you, ma cher."

"I . . . I am sorry I was so unobliging," I stammered, moving my feet around to the side of the bed. It was very dark in the room. The first traces of dawn were coming through the slatted shutters and the single candle let out only a fitful glow.

He shrugged. "Do not be frightened, cherie. Just think, you will be joining Luc. I won't hurt you very much." As if by magic a huge, glistening knife appeared in his hand as he continued to edge toward me. Suddenly he pounced.

But he had failed to account for Patrick. With a savage yowl, the cat sprang, leaping onto Perrier's shoulders with claws fully extended.

That moment was all I needed. I slipped past him, the knife grazing my shoulder, and ran, barefoot and screaming, out into the deserted hallway.

The sluggish first light of dawn was fighting its way through the grimy windows of Edentide as I stumbled down the long, curving marble staircase, my pursuer close behind me. My mind was an unthinking mass of terror, and I headed blindly toward the cellars, toward Maddelena, the only one I thought could help me in this deserted mansion. I heard the monster trip, fall heavily, and his curses gladdened my heart as I ran ever faster.

I had forgotten, in my terror, that I had no idea exactly where Maddelena's apartments were. I found myself in the long, dark, water-drenched basements with a myriad of doors around me, trapped in the middle of the long stone walkway that led the length of the house to a small doorway onto the canal. On either side of the path was green, slimy ooze, ahead of me the canal, and behind me the ghoul of Venice. Beady eyes of rats that had so far escaped Patrick's vigilance winked in the fetid darkness, and, shuddering, I stumbled to a halt. I had no place to turn. I started to run back, but my path was blocked.

"You shouldn't run, ma cher." He smiled sweetly. "I will always catch you. You merely make it more painful for yourself. I was disposed to be merciful, but now you have made me very angry. Very angry indeed. I am afraid I will have to make you pay for it."

The knife glistened in his hands as he moved toward me on his absurdly small, neat feet, clad in highly glossed boots. I was mesmerized by the evil in his face, the glimmer of the knife, the faint glow from behind him that was growing steadily brighter.

He had almost reached me. "There is someone behind you," I said calmly.

"Don't be absurd," he scoffed. "It won't help . . . you cannot fool me." The knife glistened. "I will tell you something that might aid your departure. Your lover has escaped. Late last night, I believe. By this time he will be out of the city, out of the country. There is no help for you."

"He escaped?" I echoed, joy ringing in my voice.

"He will be free to mourn you," Jean-Baptiste mocked, his arm raised to slash me. I shut my eyes and prepared for death.

It all happened at once. A voice I had thought never to hear again cried out, "Get down, Carlotta!"

Two screams broke the damp stillness, a deathscream from Jean-Baptiste as a battle-ax cleaved his skull and a cry of horror from me as I hid my eyes from the bloody sight. A moment later I was enfolded in Luc's arms, my face hidden against his shoulders as he held my shaking, sobbing body.

It was a long while before he spoke, and when he did his voice was harsh. "I am sorry, little one. I should have warned you about Jean-Baptiste, but there wasn't time. I could only pray I would get back here before it was too late."

"You shouldn't be here," I managed to blurt out against the muffling folds of his cape. "You should have escaped while you had the chance."

He moved my head up to face him, keeping my face firmly averted from the bloody sight to our left. "And then you'd be dead, mi a Carlotta. I had no choice." He leaned down and kissed me lightly on the lips.

I allowed myself a moment to enjoy the taste of his mouth on mine before reality took control once more. "You must leave immediately," I said, breaking away. "Before Holger comes here."

He shrugged. "It is too late. I'm afraid they followed me. Giorgio is waiting in the side canal, but I doubt we'll make it. I worry about you, poveretta. You are leaving with Ferland?"

My eyes met his, and I could read nothing but a cool concern in them. I had no choice but to nod.

"Good. Go upstairs and stay with Maddelena until it is over. Either I will escape or I won't. There is nothing more you can do." He pulled me back into his arms, kissing me hungrily. And then he turned me around, swatted me on the bottom, and said, "Go."

I ran back along the passageway, determined not to look back. I had no intention of hiding with Maddelena, even if I could have found her room. I was going to distract Holger until Luc got away.

I barely had time to make it to the drawing room before a furious, red-faced Holger appeared, accompanied by what seemed to my terrified eyes to be at least fifty soldiers.

"Your lover, fraulein, has escaped!" he thundered.

I smiled politely, trying to act as if I normally entertained the Imperial Army at six in the morning dressed in my thin nightgown, with bare feet and a knife scratch on my shoulder. "Really?" I murmured innocently. "How inefficient of you, Captain."

"We have followed him to this house, fraulein!" he announced, his face mottled with rage.

"Really?" I said again. "Well, I haven't seen him. Do you intend to search the house?"

"We do indeed!"

"Well, then, I suggest you start in the cellars," I suggested affably, knowing the masculine mind well enough to be sure he would do the opposite, giving Luc a few more precious minutes.

Immediately Holger ordered his soldiers to begin searching the attics, meanwhile casting a triumphant look in my direction, and I relaxed a bit. I started for the door, only to be brought up short by Holger's ham-handed fist. "You will stay here with me, fraulein. I will not have you warning him.

"I have no intention of warning anyone, Holger," I said with some asperity. "I merely wanted to find some more suitable clothing."

He allowed a small leer to escape his stern face. "I find your apparel eminently suitable, fraulein. And when we have recaptured your lover and executed him I will undertake to show you just how suitable such raiment is."

"How dare you!" I said frostily.

"Oh, I dare a great deal. You are an enemy of the Austrian empire. It is my duty to teach such enemies a lesson. You will not leave Venice, fraulein, until I give you permission to do so."

"And if I complain to the British consul?"

"We will be most apologetic. But adamant. You are needed for questioning." He smirked.

His plans worried me not one bit—it was mere bluster to frighten me. The more minutes passed the calmer I felt. Surely he had long enough to escape by now. He must be safe.

A sudden shouting dashed my hopes. Holger thrust me aside and rushed to the window. "There he is!" he muttered grimly, drawing his pistol. I ran to his side, fighting for the weapon, shrieking at him. But to no avail. Throwing me against the marble doorway, he carefully aimed the pistol at the swiftly moving gondola. Wisps of fog moved in and out, obscuring his vision. He swore, and I watched, stunned, praying for the mist to thicken. At that moment they moved into a clear spot, and Holger fired.

Luc's tall, strong body recoiled, and without warning slipped from the gondola and sank beneath the murky surface of the canal.

A screaming and wailing came from the doorway, and Maddelena rushed into the room, her apron thrown over her face as she howled in grief. Numbly I stared out into the mist-shrouded canal, watched hopelessly as Giorgio circled round and round, searching for some trace of his compatriot. Minutes passed, minutes that seemed like hours, and finally he gave up and began rowing slowly away through the fog. Holger once more raised his pistol, but I knocked it away.

"Murderer! Haven't you killed enough for one morning?" I spat at him.

His cold blue eyes never leaving my face, he reholstered his gun. "My men will call for you this afternoon, fraulein. Be ready." And he strode out of the room issuing orders in a stentorian bellow that I would barely hear above Maddelena's weeping and wailing. I waited until they had left the palazzo, thankfully having never reached the cellars and their grisly occupant, and then I moved slowly to her side, feeling like an old, old woman.

"You will come to England with me, Maddelena. There is nothing for you here." Grief-stricken, she nodded, raising her head to look at me out of tear-streaming eyes.

"He loved you, signorina," she said slowly. "Yes, I will come with you."

Chapter Twenty-five

September was a beautiful month in Somerset. The leaves were turning a lovely golden brown, the earth was warm and the sun shone surprisingly often. During the long, miserable months of June, July, and August it had rained and rained. The gloom of the weather had matched Maddelena's and my mood, but as the September sun appeared more and more frequently our spirits lifted in spite of ourselves.

As I strolled carefully along the well-trod path behind my little cottage, with the ever-faithful Patrick stalking placidly behind me, I thought back oyer the last four and a half months and hoped devoutly that I would never have to suffer through such a time again. But then, how could I? The one man I would ever love had died; I couldn't imagine caring that much for anyone again, unless it was the child growing steadily within me. And I had vowed to myself to protect that little one with every breath I had in me. Nothing would ever come to harm him, and I had Maddelena's devoted assistance in that resolve. Mark's also, should I ever accept it. So far I hadn't.

I seldom met people during my long, solitary walks through the northern corner of Lord Bateman's lands. My little cottage was part of his property, rented to me in honor of my valiant efforts in the cause of Italian freedom and unity. Lord Batemen, an attractive old reprobate of some fifty-odd years, had always been a revolutionary, ever ready to support insurgents in any country but his own. During the last fifteen years he had concentrated his energies and considerable financial resources in the cause of Italy. It was he who had sent Mark to Italy and indirectly assisted in some of Luc's expeditions, and when I had first made inquiries about housing in Somerset, his lordship had quickly offered me his cottage at a nominal fee. Not that the fee had mattered. I had discovered, upon arriving back in England, that not only was my substantial fortune untouched by Luc's hands, but his own surprisingly healthy inheritance was mine also. For the first month I had done nothing but mourn with no company but Maddelena and the ever-serene Patrick. Neither had cared for the trip to England, crammed as they were in my stuffy stateroom, Maddelena suffering dreadfully from seasickness and Patrick from a hatred of confinement. Indeed, with two such miserable roommates I could scarcely wait for the journey to end.

The peace and fresh air of the country did wonders for the two of them long before I began to rouse myself from the stupor of pain and guilt Luc's death had thrust me into. But as I found what I had wanted so much coming true, I began to accept life once more. My first move was to have Luc's fortune put in trust for our child. Once that was taken care of I had retired to Lord Bateman's dower house, there to while away my confinement in as much contentment as I could command under the circumstances.

In the first few months I accepted the flattering invitations issuing from Bateman's Folly. Highly colored accounts of my heroism in trying to save Venice's most recent martyr, Luc del Zaglia, preceded each introduction, until I was ready to scream. The only sympathetic face there belonged to the great Italian patriot, Guiseppe Mazzini, who would look at me out of his sad, dark eyes and talk about flowers and children instead of the interminable babble of politics. I couldn't help being grateful to him, and it was his absence alone that I missed when my pregancy began to show and I resolved to stay closer to home.

I seldom passed any of the villagers on this secluded path. If I happened to, they would nod and tip their hats to the poor, sad widow-lady, Mrs. Ferland, casting furtive glances at her feline companion. I looked down at the bloodstone ring on my finger. All the jewels that Maddelena rescued from Mildred and her cohorts had somehow found their way into my baggage, but I hadn't had the heart to touch any of the glittering diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. The bloodstone ring was enough.

Had it been up to me I would never have accepted Mark's name, even on such a superficial basis. I would have borne Luc's child proudly. But between Mark and Maddelena's protestations I had come to accept that I should not put that burden on a helpless child. Between the two of them a bogus marriage with Mark's nonexistent brother was concocted, and no breath of scandal was attached to me as I spent my quiet, secluded summer days, even when my supposed brother-in-law took every possible excuse to visit me and see how I was doing.

Each visit was accompanied by fervent proposals of marriage, and as the time passed my resolve began to weaken. I loved Mark, I would be safe and happy with him. But I didn't love him enough, and I couldn't bring myself to give him less than he deserved.

My trailing black skirts caught in the fallen branches, and I yanked them free nervously, leaving Patrick to chase after the blowing leaves, forgetting his stateliness for a moment. I was still able to wear my old clothes. Maddelena had let them out a trifle in the waist, and no one as yet could tell I was four and a half months pregnant unless they looked closely. And so far no one had had that chance. Until today.

I was avoiding my latest problem. A simple missive arrived this morning from Lord Bateman. A hero of the Venetian conflict had arrived that weekend, fresh from Italy, and wished to pay his respects to Luc del Zaglia's ward. No doubt I would like to hear the latest word from that bedeviled city. His lordship's friend would be pleased to call upon me at four o'clock that afternoon.

Lord Bateman was very high-handed, I thought angrily. But then, I had come to expect that from him. It was time I turned back, time I made sure that Maddelena and Bitsy, the clumsy, cheerful young woman brought in to help, had managed a creditable tea for this Italian gentleman. No doubt they had degenerated into one of their countless battles, and it would be up .to me to brew the tea and supervise the setting of the tray. I was getting tired more and more easily as my child grew, and I wished in vain they would learn to get along. But Bitsy maintained that Maddelena was a witch and Maddelena maintained that Bitsy was an addlepated gossip. Both were right, but beside the point.

My doctor had ordered long walks to keep me fit. I was in perfect health, he said, and would no doubt bring forth a large, lusty baby with no difficulty whatsoever. I only hoped and prayed he was right, in the meantime doing absolutely everything he suggested with a religious fervor. I remembered Luc's face in the garden, when he had spoken of his wife's deliberate childlessness, and determined not to fail him in this.

It was a little past four by the time I arrived back at the lovely weathered stone cottage that had held Bateman dowagers since time immemorial. Bitsy was waiting for me, her eyes as large as saucers in her bovine face.

"Oh, madam, there's been such an upset. The old witch has taken to her bed with the vapors, and the gentleman's waiting for you in the garden. I said as I didn't know where in the world you were and perhaps he might come back another day but he said he'd wait. "

Alarm burst within me. "I'd better go up and see Maddelena. Serve the gentleman tea and send him on his way, Bitsy. Tell him I'm unwell, that I appreciate his calling but that I'll have to see him another day."

"I don't think he'll listen, ma'am. I don't know as I dare to tell him you won't see him."

I made an impatient gesture. "What are you frightened of, you silly goose? He's not some ogre, is he?"

Bitsy sighed gustily. "Oh, no, ma'am. Mrs. Ferland, that is. He's ever so handsome."

That should have warned me, but worry for Maddelena and annoyance overruled my thinking processes. "Very well, I'll see the man. You go up and check on Maddelena and make sure she's all right."

"Me?" Bitsy squeaked. "She'll put the evil eye on me."

"I'll put the evil eye on you if you don't do as I say," I snapped. "Where's the tea tray?"

Bitsy pointed, and I grabbed it and stormed out into the garden, determined to rout my intruder in a few short sentences.

Patrick had prowled ahead of me and was now most unaccountably busy rubbing ecstatically against the stranger's black-clad leg. His back was to me as I walked through the door. He was staring out over the rolling green hills, and I felt a start of pain so sharp it was almost physical. His back, the way he held his head, was so like Luc. I wondered if I would ever get over imagining his face in a crowd.

"I beg your pardon," I said nervously, and he turned around. The tea tray crashed to the flagstone terrace as I stared at my beloved's face. And then everything swam before me, and I nearly joined the broken crockery.

A moment later I was thrust gently but firmly into a chair with my head between my knees, a difficult feat considering the beginnings of my stomach. Thankfully Luc was unaware of that aspect of the situation. I could feel his hand at the back of my neck, rubbing the nape with a touch that almost made me swoon anew. After a few deep breaths I sat upright, my eyes meeting the amber gaze I thought never to see again in this life.

"You're not dead," I said foolishly. But then, there's not much witty or entertaining one can say in such a situation.

He smiled. "No, I am not dead."

"But Holger shot you. You drowned," I insisted dazedly.

A smile cracked his tanned face. "Captain von Wolfram had no way of knowing that I had been swimming in those canals since I could walk. The bullet lodged in my shoulder, and I was able to swim to one of the many underwater entrances along the Grand Canal. It was only fortunate that the tide was coming in." He looked down at me, an enigmatic expression in his golden eyes, just enough reserve to prevent me from throwing myself into his arms as I so longed to do. "You should not have worried, Charlotte. Like our friend Patrick, I have nine lives."

"You must have given up quite a few already," I replied breathlessly. Charlotte, he called me. He was obviously displeased with me. My heart sank.

"Perhaps." He moved away from me then, his eyes never leaving my face. "I have had a great deal of difficulty tracing you, my little ward. After you and your husband arrived in England you seemed suddenly to disappear. It was sheer chance that I met Lord Bateman in London and he happened to mention the widowed Mrs. Ferland who once was my ward. And still is, for that matter. When do you become twenty-one?"

I hadn't even thought of that aspect. "Within a year."

"And what happened to Ferland? I understand from your idiot of a maid that his brother is courting you, and an announcement is expected momentarily." There was a gentle question in his voice as he stood over me. I had forgotten how very tall he was. He had lost weight during the intervening months, and the added gauntness made him appear even taller. But for once he seemed neither demonic or frightening.

"Charlotte?" he said impatiently. "I asked what happened to Ferland?"

I pulled myself together. "I'm sorry. I . . . it's just that I have never seen you in the sunlight before." I kept expecting his lean, handsome face to crumble, his liquid eyes to dissolve, and his mobile mouth to decay before my eyes. He remained, resolutely alive and in one piece. "Mark . . . caught a fever. He died" three months ago." The lie came off my tongue trippingly, and I folded my arms in front of my gently swelling stomach. I had no idea why he had come to see me, but I was determined to find out before he knew of the child I carried—if, in the face of his remoteness, I decided to tell him at all.

"And you are about to marry his brother?" The question was sharp and cold, his face unreadable as always.

"I . . . I had thought to," I lied, not liking his abrupt questions. "Have you seen Maddelena? Oh, but you must have."

He allowed a small smile to curve his lips. "Yes, I saw her. Not a coherent word did I get from her, just prayers and rejoicing and weeping and wailing. Did she carry on like that when she thought I was dead?"

"Yes." The idea of his death seemed to amuse him, and rage flared within me. "I, of course, danced in the streets after watching you drown."

His smile broadened. "Still the sweet-tongued little girl you always were, eh? Are you wondering why I came to see you?"

"The thought crossed my mind. I assume you want your money back. Not to mention the bag of family jewels you had Maddelena conceal in my trunk. I will instruct my lawyers to arrange the transfer of funds," I said coldly, wishing he were dead after all, rather than have my short remembrance of love destroyed. "It will take a while . . . I put it in a trust fund. But you should have it before long."

"I thank you," he said gravely. "But actually that is not why I came to see you."

"No?" My voice came out cold and hard, admirably hiding the fact that I was near tears.

"No, little one," he murmured, taking my hand and pulling me reluctantly to my feet. "You are not going to marry Ferland's brother. I am still your guardian, and I refuse to give you permission." From my numbed hand he drew off my wedding ring. "And you are not going to wear this any more, either." He glanced down at it and frowned suddenly. "This is the ring I left with you." he said abruptly. "Why are you wearing it? Couldn't Ferland provide his own?"

I tried to snatch it away, but I was always helpless against Luc's superior strength. "Leave me alone," I shouted suddenly, unable to bear any more. I tried to pull away but now he held both my wrists in his steely grip. "Please," I whimpered, those damned tears spilling over once more. "Go away."

"You will make Maddelena very unhappy," he said in a calm voice.

"You make me very unhappy," I stormed back.

"But I told her I had come to marry you. It set off a spasm of rejoicing that finally carried her off to her bed. What will she say when I tell her you refused me?"

"Refused you?" Now I was furious. "You haven't asked me. You've never asked me a thing, you've always told me, and tormented me, and teased me. And now, for -reasons unknown to me, you decide to marry me. God knows what you've been doing for the past four and a half months—you certainly were too busy to let us know you were alive." I wondered whether Maddelena had divulged the secret of my pregnancy, but I didn't dare ask in case she hadn't. Instead I ranted and railed at him, inwardly begging him to tell me what I wanted and needed to hear.

"Venice was a little difficult to escape from with a price on my head and a bullet in my shoulder," he said stiffly. "And what about you? I had no desire to intrude on your honeymoon," he said furiously, his raging voice filling the garden. "I was scarcely cold in my grave before you danced off to marry that English idiot!"

"I did not! And besides, you told me to!"

"I thought I would be unlikely to survive. I assumed you knew better than to obey me," he shouted back. "You never obeyed me before! Did you, or did you not, marry Ferland?"

"Damn you, no! And I won't marry you either. I can't imagine why you'd want me. It can't be for my money— you've plenty of your own." I had to bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

He pulled me into his arms then, holding my body close against him so that my struggles were useless. Gradually they ceased. "No, mia Carlotta, it is not for your money, or your charming tongue and friendly ways." He pulled my head up with sudden force and kissed me, long and deep until I was shaking and breathless. "And it is not even for that, delightful as it is." He kissed me again, more gently this time, and I could feel my bones melting within me. "It is because, Carlotta Theresa Sabina, I love you and you love me. And despite my dangerous life and advanced age, I intend to live a long time, and I want to spend that time with you. If I didn't marry you I don't doubt you would run off with the first pair of broad shoulders you saw."

I gasped in protest, and he kissed me again. I was so blissfully happy I didn't care that he was squashing his son and heir. "And I intend to have many, many children by you," he continued, "and they will all grow up to be revolutionaries, sharp-tongued shrews, or vampires, depending on their talents."

I smiled up at him, clearly besotted, and the look in his golden eyes was all that I could have asked for and more. I put his hand on my swelling abdomen. "And what will this one be?" I asked shakily. "I think he will have to be a demon-count."

For the first and last time in our lives I had truly taken him by surprise. And then his laugh rang out through the hills over Somerset. "A demon-count he will be," he agreed, and pulled me back into his arms.