Devil's Daughter (17 page)

He could only stare at her, stunned. “What have you done to Arabella Welles?”

“I have sent her to Algiers, my dear comte, to Oran, to be exact. I believe she will do quite well there as a slave.”

Giovanna swung her legs over the bed and reached for her dressing gown. She slipped her arms into the wide brocade sleeves and sashed the belt at her waist. “As much as I enjoy your body,
caro,
I would suggest that you take your leave now.”

Gervaise reached for his scattered clothes, trying desperately to think. He was aware of the contessa’s eyes upon him as he dressed. When he had shrugged into his coat, he turned to face her. “You speak of revenge, Contessa. It is a two-edged sword.”

He turned and strode from her bedchamber, her laughter in his ears.

A placid-faced servant ushered Adam into Lord Delford’s library. Lord Delford rose from his chair upon Adam’s entry. He did not look happy.

“Sir?” Adam said, striding toward him. “Your man told me you wished to see me on a matter of grave importance.”

“It is your sister,” the viscount said without preamble. “She rode out before noon, spurning a groom, I might add, and she has not returned.”

“And it is nearly five o’clock,” Adam said.

“A groom brought me this letter a short time ago from the Contessa di Rolando.” The viscount handed Adam a folded piece of paper.

The words were stark and short—Arabella had not kept her luncheon appointment. Perhaps, the contessa
wrote, Arabella decided not to visit her, but nonetheless, she felt it her duty to inform the viscount. She closed with, “I trust Lady Arabella is not indisposed. As I am leaving Naples shortly, I will be unable to further our acquaintance.”

Adam made a hissing sound between his teeth.

“I have questioned the servants and my daughter, but she knew only that Arabella intended to ride today. That is all. I knew it was a mistake,” the viscount continued, his face pale, “to bring her here. I told your father so. I have tried to protect her, but she is as disobedient and willful as her mother.”

Adam wasn’t listening. He was trying to think logically. Arabella had been taken, of that he had no doubt. He crushed the contessa’s letter between his hands, admitting to himself that the contessa had covered herself cleverly. She had guessed that Arabella had informed someone she intended to visit her. And now she was leaving Naples.

Lord Delford said, “Do you know, my lord, where she might be?”

“Perhaps. I must leave you now, sir.”

“How may I assist you, my lord? After all, your sister was in my care.”

“It is impossible that a message will come here. Perhaps a ransom demand, I do not know. But your dau—your family should be kept safe. I have my own men.”

Lord Delford looked thoughtfully down at his signet ring. “My daughter will be presented at court upon our return to England. Indeed, there is a particular gentleman who—In any case, my lord, I do not despair of a felicitous outcome.”

“Nor do I, my lord,” Adam said. “But we have not the time to discuss your daughter’s future.”

“Of course you are right. But know this, my lord: my daughter’s future is in my hands.”

“Your daughter is not a child, my lord, but that must wait.”

Rayna quickly backed away from the library door at the sound of footsteps. She slipped into the dining room, hopeful that Adam would emerge alone. But her father walked with him to the front door to see him out. Slowly she sank onto a chair and lowered her head to her hands.

A
rabella was hot and her head ached from the press of guests at Lady Ranleagh’s ball. The night air on the balcony cooled her and she wished she could stay there the rest of the evening. Lord Eversley was suddenly beside her, his pleasant face somehow different, his eyes hard, cold.

“No,” she said, backing away from him, but he grabbed her and pulled her toward him. His kiss was brutal, his tongue thick and heavy in her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. “No,” she cried out again, but he only laughed, drawing away from her for a moment. Her foot shot out, connecting with his shin. He never stopped laughing.

“Drink this.”

He was forcing her head back, tilting the sweet wine into her mouth. She tried to scream at him to stop, but the wine choked her, and she sputtered, swallowing it in great gulps.

“I don’t want the wine.”

She was moaning softly, her head throbbing. “No wine.” Her stomach rebelled and bile rose in her throat. I can’t be sick on Lady Ranleagh’s balcony, she
thought frantically, only to throw herself toward the railing and retch.

She fell back onto her knees, crying softly.
What is that strange creaking? It feels like I’m moving.
She forced her eyes open to the dim light. She was not on Lady Ranleagh’s balcony, but lying on a rank pile of rags. She was in the hold of a ship. Suddenly memory righted itself, and she saw the contessa’s gloating face above her. The contessa had drugged her wine. Nausea clogged her throat again at the smell of her vomit in the confined space of the hold. She drew up her legs and lowered her head between them, taking short, shallow breaths. As the nausea receded, she felt a pounding in her temple. She clapped her palms to the sides of her head, only to pull them away at the stiff, stringy feel of her hair. Slowly Arabella lowered her hands, and her breath caught in her throat. Her palms were a dirty brown. She jerked a handful of her hair over her breast. Like her hands, it was filthy, a dirty mud color.

She fell back against the rags. “Adam,” she whispered. “I was such a fool. How will you ever find me?” She felt tears fall down her cheeks. The contessa’s voice sounded in her mind again. Kamal. The ship was taking her to the contessa’s son. But why?

There was nothing to do but listen to the creaking of the ship. She didn’t know how much time passed, but the hold became pitch black as the sunlight piercing through the one small porthole dimmed. She heard a sound and sat up quickly, her eyes fastened on the far wall. The hold door creaked open and the light from a lantern filled the small room. She looked toward two rough-garbed sailors. The man holding
the lamp was older, his beard streaked with gray. He was staring at her with disgust.

“Here she be, Neddie,” he said, raising the lamp higher.

“Gawd,” Neddie said. “She looks like a street trollop, Abel.”

“And the smell of her.”

“Who are you?” Arabella asked, her voice breaking. “What ship is this?”

Abel set the lamp down and straightened slowly, as if his back was hurting him. “We brung ye some dinner, wench.” He laughed, a low, ugly sound. “It’ll taste better than ye look.”

Ned grinned, showing a wide space between his front teeth. “And here I thought to have a little sport with the wench, Abel. Lawks, I wouldn’t touch that one. She probably has the pox.”

“This here is a lady, Neddie lad,” Abel said. “A little English lass.”

“Gawd,” Ned said again. He scratched his head vigorously and Arabella shuddered at the thought of the lice nested in his black hair.

“Tis just as well ye don’t want to toss up her skirts, Neddie, ’cause she’s to be left alone. Them’s the orders from the captain.”

“Please,” Arabella pleaded, “tell me where we are bound.”

“Take yer dinner, wench.” Abel placed a bowl of greasy brown stew in her hands.

Arabella’s stomach knotted at the vile-looking mixture. Unknowingly, she shook her head.

“Ye’d best eat, wench,” Abel said, “else ye’ll be dead by the time we reach Oran.”

“Oran,” Arabella repeated blankly. “That is a city in Algiers.”

“Aye.” Abel nodded, as if amused with her.

“You must take me home. My father will pay you handsomely, I promise you. Bring me your captain, please.”

“Be yer pa as ugly as ye, I wonder?” Ned said, raising his brows at the knotty question. “And iffen he ain’t, he’d likely pay us to keep ye away from him.”

Arabella, without thought, threw the bowl of stew at Ned. He yelped and jumped back, pieces of meat sliding off his chest. “Ye little bitch,” he yelled.

“Nay, Neddie, don’t strike the wench,” Abel said. “She’ll not be so full of herself by tomorrow night.”

“Aye,” Ned spat toward her. “Tomorrow night she’ll be begging for anything we give her.”

“Bring me your captain.”

Abel threw back his head and laughed heartily. He suddenly reached down and grasped Arabella’s chin in his hand. “Aye, wench, ye’ll be as gentle as a little mouse soon.”

Ned joined in his laughter. Arabella watched the two men stride toward the narrow door.

“Don’t take the lamp,” she yelled after them, but Abel ignored her. The door banged closed, and she was once again in total darkness.

She heard soft scurrying sounds. She muffled a scream and drew herself up in a tight ball. There were rats so close she could hear them gnawing at the splattered stew.

Niccolo Canova turned up the collar of his cloak against the dark fog from the bay. He was nearly home
now, to his whining wife. He hoped the brandy he had drunk would deaden his ears to her shrill voice. He thought he heard movement behind him, and paused a moment. There was nothing. He shook his head at himself and began to whistle. His whistle suddenly died in his throat.

He stared stupidly at a black-garbed figure standing squarely in his path. The figure’s face was masked and he held a whip in his gloved hand.

“Who are you?” Niccolo asked in a croaking voice.

“I am looking for the Comte de la Valle,” the figure said in a cold voice, a voice cold as the dead, Niccolo thought wildly.

“I have not seen him this evening,” Niccolo said, trying to close his fingers about the hilt of his dress sword.

“No, there was no gathering this evening, was there? No chance for you to ruin another peasant girl.”

“Who are you? I know nothing.” He whipped about and ran toward the dock. Swift footsteps closed behind him, and he was spun about by his arm, caught. He raised his hand to claw at the black mask covering the man’s face. The next moment the man’s fist smashed into his jaw, and he fell back onto his knees, dizzy with pain.

“You miserable bastard. Where is the comte?”

Niccolo stared stupidly up at the man.

“The queen will soon know about the pack of jackals you keep company with.” The hard voice lowered to a whisper. “Your precious comte has done you in.”

Niccolo couldn’t move in his fear. “I do not believe you. Gervaise would not—” He broke off, then blurted out, “I will tell you the other members’ names if you release me.”

“A swine and a coward,” the black figure said. “I will ask you but one more time. Where is the comte?”

“I do not know,” Niccolo yelled. “Who are you?” The figure merely laughed and Niccolo bounded to his feet, clutching his sword.

The man drew his own sword and taunted him with a beckoning finger. “Come, my brave cock.” Niccolo gave a shout of anger and hurled himself forward.

He was facing a master, he realized within moments. The man danced in front of him. He felt the tip of the man’s sword rip easily through his sleeve. He tried to back away, his eyes fastened on the sword slashing toward him. He saw a flash of silver and felt a searing pain in his belly. The man had neatly slashed through his breeches, drawing blood.

Niccolo struck out wildly, but only for a moment. The man’s sword slipped through his guard and embedded itself in his shoulder. He shuddered with the pain of it, and fell to the street when the sword was jerked from his flesh.

Niccolo clutched his shoulder, and felt sticky blood seeping between his fingers. “Do not kill me,” he whispered. “I know nothing.”

The figure sheathed his sword and stepped back. “No, I will not bother.”

Adam turned at the sound of approaching voices. “I will leave you to the queen,
signore,
” he said, and slipped quietly into the darkness.

Adam stepped quickly back into the shadows and hugged the side of the house. So Daniele had been right. The fool had returned to his lodgings.

Adam heard Gervaise curse softly as he twisted his
key into the lock. Slowly, bent over, Adam moved forward. The house was dark, save for the flicker of a candle flame in Gervaise’s parlor. Adam straightened, strode to the door, and quietly pushed it open. The entrance was dark. He walked softly to the drawing room and stepped inside.

“Pietro.” Gervaise whirled about, his hand on his sword hilt. “You startled me, my friend. I am glad you are come. I would warn you of our danger.”

Adam smiled at him. “It is not our danger, Gervaise, but yours.”

The comte moved to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy. “You speak in riddles, my friend, and I have not the time for them tonight. As soon as I have gathered a few mementos, I am off to France.”

“So it was your greed, comte, that brought you back here. It was not wise, you know.”

“No, likely not,” Gervaise agreed, tossing down the brandy. “If you wish, you may accompany me. We shall fight with our emperor.”

“Ah, but I am not bound for France,” Adam said.

“The little chick holds you here? Take her with you. We can share her now that you’ve taught her how to please a man.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I shall even marry her.”

“You will never touch her, Gervaise. Now, I must know the truth from you. Where is Arabella Welles?”

Gervaise set down his goblet, a fair brow arched upward. “You are fickle, Pietro. I fear you must forget that beauty. I doubt anyone will ever see her again.”

“But I must see her again, Gervaise,” Adam said. “You will tell me where she is.”

The comte’s eyes narrowed at the hint of menace in
the marchese’s soft voice. “I do not have time to enjoy the evening with you, Pietro. If you want the girl, you will have to sail to Oran. She was sent to some harem there. That is all I know.”

Adam sucked in his breath. The Barbary pirates. It always came back to those savages. But why? “Who sent her there? The Contessa di Rolando—your mistress?”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to tell you,” Gervaise said.

Adam gently unsheathed his sword. “I suggest that you will, comte. Now.”

“What is this?” Gervaise demanded. “Have you lost your wits?”

“No, comte. You see, Arabella Welles is my sister.”

“Your—sister.” The comte stood perfectly still, rage washing through him. The miserable contessa and now this man. Both had betrayed him. “You bastard.” He drew his sword, his eyes narrowed.

“No,” Adam said, a grim smile on his face. “I am not the bastard. I do not seduce foolish men to betray their country. Behold, comte, an Englishman who despises your precious emperor.”

Gervaise lunged toward his pistol that lay atop a table. It was nearly in his grasp when Adam’s sword sent it clattering across the floor. “Your sword, comte. Try for honor, for once in your life.”

Adam stood back, at the ready, as Gervaise pulled his sword from his sheath.
“En garde.”

Gervaise was well-trained, but his fury dimmed his skill. Adam nimbly parried his lunges. Beads of sweat broke out on the comte’s forehead. He tasted fear, cold and cramping in his belly. He cursed, executing a swift thrust he had learned from a master in France, but the
Englishman neatly deflected the death blow aimed at his heart, his sword sliding along Gervaise’s until they were locked together, but inches apart.

“It is the contessa, is it not, comte?”

“Aye, you scum. But it is the last thing you will ever know.”

He lurched backward, disengaging his sword. He dashed his hand across his brow to keep the sweat from his eyes. He saw that the Englishman was not pressing him, only smiling grimly.

“Come to me,” Adam said. “I do not chase after cowards.”

Gervaise threw caution to the winds. He laughed, engaging Adam’s sword in a loud clash of steel. This time the Englishman did not retreat, and Gervaise felt his strength. He felt a cold, prickling sensation in his chest. Time seemed to stop. He stared in surprise at the crimson stain that widened quickly on his white shirt. He saw his mother’s gentle face contorted in pain when she died. Then he saw nothing.

“Miss Lyndhurst is here, my lord. Vincenzo brought her. She is in the library.”

Adam stared at his valet, then nodded abruptly. “See that we are not disturbed.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Adam strode into the parlor, slamming the door closed behind him. Rayna whirled about to face him, the hood of her cloak falling back.

“So,” he said, his voice sounding quite calm, “despite all that has happened, you come yet again.”