The Lion's Daughter (2 page)

cause
she's so small and slight, others
tend to forget she's a grown woman
—
and
she objects very strongly to being treated like a
child.”

“I
wish I could meet her,” said Percival. “I like tomboys.
The other sort of girls are so ghastly silly. Does she play chess?”

“I'm
afraid not. Perhaps, when
wè
return to England, you'll teach
her.”

“Then
you
are
returning,
Uncle? I'm most pleased to hear it. That's what Mama wishes, you
know.” Perched on the wall, his legs dangling over the side,
Percival squinted against the sun at the faint line of peaks just
visible on the opposite shore: Albania's coast. “Every fine
day,” he went on. “Mama and I come out to wave to you and
Esme, and pretend we can see you waving back. Of course, we don't
tell anyone, do we, Mama? Not even Lord Edenmont. He thinks we're
waving to the sailors.”

“Edenmont?”
Jason repeated incredulously. “Not Varian St. George, surely?
What the devil was the fellow doing here, Diana?”

“He
lives here,” she said with a faint smile. “You know of
him, then?”

“I
got an earful in Venice. He was one of Byron's circle. Left England
to escape his creditors
—
and
proceeded to cut a swathe through the contessas, not to mention
—”
Jason recollected Percival's
presence. He perched himself on the chaise
longue
and whispered fiercely, “The
man's a parasite, a libertine, a wastrel. What do you mean
'lives
here'?”

“I
mean he lives upon my husband.”

“A
parasite, as I said. Hasn't a groat to his name
—”

'Then
obviously he must rely upon others. I think of Lord Edenmont as
ornamental ivy, supporting itself upon an otherwise vulgar and boring
public building
—
that
is to say, Gerald, and others like him. Varian is very ornamental. He
is darkly beautiful in that brooding way so fatal to feminine
sensibilities
...
and
sense.”

She
glanced at Jason's face and a ghost of a laugh escaped her. “Not
to mine, darling. All I feel for him is pity and, occasionally,
gratitude. If Lord Edenmont has sunk to playing foot-boy to an ailing
woman and nurse-maid to her precocious son,

that
is the gentleman's misfortune. Percival and I are glad of the
company, are we not dear?” she said in more carrying tones.

“He's
a terrible chess player. Otherwise he's quite intelligent,”
Percival said judiciously. “Besides, he amuses Mama.”

Jason
took her hand. “Does he?”

“More
important, he's kind to Percival,” she whispered. “But my
son needs
you,
Jason.
Gerald loathes him. I fear when I'm gone
—”

“Papa's
coming!” Percival cried. “The carriage has just come
around the turning.” He scrambled down from the wall. “I'll
run down to meet him, shall I?” Without waiting for a reply, he
grabbed his uncle's hand, shook it, and dashed away.

Jason
knelt beside Diana. “I love you,” he said.

Her
frail arms went round his shoulders. “Go now,” she said.
“Don't let your brother find you here and spoil it for us. I
love you, darling, and I'm so proud of you. Do what you must
—
only
try, will you, to hurry back to England with Esme?”

Jason
swallowed and nodded.

“Don't
be sorry,” she said firmly. “Think how lucky we were to
have our time together in Venice. You've made me happy, truly.”

His
eyes misting, he embraced her. He didn't ask for forgiveness, because
she'd already given it. And he didn't say goodbye, because he
couldn't bear it. He simply kissed her one last time, then left.

NOT
WISHING TO worry his mama, Percival didn't tell her he'd become a
spy. Never in his twelve years had he encountered a man he could
truly admire
—
until
he met his Uncle Jason. From respect to hero worship was but an
instant's leap
—
a
leap Percival made the moment he heard his uncle speak of uprisings,
smuggling, and conspiracy. With some vaguely formed notion of
secretly passing on valuable information to his uncle, Percival began
to skulk about Otranto or
—
when
inclement weather or late hours confined him indoors
—
his
own house, where he eavesdropped shamelessly, searching for clues.

Like
most persons who look for trouble, Percival found it.

Three
nights after Jason's visit, the boy stood on the narrow wroght iron
balcony outside his father's study window, peer-ing through the slit
between the drapes. Since the window was not quite closed, Perrcival
could hear the conversation clearly.

His
father's visitor may well have been Greek as he claimed, but he
was not a merchant, and he had most
certainly not come to play chess, as Papa had pretended. What Mr.
Risto wanted was an immense quantity of British rifles and smaller
quantities of other sorts of weapons and ammunition. Papa replied
that smuggling such merchandise was becoming more difficult, and Mr.
Risto answered that his master was well aware of this. Then he
emptied out a good-sized bag of gold coins onto Papa's desk. Without
batting an eyelash, Papa scribbled something on a piece of paper and,
after explaining the code's meaning, gave it to Mr. Risto. But Mr.
Risto shook his head and said it wouldn't do. It seemed he didn't
entirely trust Papa to keep his part of the bargain. This made Papa
very angry.

Mr.
Risto wanted a token of good faith, and nothing but the chess set
would do. Papa answered that the chess set had been in the family for
generations and was worth several times the value of the weapons.
Furthermore, he was deeply affronted by this sudden mistrust after
months of doing business with Mr. Risto's master, Ismal. The debate
continued until, finally, Mr. Risto said he'd settle for one chess
piece. When Papa objected, Mr. Risto began to throw the coins back
into the bag. Very vexed, Papa snatched up the black queen, unscrewed
the bottom, twisted up the piece of paper, stuffed it inside, and
gave it to Mr. Risto.

Mr.
Risto promptly became cordial again, took Papa's hand, and promised
to return the chess piece when the merchandise reached Albania. Then
the two men left the room.

British
weapons. Smuggling. Albania. This, of course, was quite impossible,
Percival told himself as he stared blindly into the vacant study.
He'd dreamt the whole thing and was at this moment sound asleep in
his own bed.

Percival
succeeded in convincing himself that what he'd seen and heard was all
a dream until the following afternoon, when his father had the entire
household searching for the black queen, which he claimed had
inexplicably disappeared.

Chapter
1

Otranto,
Italy, late September
1818

VARIAN
ST. GEORGE STOOD AT THE TERRACE wall and gazed across the water. The
sea breeze lolled lazily about him, scarcely ruffling the gleaming
dark curls at his forehead. Like a sea of blue flame under the fiery
autumn sun, the Adriatic inched toward the faint line of peaks on the
opposite shore. In his fancy these were mountains of ice the sea
strove to melt and draw into its depths. Always the blue flames
clawed at them, yet they stood, impervious, as impenetrable as the
vast Ottoman Empire they guarded.

Lord
Byron claimed the world's most beautiful women could be found there.
Perhaps this was so. Yet it seemed an overly long way to go, even for
Aphrodite herself. Certainly, Varian had no need to seek so far for
beauties. Women sought the twenty-eight-year-old Lord Edenmont
endlessly, and he felt certain there must be quite enough women in
western Europe to suffice even the greediest of men.

This
evening, for instance, he had an appointment with the dark-eyed wife
of a banker, and that was as far into the future as Varian needed or
cared to think. The result of the meeting

was
hardly in question. He would pretend to believe die sig-nora's
virtuous protestations for about an hour or perhaps less
—
depending
upon how long she liked to play these scenes. Then they would do
exactly as they'd both intended to do in the first place.

Lord
Edenmont's mind, at the moment, was not upon the signora, but the
family which had fed and housed him all summer.

Lady
Brentmor's ashes had been scattered over the Adriatic a week ago.
Holding her son's hand, she'd quietly passed away on the day the
household had been frantically searching for a valuable chess piece.

Though
Varian had been told she was incurably ill, her death had shocked
and distressed him. Despite her increasing frailty, she had never
truly seemed an invalid. Now he suspected she'd lived these last
months on sheer strength of will, and that entirely for Percival's
sake. Still, she hadn't kept the truth from her son. It was the boy,
in fact, who'd explaincd Lady Brentmor's rules to Varian very early
in their acquaintance.

“Mama says she's not afraid to die,” he'd told Varian.

“W
hat
she
can't
abide, though, is for
everyone to be gloomy and anxious about her. And I do believe she's
right. If we're sad, we make her feel sad, and it's ever so much
healthier for her to feel cheerful, isn't it?” Giving Varian a
gravely assessing look he'd added, “I wasn't quite prepared to
like you at first, but you make Mama laugh, and you read with a great
deal more expression than Papa or I. If you like, I shall teach you
how to play chess properly.”

Thus,
simply because Varian amused Lady Brentmor and provided distraction
from her pain, Percival was prepared to like him. Varian found this
touching, since he knew the boy thought him a hopeless idiot. The
boy, however, considered his father an even greater idiot and clearly
didn't like him, which Varian felt was proof of both superior
intelligence and taste.

Having
apparently discovered long ago that his father detested him, Percival
returned the favor by politely disregarding his sire. The boy
possessed his mother's affection, which had been enough for him.
Until now.

Not
that Percival's unhappy family situation was Varian's problem. He'd
never been fond of children, especially precocious adolescents like
Percival. He did not want to pity the boy, or even like him.
Unfortunately, he reminded Varian of his younger brothers. Percival
possessed both Damon's genius for getting into scrapes and Gideon's
talent for soberly and logically explaining them away.

Now
and then, when Varian thought of the siblings he'd abandoned, he
experienced a twinge of something like regret. Lately he felt the
same disagreeable twinges on Percival's account. With Lady Brentmor's
death, Sir Gerald had begun belittling and berating his son
relentlessly. This behavior would have been unpleasant enough in any
circumstances. Coming immediately upon the loss of an adored mother,
it was unconscionably cruel. Still, the world was a cruel place,
wasn't it?

Varian
took out his pocket watch. Ordinarily, he didn't rise from his bed
before noon, but yesterday he'd taken Percival out of Sir Gerald's
way, on a long ramble through the Castle of Otranto, then the
Cathedral. Exhausted, Varian had made an abnormally early bedtime,
and woke at dawn as a result.

He
told himself it was just as well. He'd join Sir Gerald at breakfast
and announce his plans for departure. Perhaps he'd try Naples next.
Not that he had enough money to get there. Still, he had traveled
through half of Italy with no funds. He possessed an ancient title, a
handsome face and figure, and a devastating charm. These, he'd early
learned, were nearly as useful as ready money.

Luckily
for Varian St. George, the world was filled with social climbers like
Sir Gerald, who, despite the title his father had bought, was a
tradesman still. Like so many other jumped-up Cits, however, he was a
snob. By dining with an aristocrat or two now and then, he created
the illusion that he traveled in elite circles. It was never
difficult to find a hard-up aristocrat willing to consume a free
meal.

Varian,
more hard-up than most, was willing to consume a great deal more.
He'd even condescended to become a house guest. He ate Sir Gerald's
food, drank his wine, slept in his luxurious guest chamber, and
permitted the baronet's servants to wait upon him. In return, Varian
allowed Sir Gerald to drop his ancient name as often as he wished.

It
was a pity to give up so convenient a berth before one was

obliged
to. Sir Gerald would be returning to England soon, anyhow. To leave
now would hardly improve Varian's lot
...
and certainly not Percival's,
drat him. What would become of the boy after Varian
—
his
only friend, apparently
—
was
gone?