Devil's Daughter

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DEVIL’S DAUGHTER

  A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1985, 2000 by Catherine Coulter

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0903-5

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Signet and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2002

  To Greg

  May you enjoy all the success

  you so richly deserve

  Prologue

  Mediterranean Sea,

  Coast of Sardinia, 1802

  Hamil El-Mokrani, Bey of Oran, stood beside his captain at the helm of his xebec, his powerful legs braced against the rising wind that whipped through his black hair. He looked toward the bulging storm clouds rolling toward them and folded his arms tightly across his chest, a devil-may-care grin curving his lips.

  “The ship is sound, highness,” Aben said. His eyes darted up to Hamil from the wheel that lurched beneath his callused hands.

  “Do you convince yourself or me, Aben?” Hamil asked, still scanning the horizon. “You will have to do both. The storm has caught us off Sardinia. The waters will be treacherous.”

  The xebec dipped into a deep trough, throwing Aben to port. Hamil grabbed the wheel and righted their course. His deep laugh resounded across the deck, drawing the eyes of the sailors toward him.

  Aben, grim-faced, took the wheel again. More quickly than it seemed possible, the black clouds were upon them, gushing torrents of rain. He yelled orders to his men, his voice a thin thread in the wailing wind. He watched Hamil stride toward the mizzenmast, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and help the sailors furl the heavy, sodden rigging to protect it from the tearing wind.

  The xebec floundered on the crest of a wave, and heeled sharply to port, its timbers groaning. Aben knew they must lighten the ship, cast off the precious goods they had captured from an Italian merchant ship three days before. He shouted the order and watched his men scurry belowdecks.

  Hamil’s dark eyes narrowed as the crew heaved casks of precious wine and heavy cords of rich velvet cloth over the side. It was a pity, he thought, that Lella would not see the rich material. He had pictured her pleasure as she stroked the soft velvet, her eyes smiling up at him. His gaze passed to the group of sailors from the Reale, the Italian ship, crouched together near the rain barrels, cowering in fear. Sniveling fools, he thought, we are not murderers. He shook his head like a large mongrel, throwing his thick black hair back from his face and strode toward the railing to help a young sailor hoist a cask of wine over the side.

  “Highness.”

  He turned to see Ramid, his self-effacing Moorish slave, struggling toward him, his head bowed against the roaring wind. Hamil knew Ramid hated the sea, and was foully ill whenever the Mediterranean was anything but calm as glass. Even now the man’s thin face was pinched and pale, his eyes wide with fear.

  “What is it you want, Ramid? By Allah, man, go belowdecks. One look at you and the men will think we are all fish bait.”

  “Please, highness, you must accompany me. You are needed.”

  Hamil frowned at him, wondering where Ramid had found the courage to come for him, but he followed the man aft. Ramid’s lips moved as if in prayer as he walked carefully over the treacherous deck, Hamil striding impatiently behind him. At last he stopped and leaned over the railing, gazing raptly into the churning water below. Hamil wondered dispassionately if he was retching again.

  “What is the problem?” Hamil shouted at his slave over a crack of thunder.

  Ramid pointed downward and moved quickly aside. Curious now, Hamil took his place at the railing. He heard Ramid say in a thin, wailing voice, “Forgive me, highness, but I will be free and rich at your death.”

  Hamil turned swiftly, and the dagger aimed at his back struck deep into his shoulder. He struck out with all his mighty strength, but the dagger plunged again, into his side. He gave a howl of fury and staggered against the railing. “You swine,” he yelled toward Ramid.

  Ramid seemed to shrink at his rage, but a second man, a swarthy Nubian, shoved him aside. “It must be now,” the man shouted. They were upon him, lifting him, though he struggled, his pain forgotten. Hamil felt his back bending over the railing, and then he was hurled outward. He gave a howl of fury and locked his arms about the Nubian, squeezing the writhing man to him as they plunged, locked together, into the sea.

  Chapter 1

  Clare Castle, England, 1803

  Arabella rushed down the great oak staircase, a whirlwind of velvet riding skirts, only to draw up short at the sight of her brother entering the hall. She watched him negligently strike his riding crop against his thigh in thoughtful rhythm to his booted step. It was on the tip of her tongue to chide him, for he was late, but he paused a moment, his eyes drawn to the rich medieval trappings of the great hall, and she stood silently watching him. She knew his thoughts, for she had stood many times gazing in awe just as he was doing. It was an impressive chamber with high timbered ceilings that boasted a cavernous fireplace large enough to roast a boar, fifteenth-century suits of armor, both Italian and English, and myriad well-dusted Flemish tapestries. Silver sconces designed for ancient rush-light torches of mutton fat, empty now, but highly polished, were fastened to its stone walls at six-foot intervals.

  She watched Adam stop below the painting of the long-dead first Earl of Clare, who had lived not in the thirteenth century, but in the seventeenth, under the reign of William and Mary. She smiled, thinking about Roger Nathan Welles. That earl had been fascinated by the ruins of a Norman castle on a gentle rise of his newly purchased land, and had its great hall reconstructed to its former grandeur according to his own vision. Then, caught up in his own handiwork, and inspired by dubious legends of King Arthur, he had expanded his fancy into a four-towered edifice of soft gray stone dug from a Chicester quarry. The result was perhaps a bit unusual for its time, but nonetheless a home that all subsequ
ent Earls of Clare would have protected with their lives. Happily, their vows were never tested, for the time of civil wars in England was past.

  Adam Charles Parese Welles, Viscount St. Ives, had indeed been thinking about the beauty of his home. He was ready for a rest now after two hectic months in Amsterdam, dealing with recalcitrant Dutch shipping merchants, ready for nothing more trying than riding his stallion, Brutus, through the rolling hills that surrounded his home. But he was to leave again, to journey to the Villa Parese, in Genoa. Images of Italy flowed easily into his mind, for there was Ligurian blood in his veins. Whenever he set foot there, he shucked off his English trappings as easily as he did his clothes.

  “Adam,” Arabella called to him in her exuberant voice, “where the devil have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for an age. Quickly, love, we are to meet Rayna very soon.”

  “Rayna?” Adam repeated, his mind still on the letter from his father in his waistcoat pocket.

  Arabella frowned at her brother, wondering what he was thinking. She tugged at his coat sleeve and said, “We are supposed to ride with Rayna Lyndhurst, Adam. I told you last night she is visiting her aunt, Lady Turbridge. And she isn’t a silly little schoolgirl any longer. She is nearly eighteen and very interested in seeing you again.” Arabella paused, wondering yet again if Rayna would recognize her darkly handsome brother. It was six years since they had seen each other. Rayna’s family, the Lyndhursts, lived a good sixty miles to the west of Clare Castle, and Viscount Delford, Rayna’s father, rarely sought her own father’s company. Arabella smiled, not doubting for an instant that Rayna would lose her young heart to her dashing brother, for he was no longer a gangly boy, but a man, a very handsome man. She had been planning this meeting for two months now, for she had decided after long and profound thought that Rayna and Adam were well-suited. She frowned at him, wishing he would show a bit more enthusiasm. He resembled their father so closely it was uncanny, save for his dark blue eyes. Only she had inherited her father’s black eyes and dark brows, in startling contrast to her fair complexion and honey-colored hair.

  “Quickly, Adam,” she said again.

  Adam clasped his sister’s gloved hands. “I fear I am unable to oblige you, Bella. Please give my regrets to Rayna Lyndhurst. I must leave soon. The Cassandra is sailing on the evening tide, and I must be on her.”

  The look of dismay in Arabella’s dark eyes quickly turned to excitement. So that was it. She felt her blood quicken, and her eyes sparkled. “You’ve had a message from Father? He wants you in Genoa?”

  “Aye, and I’m off as soon as I’ve seen Mother. Rayna Lyndhurst will have to wait another year or so. Do give the child my regrets.” He smiled ironically at his sister, guessing that she had been spinning matchmaking fancies. It amused him, for Arabella was about as subtle as a firing cannon. The two girls had been friends since their years at a young ladies’ seminary in Bath, and Adam wondered what tales Arabella had spun about him to Rayna.

  “Oh, no,” Arabella said. “I will write her a note. I must pack. I will be ready in an hour.” First things first, she thought, lifting her heavy riding skirts above her knees and dashing up the stairs.

  “Bella.”

  Adam shook his head and followed more sedately after her. He had been on his way to his parents’ bedchamber, the room where he was born twenty-six years before. He passed a pert chambermaid who had offered him more than his breakfast since his return to Clare Castle. He gave her a slight smile, knowing it would never do to enjoy the favors of a serving maid in his parents’ home. His father thought the droit de seigneur as distasteful as he did.

  His mother was sitting at her dressing table with her maid, Betta, standing behind her. That stern-faced retainer, a woman of indeterminate years, was arranging the countess’s hair. “If only,” Betta was complaining, “Lady Bella could sit still for but five minutes. That one’s more roisterous than a boy.”

  “We are lucky that she is so naturally lovely,” the countess said. “She scarce needs more than five minutes of your assistance, Betta.”

  “Mother, I must speak with you.”

  Cassandra heard the tension in her son’s voice and swiveled about in her chair. “You may leave us now, Betta,” she said pleasantly to her maid.

  Betta, curious as always, sniffed and took herself off.

  Adam strode to his mother and leaned down to kiss her upturned cheek. “You must tie Arabella down, Mother,” he said, frowning. “I’ve received a message from Father. I am to leave for Genoa within the hour, and Bella is doubtless in her bedchamber hurling her clothes into a valise. There is trouble. What it is exactly, he doesn’t say.” He grinned crookedly as he handed her a thin envelope. “Perhaps he tells you.”

  The countess gingerly spread the single sheet of paper before her on the dressing table. “My love,” she read silently, “I have asked Adam to come to me. We have lost another ship, perhaps to the Barbary pirates. I hope to know the truth of the matter by the time he arrives in Genoa. If I know my son, he is likely at this moment inching toward the door, ready to be away. Keep Arabella safe with you. With any luck, I will be back in England by the summer, with this damnable business over.”

  The countess read the letter again more slowly. She smiled at Adam, who was striding impatiently about her bedchamber, just as Anthony had known he would. She dismissed Arabella’s most persistent suitor, Vincent Eversley, from her mind as if he had never existed. If Arabella had any interest in the viscount, her feelings would last, and no man, she knew, would ever forget Arabella.

  “Well, Mother, does he explain?”

  “He says another ship has been taken, perhaps by the Barbary pirates.”

  “Ah,” said Adam, his brilliant blue eyes, his mother’s eyes, narrowing thoughtfully. “It makes no sense. We have paid tribute to those damned pirates for more years than I have been on this earth. Were all our men lost? No survivors?”

  “Your father doesn’t say, my love. We will find out quickly enough.”

  “We?” Adam repeated, eyeing his mother.

  “Have your valet pack for you, Adam. Arabella and I will be ready for your escort in an hour’s time. Who is captaining the Cassandra?”

  Adam stared, nonplussed, at his mother. “Surely, Mother,” he began, disregarding her question, “you will reconsider. Our treaty with the French is tenuous at best at the moment. It wouldn’t be safe. Father would be none too pleased if—”

  “You are wasting time, Adam,” the countess said. “There is much to be done, if we are to make the evening tide.”

  “But what about Eversley? He is due to arrive tomorrow from London, and he will want to see Arabella.”

  “I know, dear brother,” Arabella said from the doorway. She eyed her brother with open challenge. Really, she thought, Adam was behaving like an anxious father who wished to be rid of his daughter. “And I am all of twenty years old, and on the shelf, growing longer in the tooth by the month, waiting for dear Eversley to pluck me off. Forget him, Adam. He is not at all like you or Father, and I have decided I won’t have him.”

  “Eversley appears to fill all the requirements,” Adam said.

  “I want a man, Adam, not a sniveling Carlton House fop.”

  “I doubt you know what you’re saying, love.”

  “That is quite enough from the both of you,” the countess said coolly, rising to shake out her skirts. “If you will keep down your gorge, Adam, we can all get ready to sail for Genoa. I understand, Arabella,” she continued, turning to her daughter, “that Edward Lyndhurst is to visit his sister, Lady Turbridge, tomorrow, to escort Rayna back to Delford Hall. I will write him a note and let him deal with Viscount Eversley.”

  Adam saw his sister’s triumphant smile, and knew he was beaten. He was pulled from the pleasant fancy of throttling her by the touch of his mother’s fingers on his sleeve. “I miss your father, my love. It is time we were all together again.”

  Adam gave her a crooked grin. “Just when I th
ought to be free of petticoats, ma’am, you’ve saddled me with a sister who does not know her place and tries to take mine.”

  “Like father, like daughter, Adam,” Arabella said.

  Chapter 2

  Villa Parese, Genoa

  Arabella breathed in the warm flower-scented air and sat back against the plush black leather squabs in the open carriage. She felt glad to be home again. She shook her head, bemused at the thought, for she felt the same way when she returned to England from Italy. She swiveled about to gaze back at the glistening blue Mediterranean, like limpid glass under the bright afternoon sun, dotted with tall-masted ships. The city glittered white, rising from the shore like a beautiful woman, as her father was wont to say, with the sea before her and the glorious snowcapped mountains pressing against her back. Genoa—La Superba.

  Though she searched for changes, she saw none in her beloved city now that it was a French protectorate. The peasants trudging beside their donkeys along the dusty road were going about their business, as had the determined shopkeepers in the city. But she feared for them, for she knew Napoleon would not allow them this semblance of freedom for much longer. There was no unity among the Italian states, and Napoleon was drawing them into his insatiable maw as it pleased him. He had already proclaimed several free Italian states the Cisalpine Republic, an excuse to loot their treasuries and quarter French troops in their cities. There was little anyone could do to prevent the French from drawing Genoa into the empire, and if that happened, Genoa could no longer be her home. She dreaded that day. Though with her honey-colored hair she could never pass for an Italian, as could Adam, she was proud of her heritage, proud when her mother chided her, with a twinkle in her eyes, about her passionate Ligurian blood whenever Arabella lost her temper. She was intrigued that she was supposed to be passionate, for she knew nothing about it.

  The thought of being confined to England did not appeal to her. No, the Proserpine arrangement of the past twenty years suited her just fine. Englishmen, Arabella had decided, when she was old enough to draw their masculine attention, were not at all to her taste. They were too civilized, too affected. They probably didn’t know about passion either.