The Lion's Daughter Read online

  The Lion’s Daughter

  by

  Loretta Chase

  Copyright © 1992 by Loretta Chekani

  Prologue

  Otranto, Italy Mid-September 1818

  Jason Brentmor put away the note his sister-in-law had given him. His glance swept unseeingly across the blue Adriatic, glistening in the early autumn sun, and around the stone terrace of his brother’s palazzo until he met Diana’s blue gaze. Then he smiled.

  “I’m relieved to learn my mother hasn’t gone soft in her old age,” he said. “Doesn’t waste a word, does she? You’d never know she hadn’t laid eyes on me in twenty-four years. To her, I’m still the reckless boy who gambled away his inheritance and ran off to live with the barbarous Turks.”

  “The prodigal son, rather,” came Diana’s amused response.

  “Indeed. I’ve merely to creep to her on hands and knees and beg forgiveness, and I and my half-breed daughter will be restored to the bosom of the Brentmors. What on earth did you write her, love?”

  “Only that I’d met up with you in the spring in Venice. I also enclosed a copy of my new will.” Diana gestured toward the elaborate chess set that stood on a table near her chaise longue. “The set was yours once. Now it shall be Esme’s dowry.”

  “That was my wedding gift to you,” he said.

  “I’d rather had you,” she answered. “But we spoke all our regrets in Venice, didn’t we? And we had three glorious weeks to make up for it.”

  “Oh, Diana, I do wish—”

  She looked away. “I hope you will not become maudlin, Jason. I really cannot abide it. We’ve both paid a high price for our mistakes. Still, we had Venice, and you’re here now. The past is done. I don’t want our children to go on paying for it, as though they existed in some ghastly melodrama. Your daughter needs a proper home and a husband—in England, where she belongs. The set’s been appraised. It will bring her a large sum.”

  “She doesn’t need—”

  “Of course she does, if you want her to marry happily. With the dowry and your mother’s backing in society, Esme may take her pick of eligible bachelors. She’s eighteen, Jason. She can’t remain in Albania to be shut up in some Turkish harem. You said as much yourself. Now, just take her home and make up with your mama, and don’t argue with a dying woman.”

  Jason knew she was dying. He’d suspected it by the time he left Venice; otherwise, he’d not have attempted a second visit to Italy so soon. In the interval, his golden-haired Diana had faded to a wraith, her graceful hands so sadly frail, the blue veins throbbing weakly under nearly transparent flesh. Yet she was determined to appear strong. Proud and stubborn, as she’d always been.

  He moved away from the stone railing and, looking away from her still beautiful face, took up the black queen from the chess set. The minute gems of the elaborately carved Renaissance costume sparkled in the sunlight. Though the chess set was supposedly more than two hundred years old, it was complete and in fine condition.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take Esme back as soon as I can.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I can’t just yet,” he said. “But soon, I hope.” He met her reproachful blue gaze. “I have obligations, love.”

  “More important than those to your family?”

  He put back the queen, then moved to Diana’s side and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. He hated to disappoint her, but he couldn’t lie to her, either. “The Albanians took me in when I had nothing,” he said. “They gave me a loving wife who bore me a strong, brave daughter. They gave my life a worthy purpose, gave me a chance to do some good. Now my adopted country needs my help.”

  “Ah,” she said softly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Your life’s been there for more than twenty years.”

  “If it were just the usual thing, I’d not hesitate to leave. I know I’ve put it off too long, and that’s hardly fair to Esme, as you say. But Albania is on the brink of chaos at present.”

  She looked up at him.

  “There’s always unrest,” he explained. “Lately, though, the uprisings show a pattern, as though they were being orchestrated. I’ve captured a store of English weapons—stolen, it turns out, and smuggled. There’s definitely someone behind it, someone of considerable cunning who, unfortunately, appears to have an equally adept supplier.”

  “A conspiracy, Uncle Jason?”

  Jason and Diana turned toward the doorway, where her twelve-year-old son Percival stood, his green eyes glowing with excitement. Jason had forgotten about the boy, who had discreetly withdrawn more than an hour ago with the excuse of trying on the Albanian costume his uncle had brought him.

  “Gracious, how dashing you look,” said his mother. “And how well it fits.”

  Indeed, the snug trousers with their distinctive braiding fit perfectly, as did the short black jacket Percival wore over the loose cotton shirt.

  “I had it made to Esme’s size. It’s what she usually wears. She’s a terrible hoyden, I’m afraid.” Jason ruffled the boy’s dark red hair. “Do you know, at the moment, you might pass as her twin. Same hair, eyes.”

  “Your hair and eyes,” Diana said.

  Percival moved away and, with typical boyish disregard for life and limb, jumped onto the terrace wall. Far below him, the sea lapped lazily at the jagged rocks of the shore.

  “Only I was never so scrawny,” Jason answered, smiling. “It’s not so bad for a boy, but most exasperating for Esme. Because 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 we 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 countessas, 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 Baron Edenmont has sunk to playing footboy to an ailing woman and nursemaid to her precocious son, that is the baron’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 jud
iciously. “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 wrought iron balcony outside his father’s study window, peering through the slit between the drapes. Since the window was not quite closed, Percival 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 One

  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 the signora’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 explained Lady Brentmor’s rules to Varian very early in their acquaintance.

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

  Resolutely banishing Percival’s plight to the further recesses of his mind, Varian headed for the breakfast room.

  Dunes, Albania

  From a distance, the Durres house seemed a ramshackle heap of stones piled upon a ledge overlooking the Adriatic. It was smaller than their previous abodes, comprising but two tiny rooms: one to live in, one to store supplies in. To Esme Brentmor, it was a beautiful house. In all her peripatetic life, this was the first time she’d lived upon the sea.