Don't Bargain with the Devil (35 page)

 

The finest and the most intimidating. “I take it you’re still content to be my servant, instead of rushing back to England with Rafael?”

 

“I ain’t leaving you with your grandfather and no friend to turn to,” Nettie retorted.

 

“She
has
a friend to turn to,” Diego bit out.

 

“You?” Nettie snorted. “You’re trotting off to your estate in the north of Spain.”

 

“Not right away.” When Lucy’s gaze shot to him, he gave her a long, level look. “Arboleda has sat idle this long; it can wait a while longer. I mean to stay in San Roque as long as necessary to be sure you are comfortable. And happy.”

 

Happy? She wasn’t sure that was possible without
him
. “I thought that Rafael was carrying you north when he left here,” she said, wondering at this new development.

 

He shrugged. “Rafael will be here a week or more, unloading his cargo and picking up his new one. If necessary,
I will move into a
pensión
and delay my trip until the next time he docks here.”

 

He would do that for her? She was debating whether to ask why, when the double entrance doors of her grandfather’s abode burst open, and an elderly man was helped out onto the marble porch by a wiry attendant.

 

“Is that her?” the older man’s querulous voice demanded in Spanish. He tapped his cane with impatience. “Don Diego?”

 

As a groom scurried to put down the carriage step, Diego shot her a reassuring glance, then opened the door and leaped out. He bowed deeply to the man before turning to help Lucy disembark.

 

“Don Carlos,” he said in English, “may I present Dońa Lucinda. Your granddaughter.”

 

As she alighted, Diego’s hand left her. She felt naked and exposed before the sharp-eyed
marqués,
who scanned her as if assessing her worthiness to be his descendant.

 

Just as she thought this might have been a huge mistake, that she should have refused even to leave the ship, he clutched the head of his cane in both hands and began to cry.

 

What should she do? Perhaps he wouldn’t want her to notice the tears. Perhaps it would embarrass him if she tried to comfort him. A glance at Diego gave her no help, for he looked equally discomfited.

 

This
was the “shrewd and ruthless” man Rafael had warned her against? This broken-down fellow with heavily pomaded white hair?

 

After an awkward moment, the
marqués
raised a shaky hand to brush away his tears. “Forgive me, child,” he croaked out in heavily accented English. “I am an old man.
How do you say it in English? We wear our hearts in our sleeves.”

 

Stifling a smile, Lucy curtsied, not sure how a Spanish woman should respond to her stranger of a grandfather. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

 

At her formal tone, he frowned and gestured her forward with an imperious hand. “Come, come, girl. Have you no kiss for your poor old grandpapa?”

 

She approached him nervously. He was stooped so far down over his cane that she had to bend to press her kiss to his papery cheek. How old
was
he, anyway? She hadn’t expected him to be this old.

 

When she started to move back, he clutched her arm. “Let me look at you up close,” he said. “My eyes aren’t as good as they once were.”

 

He peered up at her face, a smile growing on his lips. “You’re the very picture of your mother,” he went on. “The very picture.”

 

His eyes were definitely not in good shape. “Forgive me, sir,” she said in Spanish to be sure he understood her, “but I don’t think I look anything like her, judging from
this.
” She showed him the miniature she’d kept close all this time.

 

He blinked, though she couldn’t tell which surprised him more, the fact that she would gainsay him or the fact that she spoke Spanish.

 

Then he set his shoulders stubbornly. “That likeness isn’t the best,” he replied in rapid Spanish she had to concentrate to understand. “Take my word for it, you’re more like her than any picture can convey. Come, I’ll show you.” He broadened his gaze to include Nettie and Diego. “All of you, come.”

 

With his talonlike fingers digging into her arm, he
urged her toward the open door. His attendant tried to take his other arm, but Don Carlos waved him off. “My granddaughter will help me. Won’t you, child?”

 

“Of course,
Abuelo,
” she said, not sure whether to be flattered or terrified by his clear eagerness to have her about.

 

Now she understood what Diego had been trying to tell her. The
marqués
had been deprived of his grandchild through no fault of his own. What must that have been like? And how much harder must it have been for her parents to have their child stolen?

 

With him leaning heavily on her arm as he led the way at an excruciatingly slow pace, Lucy had plenty of time to gaze around her. Lord help her. The place was a palace. They walked down a gallery that circled a courtyard large enough to hold Papa’s modest town house. It sported an elaborate fountain, not to mention potted fruit trees. Brilliantly colored mosaics punctuated the creamy walls, and costly Oriental rugs littered the rooms floored with tiles of intricate designs.

 

As they passed through various chambers, her grandfather pointed out paintings by Rembrandt and Velázquez, Chinese vases and native ceramics, things she’d only seen in the Duke of Foxmoor’s house heretofore.

 

“This will all be yours one day, my girl,” he said as they crept along.

 

For a moment, she actually thought that giving up everything in England might be worth a lifetime among such beauties. Then she remembered the possible price—a husband not of her choosing. A husband who was not Diego.

 

Not that Diego was a possibility anymore, if he ever had been. The farther they advanced through luxurious rooms, the grimmer he looked, and she understood why. Despite
his rank and fame, Diego’s situation couldn’t begin to compare to her grandfather’s.

 

She really
was
a fine heiress, and her grandfather would probably consider Diego little better than a fortune hunter. If he considered him at all. And Diego’s pride would never allow him to tolerate that.

 

They climbed the stairs to a second gallery, then entered a well-appointed parlor. “This apartment is yours, my dear,” her grandfather said. “There’s a dressing room, a bedchamber, and a balcony overlooking the bay. The apartment used to be your mother’s.”

 

A lump caught in Lucy’s throat. Her mother’s room. Had she stood in this very spot as a young woman, dreaming and planning for her future?

 

“And this, my dear, is the likeness of your mother I was telling you about,” the
marqués
said, gesturing behind her.

 

She turned to find a large portrait that took up half of one wall. The lump in her throat thickened. Her mother. Yes, Lucy recognized her. This particular image showed her beauty mark, and the tilt of her head was painfully familiar.

 

With tears in her eyes, Lucy approached the painting.

 

“I commissioned it on the occasion of her betrothal,” her grandfather said.

 

“To my father?” Lucy said, then realized how stupid that sounded. Of course, it was to her father. Who else would it be?

 

Her grandfather took a moment to answer, but when she turned to him, he smiled. “Yes, of course, Don Álvaro.”

 

“Is there a painting of him as well?” It began to bother her that while she had a clear image of her mother, there was no corresponding image of her Spanish father.

 

Then again, he probably hadn’t been active in her life. Many aristocratic fathers left child rearing to their wives and servants.

 

“No,” Don Carlos said abruptly. “He was much too busy to sit for an artist.”

 

She glanced back at the portrait. Her mother didn’t look nearly as happy as a woman should on her betrothal. “Was her marriage arranged?”

 

“I know that the English no longer subscribe to such things, but we Spanish still find arranged marriages useful.”

 

What an evasive answer. Had he meant it to be a caution for her? Or a mere statement of fact?

 

Before she could probe further, he tapped his cane. “You and Don Diego must be famished. My cook has prepared a feast in celebration of your arrival. Your maid can unpack your bags while we dine.” He held out a shaky hand. “Come, I have a friend joining us for
el almuerzo.
”

 

As she took her grandfather’s hand, she shot Diego a panicky look. Did “friend” mean just that, or was Don Carlos already plotting her marriage?

 

But Diego wouldn’t even look at her, staring stonily ahead as he followed them. They entered the dining room to find a slender man awaiting them, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled the room with the unruffled manner of an aristocrat who had nothing better to do than wait for his dinner.

 

“Ah, Don Felipe, my granddaughter is here at last!” Don Carlos cried.

 

As the “friend” turned to meet them, he looked her over most rudely. With a defiant tilt to her chin, she returned the favor.

 

Appearing to be in his late twenties, he didn’t look much different from an Englishman, especially when compared to the swarthier Diego. The soft-featured gentleman’s profusion of black curls, extravagant silk attire, and jeweled rings made him the very image of a rich and indolent grandee.

 

“This, my dear girl,” Grandfather said, “is the grandson of my dearest friend, who recently passed away. This is Don Felipe, Duque de Málaga.”

 

A duke? She doubted he was here merely as a friend to her grandfather; he was much too young. And judging from his smug acknowledgment of his introduction, he was much too full of himself to tolerate an old man’s company for long.

 

Forcing a polite smile, she curtsied. “I’m honored to meet you,” she said in Spanish, since her grandfather had spoken only Spanish to him, making her uncertain if he knew English.

 

“As am I, seńorita.” He bowed, putting his eyes right at the level of her bosom, where they stayed for a full five seconds before he straightened.

 

Lord, he was worse than Rafael.

 

She glanced over at Diego, whose tempestuous gaze was locked on the duke. He looked as if he’d like to throttle the fellow with his bare hands. Oh, dear. Why did he have to show his jealousy
now?
She could only pray her grandfather didn’t notice.

 

Fortunately, Don Carlos chose that moment to introduce the two men, and Diego managed to regain his control. But though he smoothed his expression into bored indifference, his eyes still glittered with an unholy light.

 

They took their seats at the table, with her on one side
of her grandfather and the duke on the other. Diego was put next to the duke, almost as an afterthought.

 

A dizzying array of courses followed—a cold tomato soup, fried balls of potatoes and ham, and various stews of meat and beans, all accompanied by different wines, of which the duke liberally imbibed.

 

Lucy tasted everything but got little chance to actually eat, since Don Carlos began interrogating her as soon as the meal began. Had she lived as an orphan, or had someone taken her in? How had she been educated, and where? How long had she traveled with the regiments? Had she been presented yet to the English court? When Don Carlos actually asked how many suitors she’d had and who they’d been, Diego thankfully came to her rescue.

 

“Don Felipe,” he asked, interrupting the duke in the middle of his fourth glass of wine, “do you live in San Roque?”

 

“During the spring, yes,” the duke said with a languid flick of his hand. “But once it grows too hot, I decamp to my castle in the Sierra Nevada. In autumn, of course, I prefer my villa in Seville. Or the one in Madrid. It depends on my mood.”

 

“My, my,” Lucy said in English, wondering if Lord Pompous had acquired as many languages as he had houses. “I prefer a less complicated system for indulging my moods. Maintaining so many homes would tax my organizational capabilities.”

 

The duke eyed her blankly, though her grandfather scowled. Arching a brow at Lucy, Diego swiftly translated.

 

Once Don Felipe grasped her meaning, he looked appalled. “I do have servants, Dońa Lucinda. I have no need
to stoop to maintaining my properties myself.” He cast her a meaningful glance. “And neither shall my wife.”

 

A mischievous impulse seized her. “So you’re married, are you?” she said blithely. “I should love to meet her sometime.”

 

Diego’s lips twitched, and he became suddenly fascinated with his roast pork.

 

“You misunderstand me,” the duke replied smoothly, obtuse as a slug. “I speak of my future wife.” He flashed her a knowing smile, then dropped his gaze to her bosom again. This time he fixed it there so long she had to bring her napkin to her mouth to break his gaze.

 

Her grandfather didn’t seem to notice. “The duke is considered one of the most eligible bachelors in southern Spain, my dear,” he offered.

 

“How nice for him,” she muttered in English. “And apparently I am considered a horse up for auction.”

 

“Eh?” her hard-of-hearing grandfather asked.

 

A strangled cough escaped Diego, drawing everyone’s attention. He knocked his chest with his fist. “Fish bone,” he explained. “Beg pardon.”

 

Thankfully, her grandfather was further distracted when a new and strange-looking dish was set before him. “Ah, the
pulpo
is here. Excellent!” He spooned what looked like thin scallops onto Lucy’s plate. “You must have some, my dear. My cook has the best
pulpo
in town.”

 

For the first time since they’d begun dinner, he spoke directly to Diego. “What is the English word for
pulpo,
Don Diego?”

 

“Octopus,” Diego translated.

 

Her grandfather slid a tentacle onto her plate.

 

She’d eaten many things, but tentacles weren’t among
them. She stared at its array of suckers, sure that she had gone quite pale.

 

“I do not believe the English eat octopus,” Diego told her grandfather as he watched her with gleaming eyes.