The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“Did you sin with Signora Razzoli?” Percival asked, after a moment. “Rinaldo says you were her cavalier servente, but that is an idiomatic expression, isn’t it? When you visited her house, did you—”

“We conversed,” Varian said. “She is very well-read. And it is vulgar to gossip with servants, Percival.”

“Yes, that’s what Grandmama says, but it’s ever so interesting. Servants know everything. “

“I expect your grandmother will be happy to have you and your father back in England.”

The boy obligingly followed the conversational detour.

“Well, she makes the best of it, Grandmama says, since she hasn’t anyone else. Uncle John—but they all called him Jack—was the eldest. He died before I was born, though. And Uncle J—” Percival hesitated, then closed his book and pulled his chair closer to Varian’s. In low, confidential tones he concluded, “They pretend Uncle Jason’s dead, too, but he isn’t.”

“Your mama’s brother?” Varian asked. He knew Sir Gerald’s elder brother had succumbed to influenza ages ago. He’d heard of no other Brentmor siblings.

“Papa’s younger brother,” Percival explained. “He ran away years and years ago, and they’ve always pretended he was dead, they were so angry. But he’s not. He’s alive and…and he’s a hero. “

“He must be a very discreet sort of hero,” Varian said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Have you heard of Ali Pasha, the ruler of Albania?” Percival tapped his finger on the book cover. “That’s why I’m reading this. Lord Byron tells all about Ali Pasha and the Albanians, and that’s where Uncle Jason is. He’s lived there all this time, and they call him the Red Lion. That’s for his courage and his red hair. It’s the same color as mine—and quite rare in Albania, I believe.”

“I beg your pardon, Percival, but I do read upon occasion, and am familiar with the poem. I recall no mention of the Red Lion. Where did you read about this fellow?”

Percival wrinkled his brow. “But I’m sure I never said I read about my uncle.”

“Then how do you know so much about a relative everyone pretends is dead?” Varian gave the boy a searching look.

Percival squirmed a bit, then sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

“Perhaps it was a dream,” Varian suggested.

“No. It wasn’t a dream.”

“A fairy tale, then.”

“No. It’s quite true.” Percival bit his lip. “I can prove it,” he said. “If I may be excused for a moment?”

He ran to his room, leaving Varian to stare uneasily at the fire. Moments later, the boy was back, bearing a pile of clothing. He draped the pieces over his chair; woolen trousers with elaborate braiding, a black, gilt-embroidered jacket, and a voluminous cotton shirt.

“Uncle Jason gave them to me,” Percival said. “It’s what the Albanians wear—or some of them. He said he didn’t think I’d want the kilt until I was older. Mama said I wasn’t to show them to anyone, because Papa would find out. But you wouldn’t tell Papa, would you?”

“Tell him what?” Varian asked, though he had a suspicion what the answer was.

“That Uncle Jason came to see us.” Percival picked a minute piece of lint from the jacket and smoothed a crease in the shirt.

In half an hour, Varian had most of the story. Jason had made two visits: one long stay in Venice while Sir Gerald was away, seeking a villa in southern Italy, and one brief visit a few days before Lady Brentmor died. From innocent remarks Percival made—in between extolling his uncle’s endless virtues—Varian guessed that Jason Brentmor had been more than a brother-in-law to Diana.

Varian could hardly blame her for infidelity to a husband like Sir Gerald. Nor was he shocked that the lover was her brother-in-law. On the contrary, the news was welcome. Varian had suspected her life was unhappy, even apart from her illness. He felt an odd relief that someone had made her happy for a while.

“Well, I’m delighted you had a chance to meet this splendid uncle,” Varian said when the tale was done. “However, it grows late, and you ought to make an early bedtime if we’re to tour the Church of St. Nicholas tomorrow. “ Varian had his own tour planned for this night, a leisurely exploration of the charms of a certain dark-eyed lady he’d encountered at the Castle of Bari.

“But I haven’t told you the terrible thing I did,” Percival said, his green eyes downcast.

“I am hardly the father confessor,” Varian answered with a tinge of impatience. “So long as you don’t dissect your various specimens upon the table at mealtimes, or fill my bed with your rocks, your sins are of little moment—”

“I gave him the black queen,” Percival said in a choked voice. “By accident, I mean. But if Papa finds out he’ll—he’ll send me to school in India. He’s threatened that hundreds of times, but Mama wouldn’t let him.”

Varian had risen, preparatory to carrying Percival over his shoulder to bed if need be. Now he sat back down. After endless searching, the black queen had finally been presumed stolen, and Sir Gerald had mentioned offering a thousand pounds for its return. Varian could not believe his ears. He gazed at Percival with narrowed eyes. “You what?”

“I meant to give Uncle Jason my rock—the one with the green streaks and the little knobby—”

“The rock’s unique characteristics do not appear pertinent,” Varian interrupted.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Quite right. They’re not—well, not at present, I agree. The fact is, we were in the study. How we got there is not pertinent either, I believe?” Percival asked, looking up hopefully.

“Not at present.”

“Well, that’s a relief, because—”

“Percival.”

“Yes, sir, indeed. To put it as succinctly as possible: I bumped into the chess table and knocked some pieces over. In my agitated state—for Papa would be most—” He caught Varian’s eyes and went on hurriedly, “Well, I must have wrapped the black queen in Uncle Jason’s handkerchief by mistake, because later I found the rock was still in my pocket. When Papa told us the queen was gone, I knew what had happened. But I couldn’t tell him, could I?”

If the queen was in Jason’s possession, then it was in Albania by now, hopelessly beyond the reach of a penniless nobleman.

“I suppose not.” Varian rose once more. “I’m sure you’re emotionally drained by this confession, Percival, and most anxious to rest.”

Percival gazed at him consideringly. “Actually, now I’ve confessed, I feel obliged to do something.”

“Yes. Go to bed.”

“What I mean is, we could get her back. That is to say, she is worth a thousand quid to Papa and,” he said, flinging his arm eastward, “she’s just over there, you know.”

“‘Over there’ is the Ottoman Empire. Don’t be absurd, Percival. Unless your uncle chooses to return it, the queen is gone for good.”

“It takes only a day or two to sail there,” Percival said. “Uncle Jason lives right on the coast. We wouldn’t have to go into the country. Just stop at the port, as scores of ships do every day, from everywhere.”

“We?” Varian repeated. “If you think I’m hiring a vessel to travel to Albania with a twelve-year-old boy, his father’s sole heir—”

“Papa would pay you the reward, and you know he gave you plenty of money for travel expenses and we’ve got lots of time.”

“No, Percival. Go to bed.”

Percival went to bed, but not until hours later, and Lord Edenmont, having altogether forgotten the dark-eyed lady, sat up until dawn watching the fire dwindle into smoldering embers.

Staring unhappily into the darkness, Percival told himself he was very lucky Lord Edenmont was not as perceptive as Mama. She would have grown suspicious when she saw how much he’d eaten. She knew he overate when he was particularly agitated.

He’d gorged today because he knew he must tell Lord Edenmont a falsehood about the black queen. He had to. Stolen weapons were on their way to Albani

a, and no one but Uncle Jason could be entrusted with the information, especially since Papa was involved. Unfortunately, one couldn’t write to Uncle Jason. He’d said that powerful men in Albania had spies who regularly intercepted other people’s letters.

Which meant he must be told in person. Which meant deceiving Lord Edenmont. Which had made Percival feel just like a criminal.

It hardly counted that people said Lord Edenmont was wicked—even that Uncle Jason thought so. His lordship had always been kind to Mama, and agreeable to Percival himself. He wouldn’t be agreeable ever again, Percival thought regretfully, when he learned the truth. But that would happen only if his lordship took the bait. Perhaps he wouldn’t.

The room’s blackness was just beginning to fade when Percival heard Lord Edenmont enter the adjoining bedchamber. Closing his eyes, Percival told himself one shouldn’t feel sorry about trying to do one’s duty, especially when hundreds of lives might be saved. Besides, one couldn’t expect Lord Edenmont to remain about forever. Sooner or later they’d reach Venice, and his lordship would go away. On the other hand, if all went well, Uncle Jason would soon be on his way to England with Cousin Esme. That would more than make up for losing Lord Edenmont’s company. They’d be together. A family, just as Mama wanted.

This reflection quieted Percival’s distress, rather as his mama’s voice might have done. Moments later, while the rising sun darted gold sparks across the Adriatic, he fell asleep.

Tepelena, Albania