When they were on the road and the town was falling behind them, Pearlie said without looking over at Denny, “I heard all the shootin’ a while ago. Sounded like it was comin’ from the direction of the depot, and since I knew you’d gone down there, I started to go see what it was all about. But I ran into Phil Clinton along the way, and he told me what had happened. He said you were all right, but that you’d been mixed up in the ruckus.”
Denny maintained her stony silence for a moment, then relaxed a little and said, “I didn’t notice Mr. Clinton there, but I’m not surprised. I’m sure he’ll put a story about the trouble in his newspaper.” She paused. “That means he’ll probably talk to . . .”
“Talk to who?” Pearlie asked when Denny didn’t go on.
“Count Giovanni Malatesta.” Denny said the name like it tasted bad in her mouth.
“Who?”
“Nobody,” Denny snapped. “Nobody worth writing about in the newspaper. Nobody even worth knowing.”
“You sound like you know him, right enough,” Pearlie pointed out.
“I wish I didn’t,” Denny said. Her voice grew softer as she turned her head and stared off into the distance. “I wish I had never met or even heard of Giovanni Malatesta . . .”
CHAPTER 4
Venice, Italy, two years earlier
It was the fanciest, most exclusive ball of the season, with only the most illustrious members of Italian society there, along with many distinguished visitors from England and the rest of the Continent. The great, glittering hall in one of the palaces overlooking the Grand Canal was packed with aristocracy, wealth, power, and influence. Ladies in exquisite gowns, with jewelry shimmering on their fingers and wrists and around their milky white throats, swirled around the dance floor in the arms of dashing, expensively dressed gentlemen as a small orchestra played.
Nineteen-year-old Denise Nicole Jensen was perhaps the loveliest young woman in the vast room. Her blond hair was coiffed in an elaborate arrangement of curls that tumbled around shoulders left bare by her pale blue gown. The dress was cut fashionably low, cinched tight at her trim waist, and flared out around her hips. A smattering of lace decorated the neckline and sleeves.
The ball had not been under way for long, and at the moment, Denny was dancing with her twin brother, Louis, who shared the same fine features and slender build but had sandy brown hair instead of blond. They were making one of their periodic tours of the Continent, during a break from the school Louis attended in England.
When they were younger, they had always been accompanied on these journeys by their grandparents, their mother Sally’s mother and father, who owned the estate in England where Denny and Louis had grown up. Louis’s poor health as a child had prompted Smoke and Sally to seek the very best medical care available for him, and that had been in Europe. Rather than split up the twins, Denny had gone with her brother to live on the Reynolds estate. Smoke and Sally hated to be apart from their children, but they had to do what was best for Louis.
These days, now that the twins were almost fully grown, they traveled on their own, although their grandmother still wasn’t too keen on the idea. So far on this trip, they had been to Paris, Rome, and now Venice.
“I have a feeling you’re about to be swarmed,” Louis said quietly as they danced. “All the young men at this ball are waiting to swoop down on you like a pack of vultures. Quite a few of the older men are, too.”
“What a lovely image,” Denny said caustically. “I always enjoy being compared to a piece of carrion.”
“Oh, now, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m just saying that as the prettiest girl here, you’re going to get the most attention. It’s inevitable.”
“I’m hardly the prettiest girl here,” Denny scoffed. “Look at all those gorgeous Italian signorinas and French mademoiselles and Spanish señoritas. Poor little old me can’t hold a candle to them.”
“You underestimate yourself,” Louis assured her.
Denny laughed. “What do you know about it? You’re my brother.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
“It doesn’t mean you’re right, either.”
The song came to an end. The dancers paused and applauded lightly, and some shuffling of partners went on. Denny supposed she would dance with Louis again, but before the music resumed, a man’s voice said from behind her, “Please, signorina, you must help me. My life is in danger!”
Denny turned quickly. An elegantly attired, dark-haired young man a few years older than her stood there with a smile on his handsome face. He was well built but not overly tall. His gray eyes and Denny’s blue ones were almost on the same level.
Denny cocked her head a little to the side, frowned, and said, “It doesn’t look to me like your life is in any danger. You look perfectly healthy to me.”
“Ah, but that is because you cannot see my heart, signorina. There is no way for you to know that it will break completely in two if I do not have this dance, and all the other dances this evening, with you.”
Denny glanced at Louis, who shrugged as if to say, I told you so. Then she turned back to the stranger.
“Does that approach actually work?” she asked him. “Don’t women laugh in your face when you say such things?”
“My face, it is strong enough to withstand a beautiful woman’s laughter, because when she laughs, she also smiles, and a smile from a beautiful woman is worth any risk. Especially a woman as lovely as you, signorina.”
Denny studied him for a moment, then said, “Whatever I say, you’re going to have an answer for it, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I speak only the truth, as any nobleman must.” He took her hand and bowed low over it. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Giovanni Malatesta, from the beautiful island of Sicily.”
Even though Denny hadn’t grown up in the American West, the courtesy of the frontier ran in her veins, along with the blood of the Jensens. She said, “I’m Denise Jensen. This is my brother Louis.”
Count Malatesta pressed his lips to the back of Denny’s hand, then murmured, “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Signorina Jensen. Denise . . . a lovely name for a lovely girl.”
He straightened, held on to Denny’s hand for a second longer, then let go of it and forthrightly stuck out his own hand to Louis. “And an honor to meet you, my friend.” He looked back and forth between them. “Such a distinct resemblance. You are perhaps twins?”
“We are,” Louis acknowledged as he shook hands with the count.
“And Americans, of that there is no doubt.”
“Why?” Denny asked. “Because you think we’re bumpkins, as so many Europeans do?”
Malatesta pressed his right hand to his chest and shook his head. “Never! No Italian would ever be so ungracious as to think
