Sent to the Devil by Laura Lebow Page B

please. Do not get up.”
    I watched as he leaned over, took her hand, and kissed it, his lips lingering a bit too long than was neighborly. Her violet eyes widened.
    â€œIs there anything I can do for you?” he asked. Christiane shook her head.
    â€œHad he been ill? What happened?”
    Benda glanced over at me and shook his head slightly, warning me not to discuss the murders in front of this man. He moved to stand by his fiancée’s chair. “It was a seizure,” he said. “It was very sudden.”
    Von Gerl released Christiane’s hand and grabbed one of Benda’s. “Benda! I’m glad you are here with her.” Christiane’s hand trembled as she idly fingered the lace at the collar of her dress. The newcomer turned to me.
    â€œVon Gerl, this is Lorenzo Da Ponte, a friend of mine,” Benda said. “Da Ponte, Valentin von Gerl.”
    The baron’s eyes widened. “Da Ponte? The theater poet?” he asked.
    I nodded.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to meet you!” von Gerl said, shaking my hand.
    â€œThe pleasure is mine, sir,” I replied.
    â€œI loved your latest with Salieri. I’m afraid I missed your big hit, the one with the Spaniard, Martín. I was living abroad when that was performed. And the one you wrote before that, the one based on the Beaumarchais play—” He scratched his head. “What was the name of that composer?”
    â€œMozart,” I said.
    â€œOf course! Mozart. I’ve never heard his work. Maybe someday, now that I am in Vienna to stay. I’m a great fan of the opera.”
    The door opened and a servant entered with a large tray containing a pot of coffee and four cups. He placed it on the sideboard, poured four cups, and brought one to Christiane. Her hands trembled as she accepted the drink.
    Von Gerl settled on the sofa across from me, at the end nearest his hostess. “How long have you been in Vienna?” he asked me.
    â€œAlmost seven years,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œI can still hear the Veneto in your speech,” he answered.
    I raised an eyebrow. “I am impressed, sir.”
    â€œVenice, I would guess,” von Gerl continued. “Am I right?”
    â€œYes, I lived several years in Venice, before I came here.”
    The baron beamed. “Hah! I could tell.”
    â€œVery good, von Gerl,” Benda said. “Very impressive.” He returned to his place on the sofa and turned to his fiancée, who was gazing at her neighbor. “Don’t you think so, Christiane?” Benda asked.
    She leaned toward him and murmured an unintelligible reply.
    â€œI was in Venice about six months ago,” von Gerl said.
    â€œOn business?” I asked.
    â€œNo, just traveling. It was my last stop on my grand tour, before I had to come back here.”
    â€œThe baron’s father died recently,” Benda explained to me.
    â€œYes,” von Gerl said. “I am the second son—the troublesome one.” He grinned. “My brother was the heir. I was intended for the priesthood, if my sainted mother had had her way. She made my father swear on her deathbed that he would send me to a seminary. Luckily for me, my father knew I was not fit for the church. Once my mother was gone, he sent me on a tour of Europe, with the idea that when I returned, he would use his connections to find me a position in the government.”
    Christiane slowly ran a fingertip up and down the bodice of her dress.
    â€œOnce I was away from my father’s beneficial influence, I determined not to return to Vienna until I had seen some of the world,” von Gerl continued. “My father and brother were busy managing our estates and paid little attention to my whereabouts. I stayed away for ten years. I traveled everywhere, all over Europe, and to the east also. I returned a few months ago, when I received news that both my father and brother had been taken