From the streets of London...to Venetian high society!

A Matches Made in Scandal story

To catch his father’s murderer, broodingly arrogant Conte Luca del Pietro requires help from a most unlikely source—Becky Wickes, London’s finest cardsharp.

Against the decadence of Carnival, Becky’s innocence and warmth captivate Luca, but as their chemistry burns hotter, the stakes of their perilous game are getting higher. For Luca is no longer playing for justice—but also to win Becky’s heart...

Matches Made in Scandal series

Book 1—From Governess to Countess

Book 2—From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

Book 3—His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

Book 4—A Scandalous Winter Wedding—coming soon!

Look out for the next book in the miniseries, coming soon!

“From Governess to Countess is an engaging story, it dazzles you with the chemistry between Allison and Aleskei and teases you into wanting more.”

—Goodreads on From Governess to Countess

“Kaye’s eye for detail is as sharp as her ability to translate history into engaging fiction... From Courtesan to Convenient Wife is an emotionally urgent and tender romance.”

—All About Romance on From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published over forty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more at her website: margueritekaye.com.

Also by Marguerite Kaye

Scandal at the Midsummer Ball

Scandal at the Christmas Ball

Hot Arabian Nights miniseries

The Widow and the Sheikh

Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride

The Harlot and the Sheikh

Claiming His Desert Princess

Matches Made in Scandal miniseries

From Governess to Countess

From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

And look out for the final book

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07411-7

HIS RAGS-TO-RICHES CONTESSA

© 2018 Marguerite Kaye

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Historical Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue
London—Autumn 1818

The woman The Procurer had come in search of had once been a regular street performer in the piazza at Covent Garden. The Procurer had seen her in action several times, and had been impressed by her skills and ability to work the crowd, particularly admirable in one so young. Becky Wickes’s looks, no less than her sleight-of-hand tricks, had always drawn a large audience, for she was dramatically beautiful, with huge violet eyes, sharp cheekbones, a sensual mouth and a lush figure. When she passed the hat round she garnered a healthy collection of coins, though about a year ago, by The Procurer’s reckoning, she had abruptly disappeared from her usual pitch. It was clear now, from the very public scandal in which she was embroiled, and which the gutter press had naturally made the most of, what she had been doing in the interim.

The Procurer entered the infamous rookery of St Giles in the wake of her guide, a local urchin, son of one of her less salubrious contacts. Her target had not been at all easy to trace, but then people who so desperately needed to disappear rarely were. With very good reason in this case. Members of the royal family, even minor ones, had a long and powerful reach. It had been a very grave mistake on Miss Wickes’s part to be caught in the act of fleecing one such.

The Procurer sidestepped the foul sewer which ran down the middle of the narrow alleyway, executing another sidestep in order to avoid landing on the rotting carcase of a small mammal she did not care to identify. A gaggle of rough-looking men were drinking from pewter tankards outside one of the rookery’s many gin shops. She could feel their sharp, curious glances stabbing like knives in her back. Her black cloak was plain enough, but the quality of the wool would be sufficient to make her stand out. As would her looks. The Procurer was indifferent to her singular beauty, but she was not fool enough to deny its existence.

As her child guide led her ever deeper into the rookery, the alleyway narrowed. Hatches from the cellars had been flung open to allow the fetid air to escape the subterranean living areas. Even one woman rescued from this ocean of misery and deprivation was a victory, however small. As her guide pointed to the open door of a dark and gloomy close, The Procurer resisted the impulse to scatter her purse of loose change at the feet of the raggle-taggle band of followers her progress had attracted. When she was done here, and returned to safer streets, there would be ample time for dispensing such alms. To do so now might jeopardise not only her mission but her personal safety.

‘Stay here and do not move,’ she told the boy firmly. ‘You remember what you are to do if I do not return within the hour?’

Waiting only on his nod of affirmation, she ascended the worn steps to the third-floor landing, rapping sharply on the first door to the right. There was no answer. Accustomed to encountering both suspicion and fear during this critical first meeting, The Procurer knocked again, listening intently. Yes, there was someone on the other side of the door, she could not so much hear as sense the tension emanating from them. ‘Miss Wickes,’ she said quietly, her tone conciliatory, ‘I come alone, and as a friend.’

After a brief pause, the door opened a fraction. The woman who peered at her in the dim light bore little resemblance to the one The Procurer recalled from Covent Garden. Her formerly glossy mane of black hair was dull, piled in a tangled knot of curls on top of her head. Her violet eyes were darkly shadowed, the slant of her cheekbones so pronounced she looked almost gaunt. ‘What do you want? Who are you?’ Her panic was evident from the way her eyes darted over The Procurer’s shoulder.

‘I merely wish to speak to you, Miss Wickes.’ The Procurer stuck her foot against the jamb just in time to prevent the door being slammed in her face. ‘You need not be alarmed. I am not here to have you clapped in irons, but to put a proposition to you.’ Taking the woman completely by surprise, she pushed her way in. ‘Now, do you have the makings of a cup of tea? I would very much appreciate one.’

A startled peal of laughter greeted this remark. ‘Would you indeed?’ Hands on hips, Becky Wickes surveyed The Procurer through narrowed eyes. ‘What in the devil’s name is a woman like you doing in a place like this? Who are you?’

‘They call me The Procurer. Perhaps you have heard of me?’

Becky felt her jaw drop. ‘All of London has heard tell of you.’ She studied the intruder in her expensive wool cloak more carefully. ‘You aren’t how I pictured you. I thought you’d be much older. I certainly didn’t think you’d be a beauty.’

‘Then both our expectations have been confounded, Miss Wickes. Despite your own very striking beauty, you bear little resemblance to the woman I used to admire, performing in the Covent Garden piazza.’

‘That’s because I ain’t working the piazza no more,’ Becky said, deliberately lapsing into the harsh accent of her cockney roots. ‘What I’m wondering,’ she continued in her more cultured voice, ‘is what my appearance has to do with your appearance here?’

The Procurer, however, did not seem inclined to explain herself. Instead she nodded approvingly. ‘I knew, from watching you perform, that you were an accomplished actress. It is reassuring to know that you have also an excellent ear.’

‘You saw me on the stage? I’ve not trod the boards for nearly five years.’

‘I was referring to your performances in Covent Garden piazza. I confess, your strong local accent was something which did concern me. I am vastly relieved to discover it is not a problem.’

‘That is indeed a relief,’ Becky responded in a mocking and flawless imitation of The Procurer’s own accent with its faint Scottish lilt.

‘I do not intend any slight or offence,’ The Procurer said. ‘Firstly, for reasons which will become clear, it is important that your voice does not betray your humble origins. And secondly, I am relieved because your facility with language indicates that you will find a foreign tongue as easy to master as the accent of those who call themselves our betters here in London.’

Becky snorted. ‘Judging from your own accent, madam, I’d say that you are in the other camp.’

‘I would have thought that you would know better than to judge by appearances, Miss Wickes, for they can be very deceptive. The performer I observed executing those sleight-of-hand tricks was a very confident, almost arrogant individual. Very different from the female standing before me now. Your alter ego had a certain air about her, one may say.’

‘One might.’ Becky eyed her astonishing visitor with respect. Any doubts she’d had about the woman’s claim to be the mysterious Procurer vanished. ‘Most people only see what you want them to see.’

‘That is my experience, certainly.’

‘So there’s another woman behind The Procurer, then? I wonder...’

‘I suggest most strongly that you dampen your curiosity.’ The frigid tone made Becky take an instinctive step back. ‘The first of my terms,’ The Procurer continued, ‘is that you will neither speculate nor enquire about me. And before you answer, let me assure you, Miss Wickes, that I will know if you do.’

Formidable, that was what the woman was. Well, so too was Becky, but she also knew there was a time for facing up to people, and a time for backing down. If she wanted to hear what The Procurer had to offer, then she’d better comply with The Procurer’s terms. ‘Fine,’ she said, throwing her hands in the air. ‘No questions. You have my word. And it can be relied on, I promise.’

She was rewarded with an approving smile. ‘I believe you. Now, to business. Do you have tea?’

‘I do, though I reckon you’ll think I’m serving you dishwater. If you will sit down I’ll see to it.’

The Procurer took a seat at the table, pinching off her gloves and unfastening her cloak, making no effort to disguise her surveillance of Becky’s spartan room. That clear, frankly intimidating gaze took in every detail: the rickety bed with its cast-iron headboard and thin cover wedged into the corner; the tin kettle on the hearth and the battered teapot beside it; the mismatched china cups and saucers which Becky set out on the scarred table with the wobbly leg. ‘I had heard that until your major faux pas you were rather successful in your... Let’s call them endeavours,’ she said, as Becky sat down opposite her, ‘but I see none of the trappings of that success here.’

‘Major faux pas!’ Becky repeated scornfully. ‘That’s one way of putting it, and a lot more generous than some.’

‘I’ve seen the reports in the press. Written with a view to selling copy rather than telling the truth, of course. I prefer to rely on my own sources, Miss Wickes, and I believe I know enough of your circumstances to think that you have been, if you will forgive the pun, dealt a very poor hand.’

‘But one I dealt myself,’ Becky said bitterly.

‘Really?’ The Procurer raised one perfectly arched brow. ‘I was informed that the plan was hatched by a certain Jack Fisher.’

Becky gave a scornful snort of laughter. ‘Your sources, as you call them, are impressively well informed. It was his idea all right.’ Her face fell, and her mouth thinned. ‘But it was my decision to go along with it, all the same. Even though I knew—but there, it’s done now, and at least I’ve had my eyes opened where Jack Fisher is concerned. I should never have trusted him.’

‘Console yourself with the fact that it is a mistake countless women have made with other such charmers.’

Was that the voice of experience she was hearing? Becky opened her mouth to ask, remembering her promise not to do so just in time. ‘Well, I won’t be making that mistake again,’ she said instead. ‘Once bitten twice shy, as they say.’

‘I prefer my own mantra. Onwards and upwards.’ The Procurer took a dainty sip of her tea, her face registering mild distaste.

‘I did warn you,’ Becky said, surprised to discover that she could be embarrassed over a stupid thing like tea. ‘Dishwater, like I said, not whatever exotic blend you’re used to.’

She expected a polite denial. She was surprised when The Procurer smiled ruefully. ‘My apologies. I am fortunate enough to have a friend in the tea trade who indulges my passion for the beverage.’ She set the cup to one side. ‘Tell me, have you always resided here in St Giles?’

Becky shrugged. ‘Here and hereabouts. It’s the safest place to be, for those of us born and raised here, and the most dangerous for unwelcome visitors who were not. How did you find me? Was it Jack who tipped you off?’

‘I have not had the misfortune to meet your paramour. In fact I’m reliably informed that he is en route to the New World.’

‘I would rather you’d been reliably informed that he was on his way to the underworld,’ Becky said sharply. Flushing, she covered her mouth. ‘I don’t really mean that.’ The Procurer raised an enquiring brow. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lying, cheating—’ She broke off, digging her nails into her hands. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on him. I fell hook, line and sinker for his handsome face and his charming ways and his lies. He played me like a fish, and I was gullible enough to believe every sweet nothing he whispered in my ear.’

Becky forced herself to unfurl her fingers, acutely aware of the cool gaze of the woman sitting opposite her. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson,’ she said with a grim little smile. ‘From now on, whatever happens in the future, it’ll be down to me and me alone.’

She’d meant to sound confident. Defiant. But something in her voice or her expression betrayed her thoughts. The Procurer reached across the table, briefly touching her fingers with her own. ‘It can be done, Becky. A fresh start. A new you.’

‘You sound so certain. How can you be so sure?’

‘Trust me, I speak from experience.’ The hand was withdrawn. The Procurer was all business again. ‘You can escape from here. The proposition I have for you will reward you sufficiently to set you up for life, whatever life you choose to lead, without having to rely on any man. Are you interested?’

‘What do you think?’

The Procurer eyed her coolly. ‘I think, Miss Wickes, that despite acting foolishly, you are very far from being a fool. A woman from your disadvantaged background, who has survived by her wits rather than succumbing to the many lucrative offers a beauty such as yourself must have been presented with is very much to be admired. I think that you deserve a second chance and I am in a position to offer you just that. As it so happens I am looking for someone with your unique combination of talents.’

A second chance! For two weeks Becky had been in hiding from the authorities, constantly dreading a knock on the door, left to take her chances by the man she had naively trusted, quite literally, with her life as it turned out. Hope flickered inside her. Becky tried to ignore it. ‘I want no part of it, if it means using my skills at the gaming tables to line someone else’s pockets.’

‘Isn’t that precisely what you did for Jack Fisher?’

‘It is, though I never knew it. Until I met Jack, my only aim was to keep belly from backbone. It was his idea, to move from the piazza to the tables. It took him a year to persuade me, and I only ever did it because I believed the pack of lies he spun.’

‘Had you been less principled, Miss Wickes, with a talent such as yours, you would not be living in a place like this. Pray accept my compliments, and my assurances that the assignment I have in mind for you does not require you to use your most considerable skills to enrich my client in any monetary sense.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate that. I’d like to know what it is your client does require of me.’

‘Some ground rules first, Miss Wickes. I must have your solemn promise that you will never disclose the details to anyone.’

‘That I can easily promise. I told you, I’ve learnt my lesson. Trust no one. Rely on no one except myself.’

‘A commendable maxim. You should also know that you have no obligation to disclose any details of your life or your history to my client unless you choose to do so.’

Becky’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He doesn’t know who I am?’

‘I have a reputation for making the impossible possible. My clients come to me with complex and unusual problems requiring unique solutions. Solutions they cannot, by implication, come up with themselves. He need know nothing more than you choose to tell him.’

Becky frowned. ‘So he doesn’t even know you’re talking to me?’

‘Nor will he, unless you accept the contract offered. The reward for which, as I mentioned, is considerable.’

She quoted a sum so large Becky thought she must have misheard, but when she asked to repeat it, the number was the same. Becky whistled under her breath. ‘That’s enough to set me up for life, and then some. I’d never have to work again.’

‘A life-changing amount.’

‘A life-saving amount! Enough to get me far from here before they find me and make an example of me by stretching my neck.’ Becky finished her cold tea and fixed The Procurer with a defiant stare. ‘Robbery and fraud, they’d hang me for, you know, and they’d have every right. I cheated. It doesn’t matter that he could well afford to lose, I still cheated.’

‘You did not act alone. Your partner in crime...’

‘Is halfway across the Atlantic by now with his pockets full of gold,’ Becky said impatiently. ‘What a fool I was.’

‘Love can make a fool of the best of women, sadly.’

‘Love! It doesn’t just make a fool of us, it makes us blithering idiots. I thought the earth, moon and stars revolved around Jack Fisher. All I ever wanted was to make him happy. Was that love? I was certainly in thrall to him.’ To Becky’s shame, tears smarted in her eyes. She brushed them away angrily. She’d cried enough tears to mend the most broken of hearts. ‘Never again. I’ve learnt my lesson the hard way. As you have, I reckon,’ she added pointedly.

For the first time, The Procurer failed to meet Becky’s eyes. ‘To continue with my rules of engagement,’ she said brusquely, ‘if you accept this assignment, my client will require your unswerving loyalty. He will also require you to complete the terms of your contract to the letter. The terms, as I mentioned, are generous. I should caution you, however, that you will be paid only upon successful completion of your assignment. Half measures will not be rewarded. If you leave before the task is completed, you will return to England without any remuneration.’

‘Return to England?’ Her anger and embarrassment forgotten, Becky leaned forward eagerly in her seat. ‘Where am I to go? Is your client a foreigner? Is that why you mentioned my—what did you call it?—ear for language? I can’t imagine—’

‘No, I don’t expect you can,’ The Procurer interrupted, laughing softly. ‘Let me enlighten you.’

Chapter One
Venice, Kingdom of Lombardy–Venetia—November 1818

Drizzly rain was softly falling as Becky embarked on the final stage of her long journey from London, which consisted of the short sea crossing from the nearby mainland port of Mestre to the island of Venice itself. The black gondola which she had boarded with some trepidation a few hours ago made her think of a funeral barge, or some sort of huge menacing aquatic creature with a vicious golden beak. The crossing was choppy, and the felze, the poky little cabin which straddled the central seats, afforded her no view of her destination. Clutching gratefully at the gondolier’s hand as she climbed the narrow flight of slippery stairs on the jetty, she felt completely disoriented.

The first thing she noticed was that the rain had stopped. The sky had turned from leaden grey to an eerie brackish pink, tinged with pewter. The waters of what she assumed must be the Grand Canal were no longer churning but calm, glinting green and brown and grey, echoing but not mirroring the sky. The air felt heavy, making everything sound muted and muffled. She felt as if she were in a shadowland, as if the gondola had transported her to some mystical place.

Casting around her, Becky began to distinguish the buildings which slowly emerged from the mist, as if voile curtains were being pulled back from a stage set. Somehow she hadn’t imagined that the houses would look as if they were actually floating on the water. Their reflections shimmered, creating a replica underwater ghost city. There were palaces as far as the eye could see, jostling for position on the Grand Canal, encrusted with intricately worked stonework as fine as lace, adorned with columns, a veritable menagerie of stone creatures prowling and crouching, standing sentinel on the flat rooftops.

She shivered, entranced, overawed and struck by an acute attack of nerves. She had been travelling for weeks. The journey had been meticulously arranged, leaving her little to do but hand over her travelling papers to be validated, keep an eye on her luggage and get herself from carriage to boat to carriage to boat, the world changing so quickly and dramatically before her eyes that she could only marvel at the different vistas, listen to the changing notes and tones of the languages, all the while trying to appear the world-weary traveller lest anyone mistake her for a flat and try to rob her of her meagre funds.

But now she was in Venice, her final destination, about to meet the man on whom her carefree future depended. Conte Luca del Pietro lived right here, in the Palazzo Pietro, on whose steps she was now, presumably, standing. By the looks of it, it was one of the grandest palaces of all those which lined the Grand Canal. Craning her neck, Becky counted three storeys, which seemed to consist almost entirely of tall glass double doors, separated by columns. A balcony ran the length of the first floor. Lions stood guard all along the parapet of the roof. There was a coat of arms on a shield right above the huge arched double doors, which were being thrown open by two servants in green and gold livery. A third, imperious member of the household, clearly a butler or major-domo, made his stately way to her side. ‘Signorina? If you please, come this way.’

Stomach clenched with nerves, knees like jelly, Becky followed in his wake as the servant led her into the Palazzo Pietro, where she was relieved of her travelling cloak, hat and gloves. The hallway was patterned in a complicated mosaic of black and white tiles. The walls were hung with tapestries. The ceiling, soaring high above her, was elaborately corniced. There was a chandelier so enormous she couldn’t imagine how it could be secured so as not to crash to the ground. She barely had time to register anything else as she was swept up a staircase with an intricately carved balustrade, three short flights set at right angles to each other, before they reached the first floor. The middle one of five sets of double doors was flung open.

‘Signorina Wickes, Conte del Pietro,’ the servant announced, nudging her forward.

The doors were closed behind her. The room in which she stood was staggering. The ceiling was painted with a host of angels and cherubs, peeping from behind fluffy white clouds, gambolling naked in the celestial blue sky, and haughtily strumming on harps and lyres. Another breathtakingly beautiful chandelier glittered and sparkled, reflecting the light which streamed in through the windows on to the highly polished floor. Shelves of decorative china and plates lined the walls. There were clusters of chaises longues, sofas and chairs, scatterings of tables bearing busts, ormolu clocks and garnitures. Outside, the canal had changed colour again, now buttery yellow and seaweed green.

Dazzled, Becky did not notice the man at first. He must have been sitting in one of the chairs facing out of the window. But as he got to his feet and began to make his way towards her, she forgot all about the opulence of her surroundings.

‘Luca del Pietro,’ he said, making a slight bow. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Wickes.’

Becky dropped into a curtsy, her knees all but giving way. Rising awkwardly, she followed him, taking the seat he indicated by the window, aware that she was staring, but unable to drag her eyes away from the man who was throwing himself carelessly into the chair opposite, one long boot-clad leg crossed over the other. A count, The Procurer had informed her, the product of an Italian father and English mother. Becky had imagined—blooming heck, it didn’t matter what she had imagined, this man couldn’t be more different.

His hair was raven black, silky soft and too long for current fashion, reaching the collar of his shirt. His brows were thick, fiercely arched, his eyes a warm chocolate brown. A strong nose, sharp cheekbones, a decided chin. A small, meticulously trimmed goatee beard of the style favoured by Walter Raleigh, appropriately enough, for this man looked more like a pirate than a count. Dangerous—yes, very. And wild—that too. Then he smiled at her, and Becky’s stomach flipped. Dear heavens, but that smile would melt ice.

‘I must tell you, Miss Wickes, that your appearance is not at all what I expected.’

He spoke English with a trace of an Italian accent. His lips were pale pink against the clean, precise line of his beard, sensual, almost feminine. Not that there was anything at all feminine about the Count. Quite the contrary. There was a litheness, a suppleness in the sleek lines of the body lounging with catlike languor in the chair that made her think of him pacing the decks of a ship with the same feline grace. Becky, who had been certain that experience had numbed her to all male charms, was alarmed to discover that she was wrong.

‘Conte del Pietro,’ she said, relieved to hear that her voice sounded surprisingly calm, ‘how do you do?’

She was rewarded with another of those smiles. ‘I do very well now that you are here, Miss Wickes. Will you take some refreshment? We have a great deal to discuss. Though perhaps you are tired from the journey. Would you like to see your room first?’

Becky shook her head decisively. She had regained her composure—or near enough so that this stranger wouldn’t notice, she hoped. First impressions were more important than anything. This was no time for first-night nerves. The stage was set. Now she had to deliver the required performance. She smiled politely. ‘I’m not one bit tired, thank you very much. What I am is extremely curious to know exactly what it is you require of me. So if you don’t mind, let’s get down to business.’

Luca couldn’t help it, he laughed. Despite all the tales he’d heard of the woman who called herself The Procurer, despite the personal recommendation he’d managed to extract from a very senior member of the British government, and despite the enormous advance he’d already paid, part of him had doubted that the woman would deliver anyone suitable, let alone this extraordinary female sitting opposite him. To business, Miss Wickes insisted, but Luca was in no mood to proceed just yet. ‘I know from the time I’ve spent in England,’ he said, getting to his feet to pull the bell rope at the mantelpiece, ‘that you like to take tea before you do anything. Tell me, how was your journey?’

‘Gruelling,’ she replied in a tone that made it clear she was in no mood for small talk. ‘But I’m here now, so if you don’t mind...’

‘All in good time,’ Luca said as his major-domo arrived with the tea. He could sense her impatience watching the tea service being laid out with the slow, deliberate care with which Brunetti executed every action. When finally the doors closed behind the servant again, he was pretty sure he heard Miss Wickes exhale with relief. ‘Would you like to pour?’ he asked her, sitting back down.

To her credit, she did not demur. To her credit also, she did not falter in the ritual, spooning the tea from the lacquered caddy, pouring the boiling water into the silver pot, the milk into the china cups with the steadiest of hands. Evidence of her skills with the cards, or a genteel upbringing? Luca wondered. Her accent was not the cut-glass, clipped tone of the English aristocracy which he found so grating, but nor did it have the burr of a peasant woman—which was hardly surprising, and a great relief. Venice was no place for a rustic of any nation. ‘You are from London?’ he hazarded, since he knew that was where her journey had commenced.

Miss Wickes paused in the act of raising her teacup to consider this. ‘Yes.’

‘You have lived there always?’

‘Yes.’ Miss Wickes set down her cup. A lustrous jet-black curl fell forward over her forehead. She brushed it impatiently away, before treating him to a prim smile. ‘Something I intend to remedy, with your assistance.’

Luca returned the smile. ‘I was under the impression that I was paying you to assist me.’

She chuckled. Their gazes snagged, and Luca could have sworn there was a mutual spark of attraction. Then she dropped her eyes, breaking the connection, and he wondered if he’d imagined it on her part simply because he felt it. Her beauty was almost theatrical in its nature, the contrast of those big eyes in that small face, the black-as-night hair and her pale northern European skin, the sharp cheekbones, the full mouth. There was a sensuality in the way she moved that seemed cultivated and yet guileless. She looked down her small nose in such a haughty manner it made him want to rattle that air of confidence. Yet now he came to look at her again, her hands clasped so tightly together, her shoulders so straight, he had the distinct impression that she was barely holding herself together.

And little wonder! She had scant idea why she was here or what was required of her. What was he thinking, allowing himself to become so distracted when he had been impatiently counting the days and hours waiting for this very moment to arrive? Luca set his empty cup and saucer down on the table. ‘To business, Miss Wickes. Or may I call you Rebecca?’

‘I much prefer Becky.’

Most decidedly she was nervous and trying desperately not to show it. ‘Becky.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘It suits you. And you must call me Luca.’

‘Luca. Does that mean lucky?’

‘Actually it means light, but I hope that you will bring me luck, Miss Becky Wickes.’

For some reason, his words made her glower. ‘Before you say any more, I should tell you what I’ve already made very clear to The Procurer. I won’t play cards, straight or crooked, just to win you a fortune.’

‘Did not The Procurer make it very clear that wasn’t at all what I required?’ Luca asked, taken aback by her vehemence. ‘Do I look like a man of meagre means?’

She flinched, for his tone made it clear enough that he’d found her implication offensive, but she did not back down. ‘You look like a man of very substantial means,’ she said, gazing around the room, ‘but I’ll play no part in making you even richer.’

‘I don’t want you to make me rich, Becky. I want you to make another man destitute.’

Some might say it was the same thing. Not this surprising woman. She uncrossed her arms, frowning, leaning forward in her chair, ignoring the glossy curl that fell over her forehead. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

‘Oh, I have every reason,’ Luca said, the familiar wave of anger making his mouth curl into a sneer. ‘He killed my father.’

Becky’s mouth fell open. She must have misheard him. Or his otherwise excellent English had deserted him. Though the way he had snarled the words made her wonder if he had known exactly what he had said. ‘Killed? You don’t really mean killed?’

‘I mean exactly that. My father was murdered. I intend to make the man responsible pay.’

Becky stared, quite staggered. ‘But if it was murder, then surely the law...’

‘It is not possible. As far as the law is concerned, no crime has been committed. I cannot rely on the law to deliver justice for my father, I must provide that myself. With your assistance.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Becky muttered softly under her breath, as much at the transformation in her host as his words. There was a cold fury in his eyes, a bleak set to his mouth. ‘When you say justice...’

‘I do not mean an eye for an eye,’ he replied with a smile that made her shiver. ‘This is not a personal vendetta. It is a question of honour, to put right the wrongs inflicted, not only on my father, but on our most beloved city. Also to avenge a betrayal of the very worst kind, for the man who had my father killed was his best friend.’

Becky stared at the man opposite, utterly dumbfounded. Vengeance. Honour. Righting wrongs. ‘The Procurer didn’t tell me any of this—did she know?’

‘Si. It is part of her—her terms,’ Luca replied. ‘What is required and why. She promises complete discretion. I am relieved to discover that she is a woman of her word.’

His Italian accent had become more pronounced. He was upset. His father had been murdered, for heaven’s sake, of course he was upset! ‘I’m very sorry, perhaps I’m being slow, but I’m afraid I’m none the wiser.’

Across from her, Luca let out a heavy sigh, making an obvious effort to relax. ‘It is I who should apologise. It is such a very painful subject, I did not anticipate finding myself so—so affected, talking about it.’

‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ Becky said, completely at a loss as to how to respond.

Luca gave a snort of laughter. ‘Tea. You English think it is the cure for everything. Do not be offended. I am not laughing at you, but you will admit, it is funny.’

‘I suppose it is,’ Becky said, simply relieved to have lightened the tension in him. ‘You don’t mind if I have a second cup?’

‘Please.’

She could feel his eyes on her as she took her time pouring, adding milk, wondering what the devil she was to make of what he’d told her. She took a sip, and he smiled at her again, a warm smile that made her wonder if she’d imagined that formidable stranger.

‘I have been so anxiously waiting your arrival,’ he said, ‘so eager to execute my plan, that I forget you know nothing at all. Naturally, you want to ask questions.’

‘But I’ve no right to ask them,’ Becky said, remembering this belatedly. ‘You don’t need to explain yourself, only tell me what it is you require me to do. I’m remembering, don’t worry, that the fee you’ll pay guarantees my unswerving loyalty.’

Luca got to his feet, leaning his forehead on the glass of one of the tall windows, staring out at the canal. After a few moments’ contemplation, he turned back to face her. ‘This is probably going to sound foolish, but I’d much prefer that you helped me because you wanted to, than because you were obliged to.’

‘But I am obliged to, if I’m to earn my fee.’

He held out his hand, inviting her to join him at the window. Outside, it was growing dark, the light a strange, iridescent silver, so that she couldn’t tell what was water and what was sky. ‘My plan requires you to play cards against this man for very high stakes. He is a powerful and influential figure in Venice. He has also demonstrated that he is prepared to be ruthless. It is not without risk. Did The Procurer explain this to you?’

‘She told me if I didn’t like the set-up I could return to England, no questions asked. I won’t be caught, if that’s what you’re concerned about,’ Becky said, dismayed to discover that she didn’t feel anywhere near as confident as she sounded. If Jack hadn’t given the game away, she wouldn’t have been discovered, but it seemed none the less that he’d stolen a bit of her confidence as well as her heart.

‘You’ll be in disguise, of course,’ Luca said. ‘It is Carnevale.’

‘Carnevale?’

‘Carnival. You haven’t heard of it? It is the only time of the year in Venice when gambling is permitted—or at least, when a blind eye is turned. You’ll be wearing a mask and a costume, like everyone else. You will be Regina di Denari, The Queen of Coins, named after one of our Venetian card suits. I thought it was most appropriate, though if you have another suggestion?’

‘Regina di Denari...’ she repeated, savouring the sound of it in Italian. ‘I think it’s perfect. So that’s the part I’m to play?’

‘One of them.’

‘One of them!’

He laughed softly. ‘It is a very large fee you are to earn, after all.’

‘Not large enough, I’m beginning to think,’ Becky retorted. ‘How many other roles are there?’

‘Only one, but it will be quite a contrast to the Queen of Coins.’

‘How much of a contrast?’

‘As day is to night. Like Venice herself, you will have two faces to show to the world. You will be two very different women. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘Of course I can.’ She wished he wouldn’t smile at her like that. She wished that his smile didn’t make her insides churn up. She wished that the view from the window wasn’t so strange and beautiful. She couldn’t quite believe that she was here, that here was even real.

‘I can’t quite believe you’re here,’ Luca said, as if he’d read her thoughts. ‘Are you real, Becky Wickes?’

‘As real as you are. And I admit, I’m not at all certain that you are. Maybe this is a dream and I’ve conjured you up.’

‘I’m the one who has been dreaming, dreaming of vengeance. Now that you are here, I can finally act.’

‘It’s me who has to act,’ Becky said, attempting to bring the conversation back to business, trying to ignore the effect the closeness of Luca’s body was having on hers. ‘You still haven’t told me what my other role is.’

‘You will play my painfully shy and gauche English cousin.’ He reached out to brush her hair back from her forehead. He barely grazed her skin but she shivered, though his fingers weren’t in the least bit cold. ‘You are just arrived in Venice,’ Luca continued. ‘Here to acquire a sprinkling of our city’s sophistication, and to provide my mother with some company from her homeland—my mother is English, you know.’

‘It’s one of the few things I do know.’ Becky’s head was whirling. ‘You want me to play a lady?’

‘A young, beautiful lady, who looks out at the world through those big violet eyes with such charming innocence, who understands none of the intrigue going on around her. Venice is a city full of spies, secret societies, informers. Your arrival will have already been noted, so I must plausibly explain your presence, Cousin Rebecca.’

Was he aware that his hand was still resting on her shoulder? Their toes were almost touching. She could see the bluish hint of growth on his cheeks where he had shaved close to his narrow beard. Was this some sort of audition for the part she was to play? But which part? ‘In England, if I really were your cousin, you would keep your distance. Are things so very different here?’ Their gazes were locked. This was the oddest conversation she’d ever had. Saying one thing. Thinking something else. At least she was, and she was fairly certain he was too. ‘The way you’re looking at me, it’s not at all cousinly, you know.’

He flinched, immediately stepping back. ‘Mi scusi. You must not think I assume because I pay for you to come here that you must...’

‘I don’t.’ It hadn’t even occurred to her, though perhaps it should have? But even though she’d only just met him, Becky didn’t think that Luca del Pietro was the type of man to take advantage. Not that she’d any intention of allowing him to.

Her head really was whirling. She needed time to think, to try to make sense of all that Luca had told her, and to work out what the many gaps were in his story. She needed time to adjust to her surroundings. She was in a foreign country in a floating palace, for heaven’s sake, with a count who wanted to avenge himself on the man who had killed his father. ‘This whole situation is very strange,’ Becky said.

‘Of course it is, and I have not made a very good job of explaining it. I suspect you would benefit from a rest. I will have you shown to your room.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It will be just the two of us dining tonight. My mother...’ Luca hesitated. ‘I thought it prudent for her to be otherwise engaged. I was not sure, you see, until I met you...’

‘Whether I would pass muster,’ Becky said. ‘Does this mean that I have?’

‘You have, and with flying colours, I am delighted to say, because I don’t know what I’d have done if you had not. I think that we will work very well together. And before you say it, I know that I have not explained what it is I want you to do or even why, not properly, but I will. Tomorrow, I promise. You will stay, won’t you? You will help me?’

He wasn’t pleading, exactly, but he wasn’t at all sure of her answer. He wanted her, Becky Wickes, to help him, the Conte del Pietro. More than that. He needed her. It made her feel good. ‘Of course I will,’ Becky said. ‘I’ve come all this way, haven’t I? You think I’d turn my back on the small fortune you’re going to pay me?’

‘The money means a great deal to you? No, don’t answer that, it’s a stupid question. You would not be here otherwise, would you?’

‘That sort of money, to a woman like me, it’s life-changing,’ Becky said, using The Procurer’s words.

‘I have never met a woman like you, but I’m very glad you are here. I think we are going to make an alliance most formidabile.’

He lifted her hand to his lips. Still holding her gaze, he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. The rough brush of his beard, the softness of his lips, was like everything else since she’d arrived, an odd, exciting contrast. Her insides were churning, but Becky managed a cool smile. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be late for dinner, especially since I’m meeting my cousin for the first time.’

Chapter Two

A maid showed Becky to her bedchamber on the next floor of the palazzo. As the double doors were flung open, she was about to say that there must have been some mistake, before remembering just in time that she was supposed to be Luca’s well-born cousin. She supposed the servants had been informed of this, and wondered what on earth they’d make of the shabby wardrobe of clothes she’d brought with her. Lucky for her that she spoke no Italian. It was best not to know.

‘Signorina?’

She followed the maid into the room, abandoning any pretence of being at home amid such grandeur as she gazed around her, almost dancing with delight. The vast bedchamber was painted turquoise blue, the same colour seemingly everywhere, making her feel as if she was underwater. Pale blue silk rugs. Blue hangings at the huge windows. They were drawn shut, but Becky guessed they must look out on to the canal. The view would be spectacular in the morning. For now, the room was lit by another of those massive glittering chandeliers. The bed was a four-poster, and bigger than the room in the rookeries she called home. It was so high, so thick with blankets and luxurious quilts, that she reckoned she’d need a step to climb into it. The bed hangings matched the curtains. She couldn’t resist smoothing her hand over them. Damask, embroidered with silk. Would there be silk sheets? She was willing to wager that there would be. Never mind playing Luca’s cousin, this room was worthy of a princess.

What wasn’t blue was gold—no, gilt, that was the word. Little chairs that looked too dainty to be sat upon. A marble-topped washstand. And a mirror. Catching sight of her reflection brought Becky crashing back to earth. She’d bought her dress in a London street market, second-hand but barely worn, using a chunk of the sum The Procurer had given her to cover her expenses. She’d thought it a good buy, but now even the chambermaid looked better dressed. What must Luca have thought? And what on earth did Luca expect her to change into for dinner, which now she thought about it, was bound to be an ordeal. The opportunities to embarrass herself when it came to etiquette were endless. She owned one evening gown, but it had been bought with the gaming hells of St James’s in mind. Her card sharp’s costume, revealing far more than it concealed, was designed to divert players’ attention from her hands. It was totally inappropriate for dinner with Luca. His demure, innocent English cousin would not own, far less wear, such a provocative garment. Thank the stars she hadn’t packed it.

There was a copper bath placed in front of a roaring fire. The maid was erecting screens around it, laying out towels to warm. Becky hadn’t expected to be living in the lap of luxury like this. Mind you, it was a double-edged sword, for even as she was relishing her surroundings, she was on tenterhooks, terrified she’d make some terrible gaffe that would give her away. If only she could dismiss the maid, she could explore properly, throw herself down on to that huge bed and see if it was as soft as it looked, take off her boots and her stockings and curl her toes into the rugs. There would be time enough, she supposed, when everyone was in bed. Her stay here was going to be short-lived, so she should make the most of it while she could. Though she was definitely not about to permit the woman to undress her. Let her think it was an English peculiarity. She was more than capable of undoing her own stays and garters.

‘No, grazie,’ she said, shaking her head decidedly, slipping behind the screens. Now she could enjoy some privacy, and she wouldn’t have to watch the maid’s face as she surveyed Becky’s meagre wardrobe, searching in vain for evening wear. Quickly ridding herself of her travelling clothes, she sank into the steaming water with a contented sigh. Were these rose petals? And on the little table, beside another jug of hot water, perfumed soap and some sort of oil.

She closed her eyes, allowing the heat to relax her tense limbs and soothe her jangling nerves. She tried to imagine herself playing the lady, all simpering blushes and saucer-eyed wonder. It would be much more of a challenge than the other part she was to play. The Queen of Coins. ‘Regina di Denari,’ she mouthed silently. It sounded much better in Italian. Imperious. Seductive. Like this city. And like Luca, a handsome devil, with a smile that ought to be outlawed.

It wasn’t like her to be having such thoughts. Perhaps she had become infected by Venice’s mystique, the magic in the misty air. She had never been free with her favours—quite the contrary—until Jack came along and stole her heart. It made her cringe now, remembering the way her heart fluttered when he smiled at her, the way she’d gaze at him all starry-eyed, only happy when he was happy, miserable when he was not. She’d loved him, there was no denying it. Their kisses had been lovers’ kisses—or so she’d thought. At any rate, they were the only kisses she had shared in all of her twenty-two years, and the only ones she’d been interested in, until now. Luca’s kisses, she was willing to bet, would be very different.

Becky’s eyes opened with a snap. She was not interested in kissing Luca. She was going to stop wallowing in this bath, indulging in idle speculation and slowly turning into a prune. Panicking that she would be late for dinner, she sat up, sending water splashing on to the surrounding mats, and picked up the soap.

‘Signorina Wickes, Conte del Pietro.’

Luca, who had been carefully twisting the cork to open a bottle of Prosecco, turned as the library doors closed on the servant.

‘Must they announce me every time?’ Becky asked, hovering in the doorway.

‘I’m afraid formality is the order of the day in palace life. Though I must admit that every time they call me Conte del Pietro, I look over my shoulder expecting to see my father. Are you coming in, or do you plan to have your dinner delivered to you in the doorway?’

‘It’s just that you’re all dressed up and I’m not.’ Becky held out the skirts of her gown. ‘I don’t have any evening clothes. Sorry.’

She was smiling and glowering at the same time. Embarrassed. Luca cursed his own stupidity for having donned the knee breeches and coat that was the custom for dinner at the palazzo. ‘It is I who should apologise. This,’ he said, indicating his apparel, ‘is what my father would have considered appropriate, and my mother still does. Neither are here, for very different reasons. Please, come in. To me you look perfectly lovely.’

‘It’s the servants’ opinions I’m more concerned about,’ Becky muttered. ‘I didn’t know I’d be living in a palace.’

‘Venice is a city of many palaces.’ Which was true, but hardly the point, Becky was clearly thinking, though she refrained from saying so. As the cork popped from the bottle with a sigh, Luca set it down, torn. The Procurer’s terms forbade him from asking any questions. Cursing her strict rules of engagement, he poured two crystal flutes of the cold sparkling wine and held one out to Becky. ‘Prosecco,’ he said. ‘Our Italian version of champagne. Personally, I consider it to be superior. Salute,’ he added, clinking glasses. ‘Here is to your arrival in Venice.’

‘Salute,’ Becky repeated in a perfect imitation of his Venetian accent, taking a cautious sip, screwing up her face in surprise as the bubbles burst on her tongue.

‘You’ve never tasted champagne, I take it?’ Luca asked.

‘No.’ She took another sip. ‘But I like this. Have you told the servants that I am your cousin?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What were you going to tell them if you’d decided I wouldn’t suit?’

Luca grimaced. ‘I have no idea, I preferred not to consider such an outcome. A sudden family illness back in England forcing you to return, I suppose. But you do suit, so fortunately I don’t have to tell them anything.’

‘Except maybe explain why the cousin of one of the richest families in Venice has the wardrobe of one of the poorest families in England.’

She tilted her chin at him, there was a flash of defiance in her eyes, yet he was certain now that she was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ Luca said. ‘I simply didn’t think. It is easily remedied. Mia madre, my mother, she will arrange it.’ He shook his head as Becky made to protest. ‘We will say that your luggage was lost in transit, or that your parents wished you to be attired on the Continent, since it is well known,’ he added with a sly smile, ‘that the English know nothing of couture.’

‘Yes, but, Luca, I don’t have any money.’

‘Luckily, I have an surfeit of it. Think of the outfits as your stage costumes. Therefore the expense is my responsibility.’

‘Yes, that makes sense,’ Becky said, looking extremely relieved. ‘Though I don’t imagine your mother will be very pleased to hear—Luca, does she know why I’m here?’

‘Si.’

‘And what does she think of your plan to avenge your father’s—my goodness, her husband’s death?’

‘She understands that it is a matter of honour, why it is so important to me to see some sort of justice served. It is the least I can do for him.’

All of which was true. It should have been sufficient, but Becky was not fooled. ‘You mean she understands but doesn’t necessarily agree?’

Shrewd, that was the English word to describe Becky Wickes. Or one of them. An admirable quality in a card sharp, but they weren’t playing cards, and Luca was not accustomed to having his motives questioned. In fact he wasn’t accustomed to being questioned about anything. ‘My mother’s opinion should not concern you, since she is not the one paying your fee.’ He regretted it immediately, as Becky’s expression stiffened.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...’

‘No, you were right to remind me that it’s none of my business.’

She took her time finishing her Prosecco and setting the glass back down on the silver tray before making for one of the bookcases, running her finger over Italian titles which she couldn’t possibly understand. Irked by his own arrogance, Luca poured them both another glass of Prosecco and joined her. ‘I’m afraid I don’t react particularly well to being questioned,’ he said. ‘But I am capable of admitting to being wrong.’

She took the glass he offered her, touching it to his before taking a sip. ‘Not that it happens often, I imagine.’

He laughed reluctantly. ‘More often than I’d like. I have always been—headstrong? I think that is the word. Acting before thinking, you know?’

‘Not a wise move in my game.’

What was her game, precisely? Where had she come from? What had she left behind? He longed to ask. He hadn’t thought that the terms of their contract would be so constraining. He hadn’t expected to be so curious. But perhaps if he was a little more honest with her, she would come to trust him. ‘My mother does not approve of my plans,’ Luca said, ‘you were right about that. My father’s death was such a terrible shock, she wants to draw a line under the whole ghastly business.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘In April this year. I was in Scotland, and did not make it back to Venice in time for the funeral.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Grazie.’

‘Was there an enquiry? If he had been murdered, there must have been—I don’t know how the law works here. Do you have the equivalent of Bow Street Runners?’

‘There was no enquiry, my father’s death was deemed to be a tragic accident.’ Luca drained his glass, glancing at the clock which was chiming the hour, and on cue Brunetti appeared to announce that dinner was served.

‘We can discuss it in the morning, every detail, I promise you,’ he said, offering Becky his arm, ‘and then I’ll introduce you to my mother. She should be home by midday. For tonight, let’s take the opportunity to get to know each other a little better.’

The major-domo led them in a stately procession to the room next door. The dining room was another huge chamber, grand to the point of being overwhelming, with a woodland scene painted on the ceiling. Becky made out strange beasts which were half-man and half-wolf or goat, with naked torsos, horned heads, leering down at her, drinking from flagons of wine or playing the pipes. It was enough to put anyone off their dinner, so she decided not to look again.

The table looked as if it could accommodate at least thirty diners. Two places were set at the far end of the polished expanse of mahogany. Torn between awe and amusement, Becky knew enough to allow Luca to help her into her seat, but one look at the array of silverware and glasses in front of her wiped the smile from her face. She watched with growing dismay as Luca sipped and swirled the wine presented to him before his nod of approval prompted the major-domo to fill her glass. Two servants arrived, carrying a silver platter between them. She presumed the major-domo was reciting the contents of the platter. Completely intimidated, Becky simply stared, first at the platter, where she recognised not a single dish, then at the major-domo and then finally at Luca.

Whatever it was he’d noted in her expression, he rapped out a command to the servants. The platter was placed on the table. The major-domo and his consorts trod haughtily out, and Becky heaved a huge sigh of relief. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘That my English cousin is quite ignorant of our splendid Venetian cuisine, and so I would take it upon myself to make a selection for you. Thus educating your vastly inferior English palate.’

‘Thank you.’ She was blushing, she could feel the heat spreading up her throat to her cheeks, but there was no point in pretending, it was far too important that she learn while she could. ‘You’ll need to educate my poor English manners as well as my palate I’m afraid,’ Becky said, keeping her eyes on the delicate porcelain plate in front of her. ‘I not only have no idea what’s on that platter, but I couldn’t hazard a guess at what implement I’m supposed to use to eat it.’

‘It is the same for all the English who visit Italy you know,’ Luca said, getting to his feet. ‘Our food, it confuses them. It will be my pleasure to introduce you to it.’

He was being kind, Becky knew that, but she was grateful for it all the same, and extremely grateful that he’d dismissed all the witnesses to her ignorance. As he presented the platter to her, she managed a smile. ‘It does look lovely.’

‘But of course. The first step to enjoying food is to find it pleasing to the eye. Now, these are carciofe alla romana, which is to say braised artichokes prepared in the Roman style—because, just between us, though Venetian cooking is obviously far superior to anything served in England, in Italy, I regret to say that we Venetians are considered to be culinary peasants.’ He set a strange off-white chunk of something that looked nothing like the big blowsy green artichokes they sold at the Covent Garden fruit market on her plate.

‘Grazie,’ Becky said dubiously.

‘Now, these are ambretti all’olio e limone, which is simply prawns and lemon. Would you like some?’

‘They smell delicious. Yes, please.’

‘Ostriche alla tarantina.’

‘Oysters. I recognise these, though I’ve never had them hot like this.’

‘You’ll like them. This is octopus. Try it. And these are biancheti.’

‘Whitebait,’ Becky exclaimed triumphantly after a brief study of the little fish. ‘I’ll have some of those too, please, unless—Am I supposed to try only one dish?’

‘No. This is antipasti, the whole point is to sample a little of everything.’ Luca sat back down, filling his own plate. ‘Use your fingers, then rinse them when you’re done. That’s what the bowl at the side of your plate is for, see, with the slice of lemon floating in it.’

‘Well, I’m glad you told me that or I might have drunk it, thinking it lemon soup!’

‘You mustn’t worry, Becky. People will expect you to be confused by our customs here. They’re very different.’

‘Were you the same, when you first went to England? When was that?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, I forgot. No questions.’

‘I’m willing to waive that rule if you are.’

Becky examined the chunk of octopus on her plate, then popped it into her mouth. She’d expected it to be chewy, fishy, but it was neither, melting on her tongue, tasting of wine and lemon and parsley. Luca was waiting on an answer, but he could wait. She took a sip of wine. Also delicious. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her humble background, but it was like night and day to all this. Would Luca think less of her for it? In one way it didn’t matter, since he’d already committed to her staying.

She picked up an oyster shell, tipping the contents into her mouth, giving a little sigh of pleasure as this too melted on her tongue, soft and sweet, nothing like the briny ones served from barrels back home. Yes, of course it mattered. They were going to be spending a lot of time together. She had warmed to Luca immediately and she wanted him to like her in return. She certainly didn’t want him looking down his aristocratic nose at her, but if she didn’t reveal a little of her humble origins, he wouldn’t know just how much help she was going to need to learn how to be convincing in her role as his cousin. If she had to learn, and make any number of mistakes in the process, she’d rather it was from him, in front of him, and not in public. And there was the fact that she wanted to know more about him too.

‘Go on, then,’ Becky said, ‘let’s agree to forget the rule for now. But you first. What took you to England?’

‘The Royal Navy,’ he said promptly. ‘When I was twelve, my father sent me as an ensign. When I resigned my commission four years ago, I was a captain.’

‘I knew it!’ Becky exclaimed. ‘When I first set eyes on you, I thought you looked liked a pirate.’

‘I think the Admiralty might have something to say about that description,’ he answered, grinning, ‘though there were times when it was accurate enough.’

Becky pushed her empty plate to one side. ‘Have you been all over the world? I can picture you, leaping from deck to deck, cutlass in hand, confiscating chests of gold from the Spanish.’

‘You forgot to mention the parrot on my shoulder. And my peg leg.’

‘And the lovely wench, swooning in your arms because you rescued her from a rival pirate, who we know must be the evil one, because he’s wearing an eyepatch.’

Luca threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’ve watched too many plays.’

‘Not watched, but acted in them,’ Becky admitted, smiling at the surprise registered on his face. ‘And not any of the kind of roles you’re imagining either.’

‘What do you think I’m imagining?’

‘Breeches roles. Not that I wasn’t asked, and not that I bother about showing off my ankles or playing the man, but...’ Becky’s smile faded. ‘It’s the assumption associated with those particular roles that I resented. I haven’t been on the stage for—Oh, five years now. Since I was seventeen,’ she added, ‘in case you’re curious and too polite to ask my age.’

‘It’s not the thing in England,’ Luca agreed, ‘to discuss age or money. But you’ll find attitudes differ here in Venice.’

Brunetti, the major-domo, entered the dining room at this point, followed by his minions bearing more dishes, and Luca busied himself with serving her the next course. Risotto, he called it, rice with wild mushrooms, to be eaten with a spoon. It was creamy but not sweet, and though it looked like a pudding it tasted nothing like.

‘I think you might be right about Italian cooking, compared to English,’ Becky said. ‘Not that I’m exactly qualified to compare, mind you. I’ve never had a dinner like this. All this food just for two people, it seems an awful lot. We didn’t even finish the—What did you call it?’

‘Antipasti. It will doubtless be finished in the kitchen. Palace staff eat better than most. What kind of food do you like to eat, Becky?’

‘Whatever I can lay my hands on, usually. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ She spoke flippantly. What she’d meant was, I don’t want to talk about it. Then she remembered that she’d agreed to talk, and that Luca had talked, and it was her turn. ‘I don’t have a kitchen, never mind a cook. I eat from pie shops. Whatever’s cheap at the market at the end of the day, bread—ordinary food, you know?’

He didn’t, she could see from his face. ‘But you seem... Not comfortable, but you don’t seem to be uncomfortable with all this,’ Luca said, waving his hand at the room, frowning.

‘Well, that’s a relief to know. The only time I’ve ever sat at a table anything like this was on the stage, where the food was made from plaster and cardboard. I’m a good actress. Luckily for me, The Procurer spotted that.’

‘She saw you onstage?’

Becky shook her head. ‘I told you, I’ve not been on the stage for five years, and The Procurer is...’ She bit her tongue, mortified. ‘Now, that is one subject I’m not at liberty to discuss.’

‘Then tell me instead, what you meant when you said that you resented the connotations of—What did you call them, breeches roles?’

‘That’s when a girl plays a boy on the stage.’ Becky studied him over her wine glass. ‘You know perfectly well what I meant. That a girl who flaunts her legs on the stage is reckoned to be willing to open them offstage,’ she said bluntly. ‘It’s what draws most denizens of the pit, with good reason in many cases. But I wanted none of it, and it was easier to remove myself from harm’s way than to keep fending them off.’

‘Surely whoever was in charge—the theatre manager?—would have protected you.’

Becky laughed harshly. ‘Then he would have needed to protect me from himself. He was the worst of the lot. A perk of the job is how he viewed it,’ she said sardonically. ‘Play nice, you get the best parts. Refuse to let him paw you with his grubby little hands, the work dries up. I decided to take the decision out of his hands by quitting. There are many actresses who are happy to exploit their good looks to their advantage, and good luck to them, but I, for one, refused to. They are the ones being exploited, in my view.’

She was surprised to see that Luca seemed genuinely shocked. ‘Which makes you rather remarkable, I think,’ he said. ‘Was there no one else to look out for you?’

‘I was seventeen, hardly a child. You grow up quickly, in that game. If you mean my parents, I never knew my father. As for my mother, she was an actress herself. She lived long enough to put me on the stage alongside her. I was six, maybe seven when she died.’ Becky finished her risotto and drained her wine glass, and decided to put an end to this conversation too. She wasn’t used to talking about herself. ‘I never went to school, but I didn’t need to, not with the stage to educate me. Reading. Writing. Manners. Plays of all sorts, from bawdy nonsense to Shakespeare, who can be quite bawdy himself. Anyway, that’s quite enough about me for now. I’m much more interested in hearing about you and your life on the ocean wave.’

To her relief, Luca obliged. He was a natural storyteller, transporting her from the dreary dockyards of Plymouth and the grey seas of England, to the azure blue of the Mediterranean, the sultry sun of Egypt, the mayhem of Lisbon and the vast expanse of the New World. There were naval battles, but he glossed over those in a way that she could see disguised pain, suffering, the darker side of human nature. And though he made little of his own role in war at sea, it was clear enough it had been a significant one, that he was not one of those officers who hid behind his men.

‘And then, when Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo, it was obvious that there would be no more wars, and therefore no need for a vast naval fleet. The prospect of sitting behind a desk in the Admiralty filled me with dread,’ Luca said, ‘and so I resigned my commission. Yes,’ he added over his shoulder to his major-domo, who had appeared once more, ‘we’re quite finished.’

Becky looked down at her empty plate. There were fish bones. She hardly recalled being served any fish. Her wine glass was half-full of red, not white. How long had Luca been talking, answering her eager questions? But she wasn’t nearly satisfied. ‘Why the navy though? And why the English navy?’

‘British. Because Venice no longer possesses one. Because I would never countenance serving our usurpers any more than my father would have, whether French or Austrian. Because my mother’s family have a proud seafaring tradition. Admirals, and pirates too,’ Luca said with a wicked smile.

Shaking her head at the offer of coffee, Becky sat back in her seat with a contented sigh. She’d eaten so much she was sleepy. ‘What have you been doing for the last years, then?’

‘Learning how to build ships, not sail them,’ Luca retorted. ‘I spent some time in Glasgow. The Scots are even better ship makers than we Venetians used to be, though it pains me to say it. My father, to my surprise, heartily endorsed my desire to become a shipwright.’

‘But why? Noble families like yours don’t tend to dirty their hands by becoming involved in trade.’

‘We are Venetians,’ Luca said. ‘We invented trade.’

Becky bit back a smile. He puffed up with pride whenever he mentioned his beloved Venice. ‘I’m surprised you ever left the city if you love it so much.’

‘We once had a great navy. Our merchant ships travelled the world. But all that was lost as other seafaring nations supplanted us. Venice’s reputation these days is based on its notoriety for vice and excess, a city devoted to pleasure. Always, when people talk of her, it is Carnival and nothing else. It is because I am determined to contribute somehow to making this city great again that I left her.’

‘But how? Aren’t you—Don’t the Austrians rule here?’

His mouth tightened. ‘For now. Building new ships to re-establish trading routes. That is my dream. Though for the moment, I keep it to myself.’ Luca put a finger to his mouth, making a show of peering over his shoulder. ‘There is one thing you must never forget about Venice,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘There are spies everywhere.’

‘I hope you don’t ever plan to tread the boards. You’re a terrible actor.’

But Luca’s expression became serious. ‘I mean it. Within these walls it is safe to speak your mind, but in public you must keep your counsel. Intrigue is a way of life and Venice can be a dangerous city for the unwary.’

‘How can somewhere so beautiful be so menacing?’

‘Because Venice is a city of contrasts. Light and shadow. Beauty and decay. Stone and water.’

‘You make it sound fascinating. I look forward to exploring it.’

‘It will be my pleasure to be your guide.’

He smiled at her, and she forgot what she was about to say. Sightseeing, she reminded herself, that was what they were talking about, but her eyes were locked on his, and all she could do was stare, mesmerised. She wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by him, and he must have read her thoughts, because there was a gleam in his eyes that made her think he wanted to kiss her too.

The table was in the way, but she was on her feet now, and so was he. He had closed the gap between them. She was lifting her face to his. And then he muttered something, shook his head, stepped back, and at the same time she regained her senses and moved away.

‘In the morning, after breakfast,’ Luca said, his voice gruff, ‘we will draw up a plan of action.’

‘In the morning,’ Becky repeated, trying to regulate her breathing, ‘I will assume the role of your demure cousin Rebecca.’

He looked as relieved as she felt. She wondered if he was thinking the same as her, that it was for the best, since cousins couldn’t kiss.

‘But in the meantime, you must be tired,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she agreed gratefully. ‘Very tired. I will bid you goodnight.’

He took her hand, bowing over it with a mocking little smile, pressing the lightest of kisses to her fingertips. ‘Buona notte, Becky.’

‘Goodnight?’ A slight nod, and she repeated the words, enjoying the soft, sensual sound of them. ‘Buona notte, Luca.’

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