His Rags-To-Riches Contessa

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.’