His Rags-To-Riches Contessa. Marguerite Kaye
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.’
Becky woke with a start. Completely disoriented by the comforting, heavy weight of the bedclothes, the softness of the mattress, the serene silence, it took her a moment to realise she wasn’t in her cramped garret in the rookeries. The room was cool, but nothing like the bone-chilling cold of a London winter morning. There was an ember still smouldering in the fireplace that would take only a moment to relight. Picking up some kindling from the basket on the hearth, it occurred to her that this would be the maid’s task, so she put it back.
A narrow shaft of light slanted through the gap in the curtains, but it was enough to allow her to get to the window from the fireplace without bumping into any of the clutter of chairs and occasional tables that littered the room. Gazing out, the canal was shrouded in a blanket of silvery-grey mist. She caught her breath at the sheer beauty of the scene, leaning over the little Juliet balcony to get a better view of the rows of gondolas bobbing gently on the canal banks, to breathe in the salty air, to drink in the utter stillness of the scene, like a painting or a world where she was the only person alive.
Nothing had prepared her for this. In London, no matter the time of day, there was noise, there were people, there was constant bustle. London was a city painted in shades of grey most of the time, the air tasting of the smoke which formed a grimy hem around the cleanest of petticoats. In London, the sky didn’t change colour dramatically like this, clearing and lightening to the palest of blue as the sun rose. The fast-running Thames was a muddy brown colour. Before her eyes, the Grand Canal was becoming bluer and bluer, the sunlight painting bright strips of gold on top of the turquoise. It was magical, there was no other word for it.
She watched, fascinated, as the canal came to life, the first gondolas with a lantern in the prow cutting elegantly through the waters, the oar of the gondoliers barely stirring the surface. Only when a man appeared on a balcony opposite hers and blew an extravagant kiss did she recall that she was wearing a nightgown, that her hair was down, that she was displaying herself on the balcony of the Palazzo Pietro like—Well, not like Luca’s demure English relative.
Closing the windows, but leaving the curtains drawn back, Becky retreated back into the warm, luxurious nest of her four-poster bed. She had no idea whether she should ring for the maid. No idea whether breakfast would be brought to her, or whether she should seek it out. Reality, long overdue, came crashing down on her. She truly was in another world, one in which she felt completely and utterly out of her depth. Yet she had to convince everyone, from the army of staff at the palazzo, to everyone in ‘society’, whatever Luca meant by that, that she was Cousin Rebecca, born and bred to all this.
Flopping back on to the pillows, Becky tried to calm the rising tide of panic welling up inside her. She’d been on the stage almost before she could walk, and she was an accomplished actress. Cousin Rebecca was just another role she had to play. She could master it if she worked hard enough. So what, if she was living in a palace and not just acting in front of a painted backdrop, acting was acting, wasn’t it? And if she thought about it, which she had better do right now, wasn’t confidence the key to her success with her card tricks? People only see what they want to see. She’d said something of the sort to The Procurer, and it was true. There was no reason, none at all, why the servants here would look at her and see a card sharp or even just a common Londoner.
She wasn’t common; she was extraordinary. Luca had said so. Of course, she wasn’t really, it was just that he’d never met anyone like her. She wasn’t extraordinary, she was simply different, beyond his ken, as he was beyond hers. It would certainly explain the most unexpected end to the evening last night. Becky burrowed deeper under the covers, pulling the sheet over her burning face. What on earth had