His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

by Marguerite Kaye

  The Contessa smiled approvingly. ‘Well done, you’ve come on leaps and bounds.’

  ‘Which is, ironically, one of the things I’m not permitted to do.’

  The Contessa laughed. ‘You are a much-needed breath of fresh air. Shall I ring for tea?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Becky jumped to her feet to tug the bell. ‘How I am progressing? Honestly, if you please.’

  ‘You are doing splendidly. Unless one was searching for evidence to the contrary, no one would take you for anything other than what we claim you to be, my niece.’

  ‘But if one was searching for evidence...’

  ‘I meant to reassure you, Rebecca. You are too much of a perfectionist.’

  ‘There’s no such thing, not when the stakes are so high.’

  A tiny frown marred the smooth perfection of the Contessa’s brow. ‘I hope my son’s desire for justice is not placing you in any real danger.’

  Clearly Luca had not confided the detail of his plans to his mother. Becky was torn. She did not want to lie, but the truth was that they were going to be playing a very dangerous game. Or games.

  ‘Forgive me,’ the Contessa said, sparing Becky the necessity of prevaricating. ‘I should not have asked, for it places you in a very awkward position. I commend your loyalty to my son. I hope he has earned it.’

  ‘Luca is paying me handsomely, Contessa. Money that will transform my life.’

  ‘Money is not everything.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, but it is when you are obliged to count every penny.’

  The faintest tinge of colour appeared in the Contessa’s sharp cheekbones. ‘I did not mean to patronise you. You are so very confident, so assured, so quick to learn and assimilate everything I say, and I have been enjoying our time together so much that I had almost forgotten that you are not my niece.’

  The Contessa took the scrap of lace she called a handkerchief from her pocket, and began to fold and refold it on her lap. Confident, she’d said. Assured. Obviously none of Becky’s doubts and fears had shown through. Pride mingled with relief, but looking at the Contessa’s troubled expression, she felt a twinge of conscience. ‘I practise a lot,’ she confessed, ‘in my room, at night. It doesn’t come as naturally to me as you might imagine.’

  This admission gained her a faint smile, but the Contessa’s frown deepened. ‘Did you go hungry, Becky?’

  More times than she cared to remember, back in the days when she’d found herself suddenly motherless. But Becky chose to forget those days. ‘I’ve never been a charity case,’ she said with justifiable pride. ‘I’m twenty-two years old. I’ve been looking after myself perfectly well for most of my life.’

  The Contessa flinched. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, I was merely interested in learning about your life in London. It is a treat to converse with a fellow Englishwoman. I apologise if my curiosity has caused me to overstep the mark.’ She tucked her kerchief back into her pocket. ‘Your new wardrobe will be delivered tomorrow. I was thinking that...’

  Becky listened with half an ear as the Contessa mused on Cousin Rebecca’s various toilettes. She never talked about herself. No one was ever interested in her history or her opinions. She couldn’t even recall Jack asking her what she thought or felt about anything. Now here were two people wanting to know all about her, wanting to understand her, when she wasn’t sure she understood herself.

  Across from her, the Contessa had moved on to the subject of footwear. Becky could not accustom herself to this elegantly beautiful, intelligent woman taking an interest in her. Like her son, she seemed to have the ability to read minds too accurately for Becky’s liking. Those eyes, so like Luca’s, seemingly sleepy, heavy-lidded, were anything but. There were no airs and graces about the Contessa, but despite that, there was something compelling about her. She was the type of person all eyes followed when she walked into a room, just like Luca.

  The major-domo arrived with his cohorts carrying the tea things. ‘I’ll see to it, Brunetti,’ Becky said in her best Cousin Rebecca accent, eager to demonstrate that she’d learnt another lesson to perfection. Brunetti, she knew now, spoke perfect English.

  ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, signorina?’

  Becky inspected the table. She lifted the lid of the little silver salver to make sure there was enough lemon. Just to annoy Brunetti, she shifted the sugar tongs fractionally to the left. ‘Thank you,’ she said, bestowing her newly acquired demure smile.

  The doors closed, and the Contessa chuckled. ‘Very good, Rebecca.’

  ‘Becky, if you please. When we’re alone and I’m not in character.’ She poured the tea, adding a lemon slice to the Contessa’s cup, milk to her own, tinkling the spoon against the china in that irritating manner which was apparently de rigueur.

  The olive branch was noted. The Contessa smiled. ‘Then you must call me Isabel. I was telling you that your clothes are being delivered tomorrow. You must be quite sick of being cooped up here in the palazzo, with me drilling you for most of the day in etiquette, then playing cards with Luca all evening.’

  ‘Drilling.’ Becky grinned. ‘I was just thinking to myself that’s exactly what it feels like sometimes, being on an army parade ground when I’m with you.’

  ‘Am I a terrible taskmaster?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s exactly what I need. Luca’s eager to take Cousin Rebecca out into the world, so I need to be ready.’

  Isabel sipped daintily at her tea. ‘How are you getting on with my son?’

  ‘He’s a demanding taskmaster, just like you,’ Becky said warily.

  ‘Though neither of us is as hard on you as you are on yourself.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of picking up a Venetian deck to play for money until I know I can make the cards do exactly what I want them to. I’m very good, but even I need to practise.’

  Isabel set her teacup down with a sigh. ‘My apologies. I am interfering, and I promised my son I would not.’ To Becky’s surprise, she reached over to touch her hand lightly. ‘I suspect it’s because you’ve given me a purpose, something to focus on since Guido died.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I sometimes forget that it’s not just Luca who lost his father. You lost your husband.’

  ‘I find myself with too much time on my hands, but you must not be thinking that my heart is broken.’ Isabel’s sardonic smile was very like her son’s. ‘I was fond enough of Guido, but we were never close and had little in common. Our marriage was arranged. Once I’d given birth to Luca, and the lustiest, healthiest of babies he was too, my husband ceased his visits to my bedchamber. It is the custom here, you see, for the eldest son to inherit everything, the Venetian nobility’s way of preserving their vast wealth. If I’d had a second son, he would be expected to remain a single man, and as to daughters—Well, dowries for daughters also dilute a family’s wealth.’

  ‘But you’re not a Venetian,’ Becky exclaimed, aghast, ‘and the del Pietro family must be far too wealthy to worry about diluting anything. Did you know this when you married him? Didn’t you want more children?’

  ‘I would very much have liked the companionship of a daughter, though I suppose it is a selfish thing to wish.’ Isabel smiled sadly. ‘In any event, I was not given the choice. Perhaps if I’d explained my wishes to Guido. But, no, that’s preposterous, he would not have listened, and I was much too young to make any demands of my husband. Besides, these Venetian traditions, they are very much entrenched. I was expected to be by his side at all times, apart from in his bed. Would you mind pouring me another cup of tea, please? No, no more lemon. Thank you.’

  The polite smile was back, making it clear that the subject was closed. Cousin Rebecca wouldn’t dream of doing anything but follow her aunt’s lead, but Becky was done with Cousin Rebecca for the moment. ‘You must have missed him terribly. Luca, I mean, when he was sent off to England at such a young age.’ />
  ‘Oh, I would not have dreamed of keeping Luca here in Venice kicking his heels. He was bored rigid by school. He has a very restless nature. He reminds me so much of my own brother. A born sailor, is Mathew, and Luca is too. Though, of course,’ Isabel added ruefully, ‘Guido always attributed every one of Luca’s qualities to his own bloodline. Though he is half-English, as far as Guido was concerned, his son could only ever be wholly Venetian.’

  ‘What does Luca think?’

  ‘Come, Becky, you know the answer to that perfectly well. Luca is a Venetian to his core. Why else would he be so set on this complex plan he is embarking on?’

  ‘Don’t you wish for justice? Even if you weren’t close, your husband was murdered.’

  ‘And I do most sincerely mourn him, but I fail to see how humiliating Don Sarti will make me feel any better.’

  ‘It’s not about humiliation. Luca wants—’ Becky cut herself short. It wasn’t her place to argue Luca’s case with his mother. ‘He feels he has no choice,’ she compromised. ‘I mean, a letter like the one his father left him, from beyond the grave, it’s not exactly something he could ignore.’

  ‘I suppose not. And at least it has brought you into my life. I very much enjoy your company. You will see for yourself when you go out in society, that Venice is not a city which invites intimacy of that kind. Confidences can be sold. Secrets can be betrayed. One must always be on one’s guard.’

  ‘Luca’s forever telling me that. I thought he was being overcautious.’

  ‘I doubt that is possible. It is a relief to be able to talk frankly as we do. I know you are not truly my niece, but I hope you consider me a friend?’

  What Isabel had told her of her life, her marriage, made Becky realise she’d assumed an awful lot and been wrong on every count. That a countess living in a palace could be lonely! That she could have let her husband deprive her of children, pack her only son off to England and then deprive her even of being able to claim any of that son’s qualities for her own. It took her breath away. ‘You know my stay here is a short one,’ Becky said. ‘By the time Carnival is over at the latest, I’ll be gone.’

  ‘And my son, I hope, will finally be able to stop looking over his shoulder to the past, and look forward to the future. Are you worried that I’ll become overfond of you, Becky?’

  She was startled into laughter. ‘I’m worried that I’ll get too fond of you!’

  ‘Then we’d better make the most of each other’s company while we can.’ Isabel got to her feet, shaking out her skirts. ‘To work, Rebecca. Let us take a turn around the room together, as two genteel ladies are wont to do, and talk about fashion.’

  * * *

  Becky had mastered the games of Primero and Ombre easily enough, but Trappola was a harder nut to crack. The name meant to cheat or to deceive, Luca had told her. Trappola was unique to Venice, he claimed, and Becky could understand why. She picked up the special deck of cards reserved for the game. Swords, Cups, Coins and Batons. Spade, she said to herself as she dealt them out in their suites. Coppe. Denari. Bastoni. Each suite had three face cards: the Knave or Foot Soldier, the Knight or Cavalier, and the King. For this particular game, there was no three, four, five or six. And no Queen. When she played Trappola at Carnevale she would be the only Queen of Coins.

  Becky shuffled expertly and began to practise her dealing, setting herself more and more complex hands to achieve: dealing from the bottom; dealing herself two cards; making false cuts. This was the easy part, the foundation of all the tricks she had played in her Covent Garden days, and the secret to her winning streaks in the gaming hells. Working with a different pack made little difference to the techniques required.

  Bored, she began to build a house of cards. Luca had been called away during dinner by the arrival of an old acquaintance of his father’s, newly returned to Venice after a long absence, and anxious to pay his condolences. Becky had assumed that he would join her in the small drawing room as usual when he was free, but it had been an hour since she and Isabel had risen from the dinner table. She should probably go to bed. Isabel was right—she was exhausted between learning to be Cousin Rebecca and practising to be the Queen of Coins. Becky had also been working relentlessly on each role and on the lingo, acutely aware of the clock inexorably moving towards the time when she must make her debut, the weight of responsibility making it almost impossible to sleep when she could be honing her skills.

  It was almost ten o’clock, according to the huge clock which ticked quietly in the far corner of the room. The card house was complete. Becky toppled it and began to build another, adding in a second pack of cards. She really should go to bed. The days were beginning to blur one into the other. Had she and Luca really almost kissed in this very room? Maybe she’d imagined it. Certainly, Luca gave no sign of remembering when they sat here, night after night. He was all business. Cards and vocabulary. Vocabulary and cards. The Procurer had been right in predicting that Becky would find the lingo easy. Italian was a lovely melodic language, though the Venetian accent was much harsher. Like cockney compared to the King’s English, she thought when she heard the servants speak it amongst themselves, though she wouldn’t dream of saying so to Luca.

  Another card house was complete. Becky studied it carefully and began to dismantle it, card by card. It was a child’s trick, one of the first she’d learnt, but it still made her smile. A question of balance. And of building it just right, of course. There came a point when this card or maybe the next would prove one card too many. A point just before that when it looked impossible, as if the cards on each layer were floating. And then...

  She slid the next card out, knowing what would happen, watching with satisfaction as it collapsed in an orderly fashion.

  ‘Brava.’

  Becky jumped. Luca was standing in the doorway. ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘Long enough to be fascinated.’ He walked towards her, pulling out the chair beside her at the card table. ‘I take it that you must construct it in such a way that you know which cards are the supporting ones?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Who taught you to do it?’

  ‘A magician called The Wonderful Waldo. He was a warm-up act in the early days when I was onstage. He wasn’t very good, to be honest, but he taught me the basics of card tricks.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I kept you waiting so long. Don Carcolli wished to reminisce of Venice in the old days before Napoleon, when he and my father and Don Sarti more or less ran the city. I thought I might hear something of interest regarding Don Sarti, but like everyone else, Don Carcolli thinks the man a pillar of society.’

  ‘Doesn’t anyone know that he plays deep?’

  Luca shrugged. ‘If they do, they do not speak of it.’ He picked up the cards with little enthusiasm. ‘We should practise.’

  ‘Yes, we should. Here, give them to me. I’ve mixed two packs up.’ Becky reached for the cards. Luca’s hand covered hers, and she froze. Lifting her eyes to meet his, she could see that he was thinking along similar lines. Not playing cards, but indulging in illicit kisses.

  And then he gave himself an almost imperceptible shake before removing his hand. ‘Trappola?’

  It was a relief to know that he was as determined as she not to be distracted. Except that now she was. ‘Trappola,’ Becky muttered, preparing to deal, then immediately changing her mind. ‘I hope you won’t take offence, but I need to pit myself against a more skilled player. Honestly, Luca, speaking as someone who knows, you’ll never make a gambler.’

  ‘Am I really that bad?’

  She squirmed. ‘It’s not that you’re so very bad, it’s just that I’m...’

  ‘An expert. Which is why you and not I will play Don Sarti,’ Luca said with a mocking little bow. ‘I hadn’t considered the need for you to play for real before Carnevale, but I should have. I will think on it. B
ut in the meantime, since I am not worthy to pit my wits against you, will you demonstrate some of your card tricks? Just for fun, mind you. I want you to fleece Don Sarti, not me!’

  ‘I’m already relieving you of a small fortune for my services,’ Becky said, more than happy to indulge in a different sort of distraction. ‘You can have this for free. So watch carefully.’ She shuffled. ‘I always started with the flashy stuff. Producing a card from behind someone’s ear, that kind of thing,’ she said, doing just that, and bursting into a peal of laughter at Luca’s astonished expression. ‘The aim is to draw an audience, then you can go through your repertoire. The best tricks are the ones that everyone thinks they can see through. Like this one.’

  She spread an array of cards on the table. ‘Pick one,’ she said. ‘Now, look at it, and don’t let me see. Now, put it back anywhere in the pack.’ She performed a complex shuffle, the cards cascading through the air from one hand to the other. One escaped and fluttered on to the table.

  ‘I thought you said you were an expert,’ Luca said.

  Becky smiled. ‘Turn it over.’

  ‘It’s my card! That must just be a coincidence.’

  Becky arched her brow, then repeated the trick. And then repeated it again. ‘You see, you’re sure that all it takes is for you to watch me more and more closely,’ she said, ‘then you’ll catch me out.’ She turned over the card he thought he had selected freely once again. ‘But you won’t. And the crowd never did either. At the end, I would pass round a hat. People threw in a few coins, depending on how much I’d entertained them, and how much they could afford to give.’

  ‘If you’d permitted them to bet against you, you could have made a great deal more money.’

  ‘That wouldn’t sit well with me.’