His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Becky, come away from the edge.’ Luca grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back. ‘If you fell, you would be killed.’

  ‘I won’t fall, I’ve a good head for heights,’ she said, determinedly ignoring the little surge of excitement she felt at the sight of him. ‘Look down there. It’s like the Montagues and the Capulets. I wonder if one of the women screeching like a banshee from the windows is the Juliet they’re fighting over.’

  The fight had died down, with both sides retreating back across the bridge to their own territory. Catcalls and jeers came from the windows. Then as quickly as it had started, it was over. ‘It’s lovely up here,’ Becky said, allowing Luca to steer her away from the edge. ‘It’s a shame you don’t make more of it. If I had a sanctuary like this, I’d want to be up here all the time.’

  Luca scanned the rooftop, a slight frown making a groove between his brows. ‘How did you acquire your head for heights? In the theatre perhaps?’

  ‘No, by scrambling about on the roofs of buildings when I was a kid. They were our playground, our secret space.’

  ‘There are any number of parks in London.’

  ‘With an army of park-keepers determined to keep ragamuffins out. I was born into the slums, Luca.’

  ‘The rookeries, yes?’ His face wrinkled with distaste. ‘I had worked that much out for myself.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad, you know.’

  ‘I think it must have been a great deal worse than you would ever admit. How did someone as extraordinary as you survive such a terrible life? And not only survive but—I don’t know how to say it without insulting you—but you are so...’

  ‘Assured is what your mother called me.’

  ‘Did she?’ He steered her over to the wooden bench, sitting down beside her. ‘You certainly can appear to be most assured. It fooled me for a while. That first day, before I knew better, for example, it would not have occurred to me for one minute that this woman was born and bred in the slums of London.’

  ‘What gave me away?’

  He shook his head, smiling thoughtfully. ‘You are a very good actress, but I—Ah, I admit, I have been studying you very closely. It is in the eyes, I think. There are times when you make me think of a captain readying a warship for battle. He is focused on giving orders, issuing battle plans, organising flags, cannons, ammunition, thinking only of what is to come, thinking only of victory, and then he sees one of his men offering up a prayer and it is a jolt, like a shot across the bows, a reminder of the reality of war. In that instant, just for an instant, he is afraid.’

  She’d dreaded seeing pity in his eyes. What she saw instead was that Luca had bared a little bit of his own soul to show her that he understood. It brought a lump to her throat. She reached for his hand, pressing her lips to his fingertips. ‘I’ve never had to face what you’ve just described. I could never be so brave.’

  ‘You displayed bravery every day, by resisting the temptation to exploit your card skills.’

  ‘It’s not a temptation when you know it would be wrong. I’m not brave, Luca.’

  ‘Remarkable, then, if you prefer. What I’m trying to say is that you could be anything you want, Becky.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said awkwardly, because he looked as if he really meant it, and she didn’t know what on earth to make of that. ‘What I want right now, is to make a success of my debut as Cousin Rebecca.’

  ‘Are you nervous? You’ve no need to be. My mother has been singing your praises.’

  ‘She’s biased, since I’m the product of all her training.’

  ‘You are the product of all your own hard work. I have no doubt you will make a most demure Cousin Rebecca, and a most intimidating and unbeatable Queen of Coins. From the stage of Drury Lane, through the piazza of Covent Garden, the gaming hells of St James’s to the salons of Venice and Carnival, Miss Becky Wickes will be a resounding success in every role she plays.’ Luca eyed her quizzically. ‘There seems to be no end to the masks you wear. One would think you’d been born a Venetian.’

  ‘Since you compare me to your precious Venice, I suppose I should be honoured.’

  ‘You don’t like compliments much, do you?’

  ‘In my experience, people only pay compliments to get on your good side, so you’ll do what they want.’

  ‘But you’re already doing what I want.’

  Becky studied her hands. ‘You’ve no need to pay me compliments, then, have you?’

  ‘I wasn’t complimenting you, I was telling you the truth.’ Luca shifted on the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him. ‘I’ve never met a woman like you.’

  ‘I’ve never met a man like you.’

  ‘Different worlds. A unique situation. That is what I told myself last night. That is why I don’t recognise my behaviour.’

  ‘That’s what I told myself too,’ Becky said, surprised into a strange little laugh. ‘Perhaps it’s the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps it is. I tried to take your advice, but I am afraid that cards could not hold my attention,’ Luca said ruefully. ‘So I spent much of the night thinking about how to find a way for you to play against an opponent.’

  ‘And were you successful?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I don’t think there is any way it can be done safely. Cards are played outside Carnevale at the Contessa Benzon’s palazzo, I have heard, but Cousin Rebecca could not possibly play, and we could not invite one of the more experienced players here, for we cannot risk anyone knowing of the connection between Cousin Rebecca and the Queen of Coins.’

  Becky pondered this disappointing news. ‘Would it be permissible for Cousin Rebecca to watch rather than play?’

  ‘Would that help?’ When she nodded, Luca brightened. ‘I am sure we can arrange that.’

  ‘Excellent, though first I have to get through tonight.’

  ‘One role at a time. Did I tell you that you are extraordinary, Miss Becky Wickes?’

  ‘So often that I’m beginning to believe you after all.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Luca reached across to push her hair back from her brow. ‘Because it is the truth.’

  His lashes were thick and sooty, far too long for a man. In the sunlight, there were streaks of chestnut brown in his hair. Her stomach was fluttering at his nearness. She couldn’t break free of his gaze, the heat flaring in his eyes waking a craving for his mouth on hers. He was so close. She only had to move the tiniest bit towards him and he’d know what she wanted, and he’d kiss her. But it was broad daylight. And she was dressed in Cousin Rebecca’s costume. Confused, Becky jumped to her feet. ‘You haven’t told me what you think of my gown, Cousin Luca.’

  She waited, eyes lowered demurely, hands clasped in front of her, praying that he would take his cue. And at last he did, getting to his feet, making a bow. ‘It suits you perfectly, Cousin Rebecca.’

  * * *

  For her debut in Venetian society, Cousin Rebecca wore white. A silk underdress, an overdress of sarsenet, white silk stockings and white silk slippers. A white shawl of the softest cashmere was draped around her shoulders. Her long gloves where white kid. Chiara, her maid, had powdered her face and shoulders under Isabel’s strict supervision, and fixed her unruly hair back into such a tight chignon, using so many pins that Becky’s head ached. A white gardenia was threaded on a ribbon around her neck.

  ‘I look like a ghost,’ she told Isabel.

  ‘It is a pity that your eyes are such a striking colour’ was all that the Contessa ventured. ‘You must make every effort to keep them lowered.’

  Her nerves, slowly building since this morning, made her stomach roil. As the hour of her public debut drew near, Becky’s confidence began to falter. A terror of spattering food on her gloves prevented her from eating much at dinner, though she supposed that was in keeping for the role she was playing. A girl this pale must surely be starving.
She wondered what Brunetti would make of her sudden loss of appetite, or indeed what the rest of the servants hovering about the dining room would make of her sudden loss of conversation.

  ‘My cousin Rebecca is a little nervous,’ Luca said as the major-domo removed her untouched melting lemon sorbet, as if he’d read her thoughts. ‘She is to attend the salon of Contessa Albrizzi tonight.’

  ‘A most formidable woman,’ Brunetti said. ‘But I am sure Signorina Wickes will make a favourable impression.’

  Signorina Wickes was on the verge of losing her nerve completely as she prepared for the short journey, waiting in the reception area in her all-enveloping evening cloak for the gondola to be readied. The Contessa, in a magnificent black gown of silk and lace, her head covered in a veil, looked both remote and terrifying. Even Luca, in his formal evening dress of black silk breeches and coat, silk stockings and shoes rather than boots, his hair slicked back from his high brow, seemed every inch the Count, and several miles in status above her. The gondola, with a light gleaming on the gold-toothed prow, looked even more like a floating coffin than usual.

  Climbing into it with Luca’s aid, Becky repressed a shudder. There was room only for the two women in the cabin. Venice in the dark was a different place, all looming, sinister shadows and murky waters. She clutched her hands together and sat tensely, mentally rehearsing her role. The gondola glided silently along, and too soon for Becky’s peace of mind, came to dock. She felt quite sick now. She was sure that if she tried to stand, her legs would give way.

  ‘Rebecca, are you ready?’ the Contessa asked.

  Her cue. She remembered then; she couldn’t think why she’d forgotten, that it had always been like this before a performance. Every single time. And she remembered too, that the moment she took the first step into the glare of the lights, her stage fright disappeared, and she lost herself in whatever part it was she had to play.

  ‘I am ready, Aunt Isabel.’ She got to her feet, wrapping her cloak around her. ‘Thank you, Cousin Luca,’ she whispered as he helped her ashore. Lights blazed from the first floor of the palazzo. Braziers burned on both sides of the doors, which stood open. Luca offered his arm to his mother, casting Becky a worried glance. She saw it, but did not respond, following demurely in their wake, back straight, shoulders back, head up, eyes down.

  * * *

  Contessa Albrizzi was known as the Madame de Staël of Venice. Having had the presence of mind to have her first, unhappy marriage annulled, thus freeing her to marry into one of the city’s oldest and noblest of families, she had established herself as a passionate patron of the arts and of artists. Rather too passionate, some said, but as a widow of six years’ standing, she was free to bestow her favours as she saw fit. Rumour had it, Luca’s mother had informed him, that the English poet Byron had been a recipient, but he took this information with a pinch of salt. Lord Byron’s name had been linked with almost every woman in Venice. It was fortunate the man had seen fit to finally quit the city after a mammoth bout of debauchery, rumour had it, at the last Carnevale.

  ‘Contessa.’ Luca bowed low over the extended hand. ‘You know my mother, obviously.’

  ‘Isabel. It is good to see you out in company again. We have missed you.’

  The two women curtsied, and Luca’s mother indicated that Becky come forward. ‘May I present my niece, Rebecca Wickes, come to us from England to acquire a little of our Italian gloss.’

  Luca watched anxiously as Becky made a deep curtsy. ‘Contessa Albrizzi, it is a great honour to be permitted to attend your salon. I have heard that the conversazione is the most sophisticated and well informed in Venice.’ Cousin Rebecca smiled shyly. ‘I am neither witty nor sophisticated, but I hope to acquire a little of both in such illustrious company.’

  ‘No doubt Contessa del Pietro will be introducing you to Venice’s other salonista, Contessa Benzon. You will find good conversazione there too, Signorina Wickes.’

  ‘Indeed, I believe that we do plan to attend one of the Contessa Benzon’s salons, but I must confess...’ Here, Cousin Rebecca seemed to blush, dropping her gaze to her gloved hands, a little intake of breath giving her the courage to look back up. ‘I must confess, Contessa Albrizzi, that it is this salon I have been most eagerly anticipating.’

  Contessa Albrizzi preened at the compliment, forcing Luca to bite back a smile. He had heard his mother’s acid remarks on the rivalry between the two salonistas. He placed a small bet with himself that Cousin Rebecca would pay the same compliment in reverse to Contessa Benzon.

  ‘Well, now,’ Contessa Albrizzi said, surveying the room, ‘let me see who I can introduce you to, Signorina Wickes, to begin your education in the art of conversazione. You should be aware that political discussions of any sort are frowned upon.’ Cousin Rebecca was treated to a condescending smile. ‘Though I doubt very much that politics would interest a chit like you. Ah! Signor Antonio Canova is with us tonight, one of our greatest living sculptors. I will have him show you the bust of Helen of Troy, which he carved especially for me. Signor Canova, if you please.’

  The introduction was made. The sculptor was only too pleased to have the opportunity to describe his work in lavish detail to a beautiful young Englishwoman, placing Cousin Rebecca’s hand on his arm and steering her away. Luca’s mother was surrounded by a clutch of women all anxious to discover whether her English niece had arrived in Venice with a fortune. ‘If you will excuse me, Contessa Albrizzi,’ Luca said, ‘I should accompany my cousin for propriety’s sake.’

  ‘Nonsense. Signor Canova is passionate about marble, not flesh and blood. Though I must say, Conte del Pietro, that if your cousin stood still long enough, one could easily mistake her for being a statue. So cold, these English. It is the climate, I suppose, there is no heat, either in their sun or their blood, if you know what I mean. While we Venetian women—Ah, you must be very glad to be home, though, of course, we would all wish it had been under happier circumstances. Your dear father is much missed. I know that everyone will agree with me when I say that Conte Guido del Pietro was a pillar of Venetian society.’

  ‘Grazie, Contessa Albrizzi, but I believe that honour was shared with Don Massimo Sarti. I had hoped to see him here tonight.’

  ‘His wife has a fever. Nothing to worry about I am sure, but Don Sarti is such an attentive husband—provided it is not Carnevale, of course, but then Carnevale excuses us all from our conjugal duties. And on that subject, Luca—May I call you Luca?’ Receiving a nod, Contessa Albrizzi smiled winsomely up at him. ‘You are the last of our real Venetian men. A seafarer who has seen the world. A man who has only to walk into a room for all eyes to be upon him. And it is not only your very attractive person, but a certain air you possess. Ah, do not attempt to be modest, I am sure that I am not the first woman to tell you so.’

  ‘You flatter me, Contessa Albrizzi.’ Luca cast his eyes anxiously around the salon. There was no sign of Becky, and his mother had her back turned to him. ‘I fear you must excuse me...’

  ‘But, no, I have not quite finished with you yet.’ The Contessa’s grip on his arm was surprisingly strong. ‘Now that your dear mother has come out of mourning, she will be turning her thoughts to providing you with a suitable wife. I do hope that milksop niece of hers is not in the running? You need a Venetian woman, with fire in her heart to match your own passions. If I were but five years younger, I would offer for you myself. But alas, a widow such as I, though rich in worldly goods and lineage, will not serve for the grand del Pietro name. We must find you a pretty virgin, and I have one such in mind.’

  ‘You are very kind, Contessa Albrizzi, but I believe the honour of choosing my bride rests with my mother, now that my father is no longer with us.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ the Contessa agreed. ‘I will discuss the matter with her. It does you great credit, Luca, that you honour the traditions. But you have not answered my question. This cousin of y
ours, I am right in thinking that she is too close in blood to be deemed a suitable bride? Though if your mother had her mind set upon the match, the blood ties can easily be overlooked by a purse of gold passed in the right direction.’

  ‘My cousin is here for a few weeks only, Contessa Albrizzi, to acquire a little polish, just as my mother informed you. Her marriage prospects are no concern of mine.’

  ‘I am very relieved to hear this. My own protégée—but I will speak to your mother, as you suggested. You are anxious to rejoin your cousin, I can see. I suggest you try the second salon on the right, where my Helen of Troy is situated, but before you go, Luca...’ the Contessa fluttered her eyelashes ‘...a lusty man such as you has appetites which cannot await the marriage bed. I think you will find that a woman such as I, of a certain age and experience, would leave you more than satisfied.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt, Contessa Albrizzi, but I fear you do me too great an honour. Now I really must go. Cousin Rebecca will be thinking I have abandoned her. Scusi.’

  Thinking that, on this evidence, the rumours about the Contessa Albrizzi and Lord Byron were probably accurate, Luca was too concerned about Becky to feel anything other than faint astonishment at the brazen offer he had just received. Weaving his way through the crowded salon with scant apologies to those who tried to waylay him, he found her, as the Contessa had predicted, standing beside the bust of Helen of Troy listening to its creator’s flamboyant description of the lengths to which he had gone to select the perfect piece of marble. Canova, with his back to the doorway, was speaking in impassioned Italian far too rapid for Becky’s developing grasp of the language. Luca watched with amusement as, despite having little or no idea of what was being said to her, she nodded sagely, murmuring, ‘Si, assolutamente...capisco perfettamente,’ in a serious, awed tone. He wanted to applaud her, shout brava and have her take a bow. Instead, he assumed his role of concerned escort.