His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘In 1792, the year after your birth, and the opening season of the new theatre,’ Isabel said. ‘I remember it well, though it must be coming up for thirty years ago now.’

  ‘And you have not seen your brother since?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Oh, he has visited on a couple of occasions since, but in the summer, outside the opera season.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever returned to England since you married?’

  ‘My uncle invited you to visit him several times, to coincide with my ship being docked in Plymouth,’ Luca reminded his mother when she hesitated. ‘You were apparently unable to oblige because my father insisted he needed you by his side in Venice.’

  ‘Regretfully, that is true,’ Isabel replied.

  ‘Didn’t you want to see your son and your family?’

  Isabel’s clear-eyed gaze faltered under Luca’s scrutiny. ‘You think your father cared that I missed you? He cared only for his position of influence, his precious reputation, and, of course, above all his devotion to his precious Venice. I was a vital appendage, and so in his eyes I could not be spared.’ She drew in a sharp breath, immediately contrite. ‘I beg your pardon. I should not have spoken in such blunt terms. I do not know what came over me.’

  Stuck between mother and son, Becky hardly dared to breathe. Luca, far from angry, seemed thunderstruck. ‘Was my father so devoted to Venice as to be completely selfish and intransigent?’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘He did not see it that way. If I had made more of a fuss—insisted, perhaps—but I did not. I regret it. Of late, there have been several things I have realised that I regret,’ she said with a sad little smile aimed at Becky. ‘But what is the point in regrets? They change nothing. The future is what matters. Now that I am no longer tied to your father’s side, perhaps I will visit England. But for now,’ she continued brightly, ‘I think we should tell Rebecca the story of Rossini’s Tancredi, for she may not be able to follow it when it starts. It was the first opera performed here when the theatre opened, and...’

  ‘Were you unhappy, Mama?’

  ‘Oh, Luca, what kind of question is that to ask me?’

  ‘Perhaps one I should have asked long before now.’

  Becky sensed Isabel stiffening. ‘I spoke to you in confidence,’ the Contessa said to her. ‘I thought you understood that.’

  ‘I did. I...’

  ‘You are mistaken if you think I’m asking you because Becky has betrayed a confidence,’ Luca interrupted. ‘I see now though, why she is so very antagonistic towards our Venetian marital customs.’

  ‘We are embarrassing her,’ Isabel said tersely. ‘And in danger of spoiling the opera for her too.’

  ‘You are right.’ Luca made a visible effort to relax as the orchestra started to tune up. ‘Quickly, then, before the curtain comes up, let me outline the plot of Tancredi.’

  * * *

  It was, as ever, a bravura excellent performance, but Luca could not concentrate. Beside him, Becky sat leaning forward, unlike him, completely immersed in the opera. It was a rare chance to study her unobserved. Though garbed as Cousin Rebecca, in her fascination with the stage, she was wholly Becky. Emotions flickered across her face, reflecting the mood of the music. Her wide-eyed gaze missed nothing, neither on the stage nor in the wings, somehow anticipating the changes of scenery before the faint grinding of wheels and pulleys began. Very early on, she noticed that the singers took their cues from the conductor, her ear so acutely attuned that she frowned when the chorus came in a fraction too late, making him smile as she nodded her approval when one of the male leads manoeuvred the diva, in the middle of an aria, out of the way of an oncoming prop.

  His mother was staring at the stage, but he could tell from her carefully blank expression that she wasn’t watching the opera. She had become very fond of Becky. She had confided in Becky what he hadn’t even guessed. Had his mother felt her marriage a prison? Had his father been her jailer? An exaggeration, surely? He’d forgotten how hurt he had been, all those years ago, when she had refused the Admiral’s first invitation. The second refusal. Yes, he had minded that less. From the first time he set foot on the deck of a Royal Naval frigate, his heart had been given to that life. Venice, his mother, his father, they would always be there, waiting, while the world was his to explore there and then. Duty and desire were serendipitously one, he’d thought, but had he simply been selfish?

  A ripple of applause signalled the end of an aria. The first act was nearing an end. Those standing in the pit began to shuffle restlessly. In the tiers of boxes, thoughts were turning to the interval Prosecco, the turning of opera glasses from the stage to the audience. Luca uncrossed his legs. He knew so little of his parents’ lives, and it was almost entirely his own fault. He had never asked, never been curious, as absorbed in his own life as his father had apparently been in his.

  Did he intend to fill his father’s shoes, Becky had asked him. He remembered giving some vague reply about not having considered it, when the truth was he had no idea what it would entail. He had always been so proud of his father, but for the first time that pride sat ill with him.

  The singing was reaching a crescendo. Casting an idle glance around the theatre as the curtain came down, Luca tensed. The box next to theirs, in the same coveted position at the centre of the horseshoe facing the stage, had been empty for the first act. His mother had noticed, but chosen not to comment. He had been both disappointed and relieved. With a sense of dread and cold fury, he watched the servant, standing sentinel by the open door, make way for the owners of the box to enter.

  ‘What is it, Cousin Luca?’

  Becky was looking up at him anxiously. His feelings must have been writ large on his face. He unclenched his jaw, forcing a rigid smile as he got to his feet. ‘Don Sarti and his family have arrived, Cousin Rebecca. His wife must have recovered from her indisposition. Unfortunately we have not time for formal introductions, but I think we ought to make our bows.’

  * * *

  The morning after the opera, Aunt Isabel was confined to her bed with a headache and Cousin Luca had left the palazzo at first light, leaving Becky to take a solitary breakfast—if taking coffee and a buttered roll in the company of Brunetti and two other footmen could be called solitary. She went up to the roof afterwards, the only place in the palazzo where she ever felt truly alone. It was another bright, sunny winter’s day. Simply breathing in the salty air, looking out at the glinting turquoise of the lagoon and the deeper blue of the Adriatic beyond made Becky feel a little better. She had not slept last night, and for once it was not because she had been rehearsing.

  The opera had been magical. It wasn’t only the music, it was the combination of singing and acting, the complex interaction between the huge chorus and the principals, the dramatic nature of the story, the way that the music enhanced every emotion. For Becky, opera had always been tainted by the bawdy reputation of opera dancers, the notoriety of the green room and the ogling bucks who frequented it. Seeing it from front of house rather than backstage was a revelation. On one level, she couldn’t help but be aware of the moving props, the stage directions, the greasepaint and the gaudy costumes, but on anther level she had given herself up to the illusion, lost herself in the story, stirred to her soul by the music.

  And then Don Sarti and his family had arrived, and a very different drama began to unfold. It had not been Luca’s first encounter with the Don, but it had been his first since concluding that his father’s best friend had ordered his father’s murder. What had astounded Becky was that he was so unprepared. She herself had felt quite sick, looking at the man that the Queen of Coins was to destroy, thankful for Cousin Rebecca’s face powder, and even more thankful that only a curtsy had been required of her. Isabel had appeared the least affected, Becky had thought at the time. Her headache this morning told a different story. Isabel, she knew, had had several encounters with the Sarti fa
mily since her husband’s death, enough to deaden the blow but not to blunt the impact.

  But Luca! If ever Becky needed proof of how much this plan of his meant to him, last night provided it. Barely contained anger had emanated from him in waves for the remainder of the opera, so palpably that Becky fancied Don Sarti must sense it. He held himself so rigidly, she wondered he did not break a bone or grind a tooth to dust. His eyes burned with a fervour that was frightening. Remembering it made her shiver. This was not a game they were playing. In the day-to-day effort to play Cousin Rebecca, she had not lost sight of the Queen of Coins, but she had relegated her to the supporting cast. Soon, Luca’s avenging angel was to take centre stage, and Becky had better make bloody sure she didn’t fail.

  She’d brought the cards up on to the roof with her. Knowing how fond she was of the space, Luca had equipped it with a table, more comfortable chairs and cushions too. One of the palazzo’s army of staff must have brought those in at night, for they were never damp. She dealt herself two hands of Trappola and began to pit her wits against herself, but it was no good. Cousin Rebecca would attend the Contessa Benzon’s salon tomorrow, her first opportunity to watch others play. It would reduce the risk when the Queen of Coins made her debut, but not enough for Becky’s peace of mind.

  She was flicking through her sketches for the Queen of Coins’s costume when the door to the roof opened, and Luca appeared. He was dressed in long boots and leather breeches, his black hair a wild tangle from the wind, his cheeks bright. To her relief, he was smiling. To her annoyance, his smile set off that distracting fluttering in her belly. ‘You missed breakfast, Cousin Luca,’ she said, assuming her demure smile.

  ‘I went riding on the Lido. I keep several horses there. It cleared the cobwebs.’ He kicked the door firmly shut and strode towards her, ignoring her Cousin Rebecca smile, swept her into his arms and kissed her.

  His lips were warm against hers. She closed her eyes, momentarily giving herself up to the delight of their kisses, before dragging her mouth from his. ‘Cousin Luca!’ Becky said in mock outrage. ‘How dare you!’

  He tightened his hold, a teasing smile playing on his lips. ‘That,’ he said softly, his mouth against her ear, ‘was most decidedly not a Cousin Rebecca kiss.’

  ‘That is because Cousin Rebecca does not know how to kiss,’ Becky said primly.

  He nibbled her earlobe. She bit back a tiny moan. His mouth travelled down her throat, stopping at the ruffled neck of her gown. ‘On the other hand, Becky most certainly knows how to kiss. In fact I’d go so far as to say that Becky’s kisses are the most delightful kisses I have ever enjoyed.’

  Her heart was fluttering wildly. Her pulses were racing. Her hands had found their way around his neck. ‘High praise indeed, when you must have enjoyed a great many kisses in your time, Captain del Pietro.’

  ‘Not nearly as many as you imagine. In any case, when I look into those big violet eyes of yours, I forget every one of them, and crave only yours.’

  It was no use. It was over a week since they had last kissed at the Lido. Telling herself that she’d never be able to concentrate on anything else until she satisfied her own craving, Becky pulled him towards her and claimed his mouth. Dear heavens, but it was sublime. She could drown in their kisses, lose herself in the heady delight of them, her lips clinging to his, relishing the sweep of his tongue, the whisper of his breath, the taste of him. Relishing the way his hands shaped her body, tugging her tight against him. His hair was like silk. His cheeks were rough with stubble, yet his beard was surprisingly soft. They kissed until they were breathless, and when they dragged their mouths apart they stood, locked in one another’s arms, gazing dazed into one another’s eyes.

  And then the grating sound of the door opening made them spring apart. Luca cursed. ‘I ordered tea for you. I forgot.’

  Becky hastily turned her back, pretending to admire the view as two footmen began to set out the tea things and the inevitable pot of coffee for Luca. Brunetti had decided not to make the arduous climb, she was relieved to note. The major-domo would not have failed to notice Cousin Rebecca’s flushed countenance.

  ‘Grazie,’ Luca said, as the door closed with a creak.

  ‘How did you know I’d be up here?’ Becky asked, sitting down to make the tea.

  ‘You feel at home here,’ he said simply, helping himself to coffee.

  ‘You find it strange that I should prefer a rooftop to a palace?’ She poured herself a cup of tea, adding milk and three sugar lumps since Isabel wasn’t there to disapprove. ‘There are times when I can’t quite believe that I’m staying in an actual palace. I’ve been here almost three weeks and I don’t think I’ve been in half of the rooms.’

  Luca was already pouring his second coffee. ‘Would you like a tour?’

  ‘Only if you are sure we wouldn’t get lost.’

  He grinned. ‘It’s an alluring prospect, to lose myself with you in an attic somewhere, or in one of the secret rooms behind the panelling in the library.’

  ‘Are there secret rooms behind the panelling in the library?’

  ‘Two. I have no idea what their original use was, presumably to hide valuables.’

  ‘Talking of which...’

  ‘Ah. That is your let-us-turn-our-minds-to-business voice.’

  ‘We have a great deal of business to discuss, Luca.’

  ‘Si. Last night, seeing that man...’ His mouth tightened. ‘Brazenly sitting there in his opera box, waving to the great and the good of the city, his wife and his daughter by his side. It made me feel sick.’

  Don Sarti had looked every bit the contented spouse and father, Becky thought. She had imagined a stage villain. Don Massimo Sarti was in fact a handsome man past his prime, with grizzled grey curls, a broad, intelligent brow, a benevolent smile and a quiet yet definite air of authority. This was the inveterate gambler that the Queen of Coins was to bring to his knees. She found it difficult to believe. ‘I’m glad he will be in disguise,’ Becky said. ‘I presume you know what disguise?’

  ‘You must not be taken in by the man’s appearance. Never forget that he is a thief and a murderer.’

  ‘And a man who, when he has a hand of cards, is in the grips of a compulsion. I understand that, Luca. I am not getting cold feet, it’s simply that seeing him with his family last night made what I have to do suddenly very real.’

  ‘And it brought home to me how determined I am that it will be done.’ Luca set his cup down on the tray. ‘We cannot fail.’

  ‘No, I’ve been thinking about that.’ Becky took a breath to pluck up her courage, but Luca spoke first.

  ‘So have I. It is not enough that you observe the game being played, you must practise by taking part.’

  ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking. But you said...’

  ‘That there is no play, save of the kind you will see tonight, before Carnevale.’

  ‘And since Cousin Rebecca cannot play in the Contessa Benzon’s salon...’

  ‘Nor can the Queen of Coins make an appearance there, amusing as that prospect may be.’

  ‘The Queen of Coins cannot make any appearance until she has a suitable disguise to wear. I have some sketches...’

  ‘In a moment.’ Luca turned towards her on the bench. ‘Carnevale peaks in the first six weeks of the new year. That is when we will bring Don Sarti to justice. But before then, in December, Carnevale begins, and sport may be found by those who care to seek it out. I have learnt that some ridotti will open their doors discreetly some time in the next week or so. The stakes are modest. Like every aspect of Carnevale, the wildness and debauchery escalates as Lent approaches.’

  ‘And you think that the Queen of Coins will be able to gain entry to these places? Who told you of them?’

  ‘My mother. Last night, after you went to bed.’

  Becky clattered her teacup into he
r saucer. ‘Isabel! What does she know of such matters?’

  ‘I admit I was surprised. But as we saw last night at the opera, she is more than capable of surprising me.’ Luca smiled crookedly. ‘You have been here for less than three weeks, and you know my mother better than I do.’

  ‘No, that’s not true.’

  But he shook his head. ‘Perhaps it is because you are both English that you understand each other. My mother freely admitted to me last night that if she had been Venetian, and therefore willing to abide by our marital conventions, she would have been happier in her marriage. But she was neither. I think it was a mistake for my father to choose an English bride. If my mother had been able to bring herself to take a cavaliere servante, an established lover, then perhaps things might have been different. I know you heartily disapprove of the way my marriage will be arranged, but at least my wife will be content in a way that my mother was not.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Becky said, though she remained unconvinced. ‘Perhaps I simply don’t understand how things are arranged here. It is so alien to me, and still is, by the sounds of it, to your mother in some ways. Do you think she will visit her family in England now, as she suggested she might?’

  ‘I have already encouraged her to do so.’

  After Carnevale no doubt, Becky thought. After she had brought the husband and father she had seen at the opera last night to his knees. A notion that was beginning to sit a little uncomfortably with her. ‘You haven’t told me what Don Sartie’s Carnival disguise is,’ she reminded him.

  ‘You prefer to think of him in character, yes?’ Luca asked, proving once again that he saw a great deal more than she would like. ‘Very well, it matters not to me how you view him, as long as you win. He wears what is known as a bauta mask. It is most commonly white, but a few are gilded. The bauta covers the entire face, with only the wearer’s eyes on show. Traditionally, there is no mouth, but the lower part of the mask is pointed out, like this,’ Luca said, demonstrating, ‘so that the wearer can speak, drink, even eat.’