Becky took another sip and angled herself towards him, clearly bracing herself. ‘My story centres around Jack, though I expect you’ve guessed that.’ She took another sip of tea before setting the cup down with trembling hands. ‘My paramour, they called him in the scandal sheets, though I thought of him as my husband. Not that we were really married, but I’ve never seen the need for a bit of paper to confirm what you already know. Or think you know,’ she added with a bitter curl to her lip. ‘I was twenty when I met him, and I prided myself on being worldly-wise. It turned out I was wrong.’
The tale she told was sparse on details, for which Luca was grateful. She said enough for him to imagine the charming rogue who had first seduced her, and then used and abused her. He had to work hard not to curl his hands into tight fists as Becky made light of her lover’s greed, blaming herself for her own gullibility in not challenging his duplicitous lies as he lured her away from the streets where she had been content to perform her tricks and into the murky gaming hells of St James’s.
‘He told me that the money was to pay his father’s debts,’ she said. ‘His father was in prison, his mother and brothers left without food, fearing eviction. How could I refuse to help him when I had the ability to do so?’
How indeed, Luca thought, his lip curling. The scurrilous bastard had clearly known Becky well enough to detect the tender heart beneath the gritty veneer. He hated the man for that and was uncomfortably aware that there was also, lurking beneath his contempt, something akin to jealousy.
‘I couldn’t make enough in the streets for what he claimed he needed,’ Becky continued, ‘so he taught me how to play the tables—he saw, you see, just how easy it would be to turn my hand, literally—from card tricks to card sharping. But no matter how much I won, it was never enough to satisfy his demands. There was always another debt to be paid, rent, food, clothes to buy and schooling for his brothers and sisters too.’
‘It didn’t occur to you that he should have taken responsibility for his family rather than you?’
‘He was, he said, by allowing me to help them. I know it sounds so pathetic—but I was pathetic. And every time I protested, there was a new tale of woe. You’ll think me a fool, but I believed him. I had no reason not to, Luca, and he was very convincing. He could have had a career on the stage.’
He belonged in the gutter, Luca thought with a horrible premonition of what was to come. ‘And then, inevitably, one day his greed caused both your downfalls, I take it?’
Becky’s cheeks were chalk white. She nodded, swallowing several times before she continued. ‘Crockford’s,’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘That’s where he wanted me to play. Have you heard of it?’
‘Yes.’ The elite of St James’s hells, where there were no limits on the stakes, where men lost and won fortunes on a nightly basis. Men like Don Sarti. The parallels were beginning to make Luca feel sick. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I didn’t want to. I told him I wouldn’t. It was far too dangerous. They have people walking the floors, constantly on the lookout for sharps operating. And the players—they’re men with influence and a long reach. I didn’t want to risk it.’
‘But he told you a tale which melted your heart,’ Luca said viciously. Becky flinched and he cursed his insensitivity. ‘Forgive me, but I find the way this man used you difficult to stomach.’ Even as he uttered the words, he wondered if he was being a hypocrite.
Becky, however, shrugged. ‘I let him use me. It was my own fault. I knew what he wanted me to do was wrong. I knew it was dangerous, but I did it all the same. It took him some doing to persuade me, but I was persuaded. He told me that his father had died in prison, leaving his mother and brothers destitute with no prospect of any income now the family breadwinner was dead. Jack wanted to raise one final significant sum, enough to pay for them to travel to Ireland, where they had relatives, and establish them there. After that he would have discharged his duty and I would no longer have to play the hells, and we could concentrate on building a life together. So...’
Becky’s composure snapped. A tear trickled down her cheek, but she brushed it away angrily, shook her head when Luca reached for her hand, though she accepted a fresh cup of tea. ‘So we duly visited Crockford’s,’ she said. ‘And I was winning. Jack was with me. As you know, I couldn’t have crossed the portal of Crockford’s without a male escort. But he was nervous. I was playing for such high stakes and it showed on his face. I was so focused on the cards, I didn’t notice, but one of the Crockford’s men did, and they watched Jack watching me. Their suspicions were raised. Well, it was only a matter of time before they were on to me.’
Becky drained her tea. She was staring out at the sky, her eyes unfocused, lost in what was, judging by the way she clutched at her empty teacup, a terrifying memory. ‘Jack gave the game away but it was me who paid the price. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, thinking it was Jack, but he was already halfway out the door with my winnings and making a run for it. I shook myself free. Someone shouted, “Stop, thief!” from the other side of the salon—they’d noticed Jack running by then. It was enough of a distraction for me to be able to flee out of a window. It was my only bit of luck, for it faced out on to the back of the building.’ Becky’s smile was mocking. ‘My head for heights came in very handy. I escaped across the rooftops and finally made it home, where I waited, my nerves shredded, for Jack to turn up.’
‘A wait that continues to this day, I’ll wager. If he is ever foolish enough to break cover, mine will be the last face he sees.’
Becky shivered. ‘Then I’m very glad he’s not here. Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ she added hurriedly. ‘At the time I would have happily ended his miserable life myself. But coming here in search of a fresh start has made me realise something. It is done, and cannot be undone. It’s futile for me to rail against the past or seek revenge. The future is what matters.’
Luca stared at her in amazement. ‘The man betrayed you. He lied to you. He deserted you.’
‘And he broke my heart too, or I thought he did. It’s mended now, thanks to you.’ Becky coloured. ‘I mean thanks to your faith in me. I haven’t told you the worst part yet. I went in search of him. Of course I did. That’s when the house of cards came tumbling down, so to speak. The landlord at his lodging house informed me there was no family, never had been. Jack had left for America, leaving nothing behind but an unpaid rent bill. All that money I’d won, he’d been salting away. Right from the moment he set eyes on me at Covent Garden, he’d been planning it, I reckon. Making me fall in love with him, leading me on, before leaving me high and dry and with a price on my head to boot. The man I had been fleecing when I was caught cheating turned out to be a member of the royal family! The full fury of the establishment was turned on me, my name blackened and my crime plastered all over the scandal sheets. The Runners were set on me, and if they’d caught me...’
Luca stared, utterly horrified. ‘They would hang you?’ he whispered.
‘In a heartbeat.’
‘That is what you meant when you said you couldn’t go back to England, even if you wanted to?’
‘When The Procurer found me, I was in fear of my life, Luca. I don’t know what I’d have done if she hadn’t offered me this opportunity. You saved my skin.’
He poured himself the dregs of the cold coffee, unsurprised to see that his hand was not quite steady. He pictured the guillotine in Piazza San Marco. ‘Only to put it in danger again.’
‘No,’ Becky said firmly. ‘That’s what I’m determined won’t happen. That’s why we can’t afford to be distracted, not when we’re in the ridotti.’
The coffee was cold and gritty, but it was sufficient to calm him. ‘I would never abandon you to your fate.’
‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘You’re not Jack, you couldn’t be more different. I’ve known that from the start.’
‘Grazie mille.’
‘I mean it.’ Becky smiled painfully. ‘I hated working with him, he was always the weak link, but I couldn’t play without him. I know I can rely on you. I can trust you, because I understand, I truly do, why it matters so much to you to make amends for what happened to your father. I brought what happened to me on myself—most of it,’ Becky said. ‘My form of atonement is to move forward, to claim my life back on my own terms. It’s—what do you call it?—serendipity that I’ll be able to do that by giving you your life back too.’
‘You are a very brave woman, Becky Wickes. I know no one like you.’
She blushed, shifting on the bench. ‘Well, that’s just the problem though, isn’t it? I’ve never met anyone like you, and together we’ve both allowed that fact to...’
‘Get in the way?’
‘We can’t risk getting any closer. Do you see?’ Her cheeks were fiery red, but Becky continued determinedly. ‘Passion always fades, you said, but it doesn’t feel like it’s fading at the moment, and I think it’s time we made an effort to put the fire out, rather than to stoke the flames.’
He laughed drily. ‘Sometimes you sound as if you are speaking in a play.’
‘Sometimes playwrights say it better than I ever could. To put it bluntly, I need to stop thinking about anything other than what you brought me here for.’
Luca sighed heavily. ‘You are right,’ he admitted most reluctantly. He couldn’t argue with her. Her confession had shocked him to the core, but her determination and courage were admirable. ‘You have already risked your life once. I have no wish to jeopardise it a second time.’
‘But when you wrote to The Procurer, you must have known that whoever she sent you would be risking their life?’
‘Not in such stark terms. It is like the difference between drawing up a battle plan and fighting a battle. The danger only strikes home when hostilities commence. I don’t know that in all conscience I can make you...’
‘I wish you would rid yourself of the notion that you can make me do anything. You didn’t make me come here. You didn’t make me deceive your mother’s friends into thinking I’m your cousin. You didn’t make me kiss you. You can’t force me to play the Queen of Coins. It’s my choice, Luca. And, yes, it’s a risk, but it’s a manageable risk.’
‘Provided we refrain from complicating matters.’
‘Now you understand. It’s your future at stake here as well as mine. You told me, remember, that you couldn’t build your ships until this was done. Think of those ships, Luca.’
She was persuasive. And heaven forgive him, but he wanted her so much. He couldn’t bear to be responsible for putting her in danger. Yet if he did not, he would be denying them both their futures—for he knew that she would accept no money from him if they abandoned their plan. His head was spinning. ‘I need time to think.’
‘A luxury we don’t have. We return to the ridotti tonight, Luca. We need to agree...’
Looking into her pleading eyes, he felt his heart skip a beat. He could happily forget everything and everyone when he looked into her eyes. And that was when it finally struck home what she had meant about distraction. This wasn’t mere passion. Something much more fundamental had developed between them. Something that could easily grow into a heartbreaking problem if they let it. Something that could very easily lead to their downfall in the ridotti too.
Luca released her, getting to his feet again. ‘Your anonymous playwright is in the right of it,’ he said. ‘We must snuff out this fire burning between us.’
Chapter Eleven
Carnevale—January 1819
‘You remember the secret signal?’ Luca asked.
‘Yes.’ Becky checked the ties which held her mask in place. They were perfectly secure, as they always were. It was a habit, this little ritual she performed as Luca steered their gondola to the jetty. Check the ties. Check her secret pocket. Check the laces on her gown. Unnecessary, since none of them ever needed adjusting, but it had become something of a superstition. As if, somehow, if she forgot to do it, her luck would change. Luck did not enter into it, she reminded herself. She and Luca had proved such a successful duo that all of Venice was talking about the Queen of Coins and her mysterious protector.
‘You have the stake?’ Luca asked.
‘Yes.’ He too had a routine, questions in his case, to which the answers were always positive. He always had an escape plan worked out too, meticulously re-evaluated for each of the ridotti they visited, the number growing as Carnevale progressed. Becky had lost track of the different locations. Each night he made her recite a different set of precise directions, designed to lead her to a rendezvous spot, where she could safely wait for him to find her in an emergency.
It was reassuring, for it proved he never underestimated the dangers they faced. But every night, just at this moment as they stepped out of the gondola on to a jetty or a walkway, when he could legitimately allow his hand to clasp hers, when she could legitimately allow her fingers to twine with his, there was a frisson. Not of danger, but of awareness, of the passion still smouldering between them, which lurked, barely contained, beneath the surface. And then he let her go, and she gathered the Queen of Coins’s skirts up to protect them from the perpetual damp of Venice’s watery landscape, and it was over.
‘Will Don Sarti be here tonight, do you think?’ Becky asked.
‘The play is deep here, deeper than any of the salons we have so far visited, so it’s highly likely,’ Luca replied. ‘Bene. You are ready?’
‘Ready.’
It was the final part of their litany. Luca led the way through the gloom, to a double door under a portico far more elegant than any they had visited thus far. As usual, the windows were heavily curtained, the merest flickers of light showing. As was always the case, a burly sentry stood guard, giving them a knowing glance before ushering them in. As she always did, Becky took a moment to accustom herself to the blaze of light, the heat, the air redolent of scent and wine and nervous excitement. And as usual Luca stood at her side, a solid, comforting presence, achingly familiar, agonisingly remote. But as they made their way into the first salon, Becky sensed instantly that this was a ridotto in a very different league from all the others.
The room was huge, lit by several glittering chandeliers. A great many of the clientele were women, perhaps as many as half, as far as Becky could see. Many wore a simple moretta mask of black velvet covering most of their face, their hair concealed under a flowing veil, but there were several much more elaborate constructions, half-and full-face. Feathers, turbans, silk flowers and spangled scarves were variously utilised to make elaborate coiffures. Though dominos were the most popular garment, some of the female clientele wore gowns so low-cut that they revealed far more than they concealed. Her own costume was positively demure in contrast. The prize in some of these games, she suspected, watching a very dishevelled couple emerging from a door at the rear of the salon, was a currency very different from gold. This was a very decadent Venice on display, a city of excess and vice.
‘I should have warned you,’ Luca whispered. ‘You need not fear that you will be propositioned.’
‘I do not,’ Becky replied. Few men dared to importune the Queen of Coins, her haughty demeanour being sufficient to warn off all but the most ardent, and when it was not, a few choice words from her protector sufficed. Only once had Luca been forced to manhandle a would-be seducer, and it had been carried out with such astounding efficiency that the man was on the banks of the canal before Becky had even called for help.
‘We won’t find our prey in this salon,’ Luca said. ‘Let’s try upstairs.’
The chamber on the first floor was a very different place. Dimly lit, chequered with card tables and their players, the atmosphere had the distinctive hush and almost palpable tension that accompanied serious gambling, the acrid tang of fear a top
note to the sweeter scent of perfume and powder. Their entrance caused a stir. Though not every occupant of every table looked up, most did. As Luca led their customary progress around the room, dealing with the various discreet overtures from those eager to pit their wits against the Queen of Coins, Becky maintained her aloof bearing, though her heart was pounding. It always did at this point in proceedings, marking her entrance on to the stage, her assessment of her audience, her prelude to the show, but tonight there was a sharper edge to her nerves. Don Sarti was here. She was sure of it.
A table was set out for her. Several fresh decks were placed upon it. A man sat down with a nod and flexed his fingers. The little finger on his left hand was crooked, the nail missing. Becky made a point of remembering such things. If their paths crossed again she would remember his style of play. He was not a poor player, certainly no novice, and was cautious at first, but as he began to lose he became more reckless.
The stakes here started high and the man opposite her wanted to raise them again despite his already heavy losses. Entry to this ridotto—which was, like all the other Carnevale ridotti, essentially a private gaming hell—was limited by the mysterious hosts to those who could demonstrate the means to play. Becky was torn, unwilling to take any more gold from her opponent, unable to force him to leave the table until their agreed number of hands were completed, unable, in her role as Queen of Coins, to deliberately lose. She hated this aspect of the game they played. She could ensure that she did not play this man again, but there were nights in the ridotti when it seemed to her that Venice was populated entirely by such men, set not upon winning but playing, their world narrowed to the turn of a card, the gold they staked of no importance at all, save only to provide their quota of danger and excitement.
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa Page 17
