His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

by Marguerite Kaye

  Unaware of the cold and the rain which was starting to drizzle down, he propped himself against one of the docks’ defensive towers and gazed out sightlessly to sea. Thoughts of the future, of the daunting task which lay ahead of him, of putting Venice’s money to good use, were depressing rather than uplifting. He’d assumed he knew what was best for Venice because that was what he’d been raised to believe. It had been his father’s tenet, his raison d’être, working for Venice, thinking only of Venice, risking his life to keep Venice’s treasures safe, at the cost of all else. Was it arrogance? Or a compulsion, like Don Sarti’s fascination with gambling? The comparison made Luca deeply uncomfortable, but it could not be ignored. His father had wanted to restore a Republic that no longer existed. He’d claimed he was working towards a new future for the city, but it was in reality a shadow of the past. He had spent his life looking backwards. His last act, or at least his last words to his only son, had been an exhortation that he do the same. His father wouldn’t approve of Luca’s charitable intentions. His father had wanted Venice’s treasures restored, her heritage, her history reinstated, regardless of the fact that her people needed food and work and schools and clean water.

  Becky saw that clearly enough. How was it that it had taken Luca so long to see with equal clarity? Surely he couldn’t question his father’s motives, his father’s principles, his father’s ideals? Guido del Pietro had loved Venice so much that he had put his own life in danger by threatening to expose Don Sarti. And also the life of his wife. And to an extent Luca’s life too, for if his father had been tried as a traitor along with Sarti, he would have forfeited everything. Just as Don Sarti was risking forfeiting everything, his wife, his home, his children’s future, by gambling.

  But, no, the two were not the same. Luca jumped down from the high wall on to the muddy shoreline, where the retreating tide exposed the detritus of Venice’s shipbuilding past in the ribs of a rotten galleon. He was not thinking clearly, the result of two nights without sleep. He had been planning Don Sarti’s downfall for months. He had to honour his father’s wishes before he faced any sort of future. Those were the facts, he reminded himself, picking an ancient rusty nail out of the sand, turning it over and over in his hand. His plans was too far advanced to contemplate rethinking them now.

  It was Becky’s fault. He cast the nail into the shallows. Becky, who said she understood his desire for justice but whose wrong-minded doubts were encouraging doubts of his own to surface. He had to put a stop to them, else where would he be? Justice would not be served.

  And Becky would still be gone.

  He didn’t want her to go. Luca stumbled, only just preventing himself from falling into the mud. He didn’t want her to go, she didn’t want to go, yet go she must.

  What was it she had said? If this is all we can have, then I want it all. He swore viciously. He didn’t want to hurt her, but it was already too late, he saw that now. Too late for Becky, because what was that other than a tacit admission of love? And too late for him. Because he loved her with every fibre of his being.

  Luca staggered back up the muddy shore, hauling himself on to the sea wall. He loved her. Love was the cause of all the feelings he’d never felt before, for the way his stomach churned and his heart protested at the thought of her leaving. He loved her, and it was utterly impossible for him to love her, because even if he’d been asked to specify the most unsuitable woman in the world for the Conte del Pietro to fall in love with, he doubted he’d have invented one less suitable than Becky Wickes.

  Or more perfect. For a few blissful moments, Luca allowed himself to imagine a future with Becky by his side. Becky, the antithesis to all that was Venetian, forthright and outspoken, an old-fashioned woman who believed in love and fidelity and marriage and family, who was, contrarily, a card sharp and, if seen through the eyes of Venetian society, a low-born wanton. And yet he loved her.

  There was no question of her becoming his wife. She was not even suited to become his established lover, for her lowly birth made her utterly ineligible. Besides, the idea was repugnant to Luca now. He understood, finally, Becky’s own repugnance at the arranged marriage he must make, the loveless future which lay ahead of him. Whatever happened, he knew that he could no longer go through with that.

  Which left him where, precisely? A man with a duty to discharge to his father, justice to dispense, whose life was on hold until he had done both, which he was well on the way to achieving. A man with a vision for the future which would also serve his city and the needs of many of her people. Which was all very well and very noble, but he couldn’t be the one person he wanted to be above all else. A man who was proud to call Becky his wife.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two weeks later

  Becky was alone in the small parlour. Cousin Rebecca was required to pay less and less house calls as Carnival progressed. There were almost no evening parties now—at least none of the respectable kind. All of Venice was immersed in the festivities. The canals resounded day and night with music as revellers called to each other from their garlanded gondolas. There were bull runs in the narrow streets, too terrifying and too cruel to be classed as entertainment, in Becky’s view, after she had witnessed the start of one from her rooftop viewpoint. The fireworks, on the other hand, which she also watched from the terrace, she would never tire of. She watched all of it unfold alone.

  Luca was distant and morose, in her company only as her protector at the ridotti, or as her cousin, in the servants’ presence in the palazzo. It was how she ought to want it. There was a good chance he had guessed the depth of her feelings for him—if not that she had actually fallen in love with him, at least that she cared far too much. He wanted to spare her any further hurt, she guessed, or perhaps he was simply paving the way for the day when they would never see each other again. She missed him dreadfully. Her heartache was like a nagging toothache, a constant unignorable presence. Luca dominated her thoughts, taking up every free moment, until she wanted to scream or to weep or to seek him out and throw herself into his arms in a desperate search of oblivion.

  She did none of these things. Instead, she practised her cards. She tried to plan her unimaginable future. She watched Carnival play out on the streets and canals below her from her rooftop kingdom. She had never felt so alone.

  In the last two weeks, the Queen of Coins had played Don Sarti seven times, his losses increasing incrementallywith each game, his desperate determination to win increasing at the same rate. She dared not even think about the sum they had amassed, the gold which must by now surely have filled the coffer which Luca kept hidden somewhere in the palazzo. He never told her the exact total, only that they had not yet reached his target. She loved him, but this aspect of him, his determination to see his plan through to the last scudo, she could no longer sympathise with. Though he insisted it was justice, to Becky it was beginning to seem like a vendetta, an aspect of his Venetian heritage that did him no credit.

  She was reminding herself yet again that Luca’s motives were of the purest, that the money would be well spent, that Don Sarti’s family was Don Sarti’s responsibility, when the door to the parlour opened.

  ‘Oh, Rebecca, I didn’t realise you were in here.’ Isabel stopped short on the threshold. ‘Do not let us disturb you,’ she said as Becky got hastily to her feet. ‘Come, Anna...’

  But Donna Sarti had already entered the room. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’ Becky asked nervously, concerned that Isabel’s horrified expression was going to betray her.

  Donna Sarti was always pale, but today her complexion had an ashen hue. There were dark circles under her eyes. ‘I have come to discuss a matter of some delicacy with your aunt. I would not wish to burden you with the unsavoury details.’

  Without another word, Donna Sarti left the room, Isabel in her wake, only to reappear alone half an hour later. ‘She is gone,’ Isabel said, sinking down o
n to the sofa in front of the fire. ‘Poor woman. She is at her wits’ end over her husband’s gambling.’

  ‘She would be better served raising the matter with her husband, rather than sharing her concerns with you,’ Becky said with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to have this conversation with Isabel. It was bad enough that she had it with herself almost every night.

  ‘It would be futile. He won’t listen. He believes that the next night he will win, the next night he will make good his losses, the next night will see him triumph. Which he might do, who knows, if the cards were not stacked against him.’

  Becky flinched. Isabel’s eyes were hard, her mouth set into a tight line. She was very much the aristocratic Contessa, not at all Becky’s friend and confidant. ‘You know why the cards are stacked,’ she said evenly. ‘You know too, that this is Luca’s doing, not mine.’

  ‘Luca is not the one taking Don Sarti’s money from him.’

  This was Luca’s game. If Becky did not play it, she would be left with nothing except a broken heart. ‘Don Sarti took the money from Venice.’ It was Luca’s argument, not hers, but she had no option save to repeat it.

  ‘Venice!’ Isabel jumped to her feet. ‘I am sick to death of hearing about Venice. I have sacrificed everything for Venice. Years spent doing my duty at my husband’s side, time I could have spent with my son, or my own family. I surrendered the opportunity to have more children for Venice. I listen to Anna Sarti’s descriptions of her husband’s blind obsession, Rebecca, and do you know what it reminds me of?’ She smiled bitterly. ‘I can see from your face that you do.’

  ‘Your husband, Isabel, he—I imagine he always did what he thought was for the best. He was not like Don Sarti...’

  ‘Not true.’ Isabel sank back on to the sofa, wringing her hands. ‘That is not true. Anna’s husband will ruin her life and blight their daughter’s future with his gambling. In the same way, my husband’s obsession with Venice dictated our lives, and by writing that damned letter, threatens to destroy our son.’

  ‘Isabel!’

  ‘No, listen to me, Rebecca.’ Isabel clutched at her wrists, her carefully manicured nails digging into the soft flesh of Becky’s skin. ‘You can stop him. He’ll listen to you. You can put an end to this.’

  ‘I’ve tried, but my words have fallen on deaf ears. He desperately wants to put things right, Isabel. Let’s not forget that Don Sarti had your husband killed for the sake of those treasures.’

  ‘If Guido had left well alone, he would still be alive.’

  ‘And Don Sarti would have gambled away Venice’s heritage,’ Becky said. ‘At least, thanks to Luca, the money will benefit the city. Some good will come of it. Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do? If I don’t fulfil my part of the bargain, I get nothing.’

  ‘I have funds...’

  ‘I don’t want your money. I thought you knew me better than that.’ Tears welled in her eyes. Becky brushed them furiously away. ‘If you wish to discuss the subject further, I suggest you speak to your son. Now, please, leave me alone.’

  She waited, dimly aware of the irony of ordering the Contessa from her own room, but though Isabel got to her feet, she did not leave. When she spoke, her tone was not cold, it was worse. It was full of pity. ‘You don’t approve of his plan, any more than I do, do you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think. Luca has my loyalty, he knows that.’

  ‘Does he know that he has also captured your heart?’

  It was quite beyond Becky to deny it. ‘It’s true, but it’s also irrelevant.’

  ‘You will not believe me, Rebecca,’ Isabel said with a twisted smile, ‘but I am truly sorry for that. Contrary to your very low opinion of me—one which I fear is at least partly justified—I have a very high opinion of you. If you were truly my niece, I could think of no more suitable wife for my son, and would have made every effort to make the match our society has assumed I’m trying to make from the moment I introduced you. But as you say, unfortunately the circumstances render your feelings irrelevant. I have said more than enough, forgive me.’

  The door closed softly behind her. It was so unfair of Isabel to challenge her, even if Isabel did say what she was already thinking. Don Sarti would ruin his family, because she, as the Queen of Coins, would ensure he continued to lose. That Isabel had, at the same time as condemning Becky’s actions, demonstrated her true affection made everything much more painful. If only she had been Isabel’s niece! Ridiculous, preposterous thing to wish for. Luca would never have cared for such a one as Cousin Rebecca. Not as he cared for Becky. And he did care. She knew he did.

  The air in the parlour was suddenly stifling. She felt as if the palazzo itself was closing in on her. Becky threw open the door of the parlour and ran full tilt down the stairs, making for the front door. The footman called to her. She had no hat or coat. Standing motionless on the jetty, she hesitated for a moment as the sleet fell, then turned away from the Grand Canal and began to run, with no thought as to where she was going.

  She was very quickly lost and disoriented. Narrow pathways came to sudden dead ends, forcing her through dark passageways, down shallow steps, across one bridge, back over another. The momentary relief of a courtyard that seemed familiar turned into panic as the narrow passageway she was sure took her back to the palazzo instead took her back to the same dead end she had reached fifteen minutes before. She met not a soul as she ran, though as ever she felt a thousand eyes watching her from behind the shutters of the shadowy buildings looming over her. Her footsteps echoed too loudly, pigeons scattered at her approach. The sound of the canal water lapping at the crumbling brickwork took on an eerie, beckoning quality. As she stood, trying to remember which of the exits from a deserted campo she had already taken, the thick silence was pierced by a wail that made her jump. A child, she thought, but it was only one of the feral cats. The sound of footsteps gave her hope, but when she followed them, called out, there was no one there.

  Thoroughly frightened, chilled to the bone from the mist which was swirling around her, Becky sat down on the rim of a dried-up fountain. Silent tears streamed down her face. Anxiety gnawed at the pit of her stomach. Isabel’s words rang in her ears. Donna Sarti’s face swam before her eyes. She had no reason to feel guilty, she told herself. She was not forcing Don Sarti to play. She had justice on her side—or at least Luca’s form of justice. This was not her plan. She was merely the executioner.

  A sob escaped, quickly stifled, but it echoed around the campo all the same. She thought she’d come so far from London, left that poor shattered Becky who had been Jack’s puppet far behind her. She’d known instinctively that what Jack wanted her to do was wrong, yet she’d done it, thinking she loved him, thinking that what she was doing was for a good cause. Was it happening all over again?

  ‘No!’ Her voice, echoing again, made her jump. Luca’s cause was real, it was just, it was no lie. And her love for Luca—that was real too. So very, very real. So why, then, did she have this awful feeling that there was something wrong? She covered her face, hot, bitter tears seeping through her fingers, and surrendered to despair.

  He might have been a ghost, the tall, cloaked figure who appeared at the far entrance to the campo, but no ghost walked so purposefully, and no ghost made her heart leap the way it did, and as she threw herself into his arms, no ghost felt so solid and so reassuring. ‘I got lost,’ Becky mumbled, wriggling closer, as Luca pulled his cloak around her.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ he said.

  There was a crack in his voice that made her look up, and his expression squeezed her heart, for she saw her own feelings reflected there. ‘Oh, Luca, I—’

  ‘Don’t say it.’ His arms tightened around her. ‘Please, don’t say it.’

  Perhaps it was to stop her declaration of love, or to stifle his own. It didn’t matter. Their lips met. They kiss
ed and their kiss said more than words ever could.

  * * *

  There was only a week of Carnival left. The Queen of Coins and her protector chose not to take the gondola that night, but walked instead, taking a circuitous route from the back entrance of Palazzo Pietro which led to the side entrance of another palazzo only a short distance away, facing the Grand Canal. They were infamous now, ushered past the downstairs salon where the play was neither deep nor serious, up the wide marble staircase to the first floor. The salon they entered must look out on to the canal, but the crimson damask curtains were firmly drawn across all the windows. Their arrival caused a stir as it always did. They stood just inside the doorway as was their custom, allowing them both the opportunity to assess the room in their different ways.

  Though Becky had grown accustomed to the opulence of the various Venetian palazzos, this room was so sumptuous as to be worthy of one of the former doges. High above her, bordered by a cornice of white and gold more elaborate and deeper than any she had seen, the ceiling was painted with a bloodthirsty hunting scene. On each wall was another such scene, presumably depicting a story from antiquity, the characters probably members of whichever aristocratic family owned the palace. There were six chandeliers, making the room garishly bright, and two fires blazing in the hearths at opposite ends of the salon made it uncomfortably hot, the heat blending the scent of perfume and sweat and red wine, and the peculiar, dusty smell of masks worn too often, into an unpleasant miasma that had a metallic quality.