His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

by Marguerite Kaye

  She knew Don Sarti was already there. The hairs on the back of her neck alerted her to his piercing gaze before he made his way across the salon towards them, the small cluster of other gamblers vying for a game with the Queen of Coins parting to make way for him. There was no pretence now, that she would pit her wits against any other. All of Venice knew that this was a duel. All of Venice watched each fresh game with bated breath.

  She sensed the change in Don Sarti immediately as he took his place opposite her at a table in the centre of the room. Luca took up his usual position, close enough to be at hand should he be needed, distant enough to avoid any accusation of collusion. The tension which usually crept up on Don Sarti as he lost was there from the beginning tonight as he cut the cards. She let him win, allowed him to deal the first hand. The sense of anticipation, the confidence with which he began every game between them was also absent. He sat too straight in his chair, his voice was strained, he dealt the cards with a snap.

  ‘We do battle again, Queen of Coins. I hope that tonight the outcome will be very different.’

  Beneath his mask, his eyes glittered feverishly. Tonight, he was afraid to lose. Becky suspected he would not be staking Venice’s gold but his own. Total ruin was, quite literally, on the cards.

  Don Sarti played with a recklessness born from desperation. When it came to Becky’s turn to deal, she gave him a hand where Swords was the obvious suit to lead with, for he held the Foot Soldier, a ten and a seven. Yet he instead chose Cups, in which he held only the Ace. By the time all the cards of this hand had been played, she could tell without having to add up the complicated scoring system, that he had already lost deep.

  The sixth hand was the last, and Becky was once again the dealer. Their audience was two deep now. Luca had been forced to move away from the door to a further corner of the room in order to maintain his view of the table. When she first played, what seemed like a lifetime ago now, Becky thought as she shuffled the deck, he had been nervous of any witnesses, afraid that her tricks would be detected. But though some clearly suspected her reputation as being unbeatable relied on some trickery and watched her closely, she was too skilled to betray herself, and Luca realised that the audience lent her credibility.

  She wanted it over. Having shuffled the cards into the order she required, the Queen of Coins executed another fancy false shuffle and dealt. Four cards to Don Sarti, a mixture of suits, all low save one Cavalier. Four to herself, all Batons. Five more to Don Sarti. Another five to herself, including two Kings and two Foot Soldiers. As she expected, Don Sarti discarded all nine of his cards, drawing the next nine blind from the pack, calculating the odds were good that he would select more of one suit or higher value cards, oblivious that the odds were fixed. His hand was shaking. His fingers left damp traces on the cards. A bead of sweat trickled down from his mask on to his neck. She waited, for he had the right to discard one more time, but he did not.

  The game was over very quickly after that. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Becky totted up the scores, adding in the extra points for three of a kind, for court cards taken, for the tricks won with a deuce, all the extra points she had engineered for herself, which she had ensured Don Sarti could not win. The total brought a gasp from the crowd. Hoarsely, his voice muffled by his mask, Don Sarti demanded the paper from her and began to recount. Unable to reduce the tally, he threw the pencil across the table, pushing back his chair so violently that it toppled over.

  ‘I will give you your winnings before tomorrow night’s play.’

  At his words, Luca stepped forward. ‘You have no right to play if you cannot pay.’

  His voice was softly menacing. Don Sarti took an involuntary step back. ‘You have my word as a gentleman,’ he said and then, taking both Luca and Becky by surprise, made a lunge across the table, leaning so close that the grotesque nose of his mask almost touched Becky’s. ‘Tomorrow,’ he hissed, ‘I will return, and vengeance will be mine.’

  * * *

  ‘Did you hear him?’ Luca asked with derision as Becky removed her mask in the secret room hours later. ‘Little does he know that the vengeance being administered is mine, not his.’

  ‘The entire salon heard him. Haven’t we punished him enough?’

  ‘Not nearly enough.’

  ‘Will it ever be enough, Luca? He’s sick. He can’t help himself. He’ll keep coming back to the Queen of Coins until he has absolutely nothing left.’

  ‘This sickness you claim he suffers from is what compelled him to steal from Venice, to have my father murdered. It is only right and proper that the same sickness brings about his downfall.’

  ‘But it will eventually, regardless of what we do, can’t you see that?’ Becky exclaimed wretchedly. ‘Perhaps not at this Carnival but the next or the one after that, depending how deep his pockets are. He’ll engineer his own downfall, he doesn’t need you or me to do it for him.’

  ‘I am honour-bound to do see this through to the bitter end,’ Luca said. ‘It was my father’s last wish. I thought you understood that.’

  ‘I understand it’s what you believe,’ she whispered. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that your father was every bit as reckless as Don Sarti? That he was in the grip of his own compulsion to restore Venice to some mythical vision of the past? And you too. Don’t you think that this compulsion to do your father’s bidding is misguided?’

  Her words, spoken only in desperation, made him flinch. Luca was leaning against the door, his mask dangling by its strings from his hand, his cloak over his arm. ‘I am neither blind nor obsessed,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ Becky swallowed. ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘All I’m doing is seeking to right a wrong.’

  ‘I know.’ She couldn’t take her eyes from him. She loathed the fact that her words must hurt him. His cause was just, she still believed that, but his method—Oh, why the devil had she started this conversation? ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  For no longer being able to be completely on his side. But she couldn’t say that. For falling in love with him. But she could never regret that. She shook her head helplessly. Did he love her? A week ago, when he had rescued her, kissing her so desperately at the fountain, the question had crept into her mind, but she had instantly shied away from answering it. Best to leave the impossible unsaid. But he must have read it in her eyes, for his own darkened, he dropped his cloak and mask, moving towards her as if in the grip of an irresistible force.

  ‘The only compulsion I have is for you,’ Luca said.

  Becky’s heart was pounding. She felt both sick and giddy. She loved him so much. This was so wrong, yet it was so right. The only thing she was certain of at this moment was that she loved him and she was incapable of denying it. One more time, she thought desperately, lifting her face to his, just one more time.

  There was no finesse to their lovemaking. Their kisses were frenzied, the kisses of two people at the ends of their tethers, made frantic by the knowledge that soon they were to be parted for ever. Passion ripped through them as they tore at each other’s clothes, as they ravaged each other with kisses, as they clawed at each other’s skin, wanting to mark and to claim, seeking to merge, to lose themselves in each other. Becky kicked her way clear of her costume as Luca pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his boots.

  She scattered wild kisses over his torso, breathing deep of the heat of his skin, her hands restless over his back, his buttocks, the tautening response of his muscles rousing her as much as his mouth on her breasts, licking, then tugging on her nipples, setting up the sweetest, most aching, dragging tension inside her. She flattened her palm over the ridge of his arousal, felt him pulse at her touch through his breeches, and then she could wait no longer, pulling at the buttons, an agony of suspense as he freed himself, the sweet delight of him, silken and hard as she curled her fingers around him,
the rasp of his breath, and then the drugging rapture of his kisses as he sank down on to the chair, pulling her on top of him, sliding inside her.

  She shuddered. She wrapped her arms around his neck, claiming a deep, thrusting kiss, and then it began, the frenetic ascent to completion. His arms were on her waist, lifting her as she tightly clung then thrust, drawing a feral groan from him, taking him so deeply inside her that she cried out, tightened around him, felt the first prelude to her climax, clung more tightly. Another thrust, and she was already lost, pulsing around him, but as he lifted her, she thrust again, panting, kissing, clutching, saying his name over and over as wave upon wave caught her, and still he thrust until a hoarse cry was ripped from him and the pair of them tumbled to the floor together as his own climax shook him, and still they kissed, clutched, kissed, clung and kissed.

  For a few perfect moments they were one. Becky lay on top of Luca, their skin slick with sweat, her face hidden in his hair, thinking of nothing, save how much she loved him. And then she opened her eyes, and saw such devastation in his and she knew it was over. All of it.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,’ Luca said.

  Becky sat up. The room was lit by a single lamp, but it felt like a blinding light. Save that she wasn’t blinded. She saw painfully clearly what she must do. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, this time utterly sure of what it was she apologised for. ‘I’m so sorry, Luca. I love you with all my heart, but I can’t be party to this, not any more. The Queen of Coins has played Don Sarti for the last time.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hazy from their lovemaking, Luca watched in a daze as Becky jumped to her feet and began to gather various bits of her costume from the floor, where they had been discarded.

  ‘Exactly what I said.’ She turned to him, clutching a handful of silk and ribbons, her hair dishevelled, her eyes blurry with unshed tears. ‘I’m not winning another scudo from Don Sarti.’ She began to fold up the bundle of clothes in an alarmingly final manner, as if she were already consigning the Queen of Coins to the history books.

  Luca cast about for his own clothes, hastily pulling on his breeches and shirt while Becky, taking off the tunic of her costume, tied the sash of her dressing gown securely and made to leave the room. He caught her by the wrist. ‘You don’t mean that. We are so close to achieving our goal...’

  ‘No! Luca, I’m sorry, but I simply can’t do it.’

  Her reservations had grown steadily, she’d told him so often enough, but he’d always been able to persuade her she was wrong. Or at least to persuade her to continue, which was the same thing. Wasn’t it? ‘What has made you change your mind?’ he asked, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘It was obvious tonight that he desperately needed to win, Luca. You must have sensed that.’

  ‘He always needs to win. It’s what drives what you call his compulsion.’

  ‘But tonight it mattered in a different way.’ She spoke gently, and gently led him over to the chaise longue where she sat down. He didn’t like the way she looked at him, as if she pitied him. ‘Tonight I’m convinced that Don Sarti was playing with money he didn’t have. Not Venice’s money, Luca.’ Becky held her hand up when he made to speak, shaking her head. ‘You have this fixed notion that when we reach a certain sum, you’ll no longer feel guilty for not being able to prevent what happened, that it will compensate you for the loss of your father, for the loss of your freedom—because that is part of it too, isn’t it? Your father’s death has forced you to give up the life you love.’

  ‘It’s not about that.’ But even as he denied it, Luca knew in his heart she was right.

  ‘This quest of yours has become all-consuming, and I think you resent that more than you’re prepared to admit.’

  She had no right to question his motives, he thought frantically. He just needed her to do what she had been hired to do. Anger, a blessed relief from doubt, began to take hold. ‘You can’t leave until you have completed the terms of our contract.’

  Becky flinched. She paled. But she did not falter. ‘I’m aware that I’ll forfeit everything.’

  ‘I didn’t mean...’ He stopped. What had he meant? Not to send Becky away with nothing. No, no, no, a thousand times no! She could not go back to that life. She could not go back to England, where the shadow of the gallows loomed over her.

  Luca jumped to his feet. ‘You don’t mean this. You’re overwrought. I’ve asked too much of you, pushed you too hard. I see that now. There’s still a week of Carnival left. We can leave Don Sarti in suspense tomorrow night, you can take a well-earned break, rest...’

  ‘Luca, you’re not going to change my mind.’ Becky hadn’t moved from the chaise longue. She looked at him, those big violet eyes of hers unwavering, her expression quite tragic, and he knew she meant it. He thought he was going to be sick.

  ‘You don’t need to ruin Don Sarti,’ she continued, still in that soft, inexorable voice. ‘He’ll destroy himself, sooner or later.’

  ‘But what about justice?’

  ‘Your quest for justice has turned into a vendetta I want no part of. It’s wrong, Luca. It’s as simple as that. I feel it here,’ Becky said, placing her hand over her heart. ‘Once before, I allowed my feelings to override my conscience. I can’t do that again.’

  ‘You are comparing me to that lying toad?’

  ‘No! I would never compare you to Jack, never. What I feel for you is utterly different to anything I’ve felt before, but if I carry on doing what you ask of me, I’ll never be able to look myself in the eye again. Can’t you see?’ Becky got to her feet. ‘Please think about what I’ve said. More than anything, what I want is for you to be happy.’

  ‘Happy?’ He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  ‘Forget Don Sarti. Build your fountains and your hospitals and your schools in your father’s name, and build your ships in your own. Stop allowing your father to dictate your life from beyond the grave, Luca.’ Becky took his hand. ‘Stop looking over your shoulder. What is done is done. I love you so much. I beg you, find a way to be happy. Trust me, my darling, this is not the way.’ She lifted his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to his palm. A tear splashed on to his fingers. She let him go. He watched, stunned, frozen to the spot as she left.

  * * *

  He lost all track of time. For moments or minutes or hours, Luca stared in utter disbelief at the closed door of the secret room, telling himself foolishly that as long as he stood still there was a chance Becky would return. The sound of someone moving about in the library gave him a brief, flaring hope, but then he heard the rattle of the brass curtain hooks on the pole, the clatter of a bucket on the grate, and realised that it was one of the chambermaids doing her early-morning chores. Quickly and quietly he finished dressing, now desperate to escape. It was nearly dawn as he untied the gondola, snow falling from the lightening sky. He began to row, making instinctively for the lagoon, the freedom and privacy of the Lido.

  * * *

  A vigorous gallop did not clear the fuzziness in Luca’s head. Over and over, as his horse pounded the length of the Lido and back again, all he could think of was that Becky was leaving. Which made him miserable to the core of his being but was hardly helpful. Becky was always going to leave, he’d known that from the start.

  Handing his steaming horse back to his groom, Luca made his way disconsolately down to the beach, throwing himself down on a sand dune. A foolish mistake, for the place was redolent with memories of Becky. Becky laughing as she curled her toes into the wet sand. Becky’s innocent joy as she tried to hurdle the waves. Her surprise when the force of one of them nearly toppled her over. The way she had wrapped her arms around his neck when he caught her, teasing him. Then kissing him. The wild rush of pleasure as he touched her, lying right here in the sand. How long ago? A decade. A
minute.

  He dropped his head into his hands, groaning aloud. Why the devil did he have to love her so much? Why the devil did she have to be so stubborn? And so damned sure she was right. Because she wasn’t right. Not about any of it. Save that she loved him. His chest tightened. She loved him. So why wouldn’t she do what he wanted?

  That she had dared to compare him to Jack Fisher! Luca swore viciously, curling his hands deep into the damp sand. But she hadn’t, not really, he was forced to acknowledge, recalling her exact words. It wasn’t her feelings she was comparing, it was her conscience.

  If I carry on doing what you ask of me, I’ll never be able to look myself in the eye again. Can’t you see?

  He did see. He didn’t want to, but he did, and he was filled with awe at her bravery. She was willing to sacrifice everything, all her dreams to help others like herself, and, worse, her own security, in order to stand by her principles. He couldn’t let her do that. For the first time since their return from last night’s ridotto, Luca was certain about something. He could not let her do that. No matter what.

  But what did that mean? The truth was...

  His heart began to race. The truth was, he didn’t want her to go anywhere. The truth was, he wanted her to stay with him, by his side, for evermore. For a glorious moment it seemed that the grey snow-laden clouds parted and the sun came out as he imagined that happy fate. He and Becky, together. He and Becky married. He and Becky with a brood of little children cast in their image. He smiled, half mocking himself for this sentimental vision, but at the same time tears stung the backs of his eyes. Becky loved him. Becky wanted to make him happy. And what would make him happy, he saw now, wasn’t vengeance or justice or whatever name he wanted to give it. It wasn’t even building ships. It was Becky.