His Rags-To-Riches Contessa

Luca, who had been carefully twisting the cork to open a bottle of Prosecco, turned as the library doors closed on the servant.

‘Must they announce me every time?’ Becky asked, hovering in the doorway.

‘I’m afraid formality is the order of the day in palace life. Though I must admit that every time they call me Conte del Pietro, I look over my shoulder expecting to see my father. Are you coming in, or do you plan to have your dinner delivered to you in the doorway?’

‘It’s just that you’re all dressed up and I’m not.’ Becky held out the skirts of her gown. ‘I don’t have any evening clothes. Sorry.’

She was smiling and glowering at the same time. Embarrassed. Luca cursed his own stupidity for having donned the knee breeches and coat that was the custom for dinner at the palazzo. ‘It is I who should apologise. This,’ he said, indicating his apparel, ‘is what my father would have considered appropriate, and my mother still does. Neither are here, for very different reasons. Please, come in. To me you look perfectly lovely.’

‘It’s the servants’ opinions I’m more concerned about,’ Becky muttered. ‘I didn’t know I’d be living in a palace.’

‘Venice is a city of many palaces.’ Which was true, but hardly the point, Becky was clearly thinking, though she refrained from saying so. As the cork popped from the bottle with a sigh, Luca set it down, torn. The Procurer’s terms forbade him from asking any questions. Cursing her strict rules of engagement, he poured two crystal flutes of the cold sparkling wine and held one out to Becky. ‘Prosecco,’ he said. ‘Our Italian version of champagne. Personally, I consider it to be superior. Salute,’ he added, clinking glasses. ‘Here is to your arrival in Venice.’

‘Salute,’ Becky repeated in a perfect imitation of his Venetian accent, taking a cautious sip, screwing up her face in surprise as the bubbles burst on her tongue.

‘You’ve never tasted champagne, I take it?’ Luca asked.

‘No.’ She took another sip. ‘But I like this. Have you told the servants that I am your cousin?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What were you going to tell them if you’d decided I wouldn’t suit?’

Luca grimaced. ‘I have no idea, I preferred not to consider such an outcome. A sudden family illness back in England forcing you to return, I suppose. But you do suit, so fortunately I don’t have to tell them anything.’

‘Except maybe explain why the cousin of one of the richest families in Venice has the wardrobe of one of the poorest families in England.’

She tilted her chin at him, there was a flash of defiance in her eyes, yet he was certain now that she was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ Luca said. ‘I simply didn’t think. It is easily remedied. Mia madre, my mother, she will arrange it.’ He shook his head as Becky made to protest. ‘We will say that your luggage was lost in transit, or that your parents wished you to be attired on the Continent, since it is well known,’ he added with a sly smile, ‘that the English know nothing of couture.’

‘Yes, but, Luca, I don’t have any money.’

‘Luckily, I have an surfeit of it. Think of the outfits as your stage costumes. Therefore the expense is my responsibility.’

‘Yes, that makes sense,’ Becky said, looking extremely relieved. ‘Though I don’t imagine your mother will be very pleased to hear—Luca, does she know why I’m here?’

‘Si.’

‘And what does she think of your plan to avenge your father’s—my goodness, her husband’s death?’

‘She understands that it is a matter of honour, why it is so important to me to see some sort of justice served. It is the least I can do for him.’

All of which was true. It should have been sufficient, but Becky was not fooled. ‘You mean she understands but doesn’t necessarily agree?’

Shrewd, that was the English word to describe Becky Wickes. Or one of them. An admirable quality in a card sharp, but they weren’t playing cards, and Luca was not accustomed to having his motives questioned. In fact he wasn’t accustomed to being questioned about anything. ‘My mother’s opinion should not concern you, since she is not the one paying your fee.’ He regretted it immediately, as Becky’s expression stiffened.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...’

‘No, you were right to remind me that it’s none of my business.’

She took her time finishing her Prosecco and setting the glass back down on the silver tray before making for one of the bookcases, running her finger over Italian titles which she couldn’t possibly understand. Irked by his own arrogance, Luca poured them both another glass of Prosecco and joined her. ‘I’m afraid I don’t react particularly well to being questioned,’ he said. ‘But I am capable of admitting to being wrong.’

She took the glass he offered her, touching it to his before taking a sip. ‘Not that it happens often, I imagine.’

He laughed reluctantly. ‘More often than I’d like. I have always been—headstrong? I think that is the word. Acting before thinking, you know?’

‘Not a wise move in my game.’

What was her game, precisely? Where had she come from? What had she left behind? He longed to ask. He hadn’t thought that the terms of their contract would be so constraining. He hadn’t expected to be so curious. But perhaps if he was a little more honest with her, she would come to trust him. ‘My mother does not approve of my plans,’ Luca said, ‘you were right about that. My father’s death was such a terrible shock, she wants to draw a line under the whole ghastly business.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘In April this year. I was in Scotland, and did not make it back to Venice in time for the funeral.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Grazie.’

‘Was there an enquiry? If he had been murdered, there must have been—I don’t know how the law works here. Do you have the equivalent of Bow Street Runners?’

‘There was no enquiry, my father’s death was deemed to be a tragic accident.’ Luca drained his glass, glancing at the clock which was chiming the hour, and on cue Brunetti appeared to announce that dinner was served.

‘We can discuss it in the morning, every detail, I promise you,’ he said, offering Becky his arm, ‘and then I’ll introduce you to my mother. She should be home by midday. For tonight, let’s take the opportunity to get to know each other a little better.’

The major-domo led them in a stately procession to the room next door. The dining room was another huge chamber, grand to the point of being overwhelming, with a woodland scene painted on the ceiling. Becky made out strange beasts which were half-man and half-wolf or goat, with naked torsos, horned heads, leering down at her, drinking from flagons of wine or playing the pipes. It was enough to put anyone off their dinner, so she decided not to look again.

The table looked as if it could accommodate at least thirty diners. Two places were set at the far end of the polished expanse of mahogany. Torn between awe and amusement, Becky knew enough to allow Luca to help her into her seat, but one look at the array of silverware and glasses in front of her wiped the smile from her face. She watched with growing dismay as Luca sipped and swirled the wine presented to him before his nod of approval prompted the major-domo to fill her glass. Two servants arrived, carrying a silver platter between them. She presumed the major-domo was reciting the contents of the platter. Completely intimidated, Becky simply stared, first at the platter, where she recognised not a single dish, then at the major-domo and then finally at Luca.

Whatever it was he’d noted in her expression, he rapped out a command to the servants. The platter was placed on the table. The major-domo and his consorts trod haughtily out, and Becky heaved a huge sigh of relief. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘That my English cousin is quite ignorant of our splendid Venetian cuisine, and so I would take it upon myself to make a selection for you. Thus educating your vastly inferior English palate.’

‘Thank you.’ She was blushing, she could feel the heat spreading up her throat to her cheeks, but there was no point in pretending, it was far too important that she learn while she could. ‘You’ll need to educate my poor English manners as well as my palate I’m afraid,’ Becky said, keeping her eyes on the delicate porcelain plate in front of her. ‘I not only have no idea what’s on that platter, but I couldn’t hazard a guess at what implement I’m supposed to use to eat it.’

‘It is the same for all the English who visit Italy you know,’ Luca said, getting to his feet. ‘Our food, it confuses them. It will be my pleasure to introduce you to it.’

He was being kind, Becky knew that, but she was grateful for it all the same, and extremely grateful that he’d dismissed all the witnesses to her ignorance. As he presented the platter to her, she managed a smile. ‘It does look lovely.’

‘But of course. The first step to enjoying food is to find it pleasing to the eye. Now, these are carciofe alla romana, which is to say braised artichokes prepared in the Roman style—because, just between us, though Venetian cooking is obviously far superior to anything served in England, in Italy, I regret to say that we Venetians are considered to be culinary peasants.’ He set a strange off-white chunk of something that looked nothing like the big blowsy green artichokes they sold at the Covent Garden fruit market on her plate.

‘Grazie,’ Becky said dubiously.

‘Now, these are ambretti all’olio e limone, which is simply prawns and lemon. Would you like some?’

‘They smell delicious. Yes, please.’

‘Ostriche alla tarantina.’

‘Oysters. I recognise these, though I’ve never had them hot like this.’