From the streets of London...to Venetian high society!
A Matches Made in Scandal story
To catch his father’s murderer, broodingly arrogant Conte Luca del Pietro requires help from a most unlikely source—Becky Wickes, London’s finest cardsharp.
Against the decadence of Carnival, Becky’s innocence and warmth captivate Luca, but as their chemistry burns hotter, the stakes of their perilous game are getting higher. For Luca is no longer playing for justice—but also to win Becky’s heart...
Matches Made in Scandal series
Book 1—From Governess to Countess
Book 2—From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
Book 3—His Rags-to-Riches Contessa
Book 4—A Scandalous Winter Wedding—coming soon!
Look out for the next book in the miniseries, coming soon!
“From Governess to Countess is an engaging story, it dazzles you with the chemistry between Allison and Aleskei and teases you into wanting more.”
—Goodreads on From Governess to Countess
“Kaye’s eye for detail is as sharp as her ability to translate history into engaging fiction... From Courtesan to Convenient Wife is an emotionally urgent and tender romance.”
—All About Romance on From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
Matches Made in Scandal
Disgraced...yet destined for passion!
The Procurer is the woman everyone in the ton is talking about. Reputed for her utmost discretion, she makes the impossible come true.
She excels at finding fresh starts for the women she chooses to help, but little does she know that her scandalous matchmaking has wildly sizzling results...until it’s her turn!
Don’t miss this scorching new quartet
from Marguerite Kaye!
From Governess to Countess
Has Count Aleksei Derevenko hired herbalist Allison as a governess, mistress...or something more?
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
Lady Sophia is the ton’s most notorious courtesan...until she accepts a new role as a duke’s convenient bride!
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa
Luca del Pietro has hired Becky Wickes to help avenge his father’s death...but will she be his downfall or his redemption?
All available now!
Author Note
When I told my fabulous editor, Flo Nicoll, that I wanted to set one of the Matches Made in Scandal quartet in Venice, she asked me to consider including the Carnival, as it would make a spectacular backdrop to the burgeoning romance. At that point, other than the iconic masks, I had no idea what Carnival was. Reading up on it, I became utterly fascinated, and as you’ll see, without Carnival, there would be no story. So as always, I’m indebted to Flo.
If you follow me on social media, you’ll know that I’m a big fan of musicals, thanks to my mum force-feeding me and my many siblings Doris Day films when we were kids. It is so obvious it hardly needs stating, but of course my heroine, Becky Wickes, is my tribute to Eliza Doolittle. However, much as I adore Audrey Hepburn’s version of her in My Fair Lady, she’s not nearly tough enough. So I added a pinch of Helena Bonham Carter’s portrayal of Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd.
My third big influence while writing this book was Nicolas Roeg’s classic film Don’t Look Now. Venice is portrayed as a city of deception, where nothing is as it seems, a city of beauty and decay, light and shade. I watched this poignantly tragic film many times. But I promise, without giving anything away, that Becky and Luca’s book has a much, much happier ending. I hope you enjoy it—I certainly had enormous fun writing it.
MARGUERITE KAYE
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa
Marguerite Kaye writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published over forty books and novellas. When she’s not writing, she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website, margueritekaye.com.
Books by Marguerite Kaye
Harlequin Historical
Scandal at the Midsummer Ball
“The Officer’s Temptation”
Scandal at the Christmas Ball
“A Governess for Christmas”
Matches Made in Scandal
From Governess to Countess
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa
Hot Arabian Nights
The Widow and the Sheikh
Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride
The Harlot and the Sheikh
Claiming His Desert Princess
Comrades in Arms
The Soldier’s Dark Secret
The Soldier’s Rebel Lover
Visit the Author Profile page
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For Wendy Loveridge, for being such a loyal and supportive reader, a wise and wonderful woman, and a wise and wonderful friend.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Historical Note
Excerpt from The Warrior’s Bride Prize by Jenni Fletcher
Prologue
London—Autumn 1818
The woman The Procurer had come in search of had once been a regular street performer in the piazza at Covent Garden. The Procurer had seen her in action several times, and had been impressed by her skills and ability to work the crowd, particularly admirable in one so young. Becky Wickes’s looks, no less than her sleight-of-hand tricks, had always drawn a large audience, for she was dramatically beautiful, with huge violet eyes, sharp cheekbones, a sensual mouth and a lush figure. When she passed the hat round she garnered a healthy collection of coins, though about a year ago, by The Procurer’s reckoning, she had abruptly disappeared from her usual pitch. It was clear now, from the very public scandal in which she was embroiled, and which the gutter press had naturally made the most of, what she had been doing in the interim.
The Procurer entered the infamous rookery of St Giles in the wake of her guide, a local urchin, son of one of her less salubrious contacts. Her target had not been at all easy to trace, but then people who so desperately needed to disappear rarely were. With very good reason in this case. Members of the royal family, even minor ones, had a long and powerful reach. It had been a very grave mistake on Miss Wickes’s part to be caught in the act of fleecing one such.
The Procurer sidestepped the foul sewer which ran down the middle of the narrow alleyway, executing another sidestep in order to avoid landing on the rotting carcase of a small mammal she did not care to identify. A gaggle of rough-looking men were drinking from pewter tankards outside one of the rookery’s many gin shops. She could feel their sharp, curious glances stabbing like knives in her back. Her black cloak was plain enough,
but the quality of the wool would be sufficient to make her stand out. As would her looks. The Procurer was indifferent to her singular beauty, but she was not fool enough to deny its existence.
As her child guide led her ever deeper into the rookery, the alleyway narrowed. Hatches from the cellars had been flung open to allow the fetid air to escape the subterranean living areas. Even one woman rescued from this ocean of misery and deprivation was a victory, however small. As her guide pointed to the open door of a dark and gloomy close, The Procurer resisted the impulse to scatter her purse of loose change at the feet of the raggle-taggle band of followers her progress had attracted. When she was done here, and returned to safer streets, there would be ample time for dispensing such alms. To do so now might jeopardise not only her mission but her personal safety.
‘Stay here and do not move,’ she told the boy firmly. ‘You remember what you are to do if I do not return within the hour?’
Waiting only on his nod of affirmation, she ascended the worn steps to the third-floor landing, rapping sharply on the first door to the right. There was no answer. Accustomed to encountering both suspicion and fear during this critical first meeting, The Procurer knocked again, listening intently. Yes, there was someone on the other side of the door, she could not so much hear as sense the tension emanating from them. ‘Miss Wickes,’ she said quietly, her tone conciliatory, ‘I come alone, and as a friend.’
After a brief pause, the door opened a fraction. The woman who peered at her in the dim light bore little resemblance to the one The Procurer recalled from Covent Garden. Her formerly glossy mane of black hair was dull, piled in a tangled knot of curls on top of her head. Her violet eyes were darkly shadowed, the slant of her cheekbones so pronounced she looked almost gaunt. ‘What do you want? Who are you?’ Her panic was evident from the way her eyes darted over The Procurer’s shoulder.
‘I merely wish to speak to you, Miss Wickes.’ The Procurer stuck her foot against the jamb just in time to prevent the door being slammed in her face. ‘You need not be alarmed. I am not here to have you clapped in irons, but to put a proposition to you.’ Taking the woman completely by surprise, she pushed her way in. ‘Now, do you have the makings of a cup of tea? I would very much appreciate one.’
A startled peal of laughter greeted this remark. ‘Would you indeed?’ Hands on hips, Becky Wickes surveyed The Procurer through narrowed eyes. ‘What in the devil’s name is a woman like you doing in a place like this? Who are you?’
‘They call me The Procurer. Perhaps you have heard of me?’
* * *
Becky felt her jaw drop. ‘All of London has heard tell of you.’ She studied the intruder in her expensive wool cloak more carefully. ‘You aren’t how I pictured you. I thought you’d be much older. I certainly didn’t think you’d be a beauty.’
‘Then both our expectations have been confounded, Miss Wickes. Despite your own very striking beauty, you bear little resemblance to the woman I used to admire, performing in the Covent Garden piazza.’
‘That’s because I ain’t working the piazza no more,’ Becky said, deliberately lapsing into the harsh accent of her cockney roots. ‘What I’m wondering,’ she continued in her more cultured voice, ‘is what my appearance has to do with your appearance here?’
The Procurer, however, did not seem inclined to explain herself. Instead she nodded approvingly. ‘I knew, from watching you perform, that you were an accomplished actress. It is reassuring to know that you have also an excellent ear.’
‘You saw me on the stage? I’ve not trod the boards for nearly five years.’
‘I was referring to your performances in Covent Garden piazza. I confess, your strong local accent was something which did concern me. I am vastly relieved to discover it is not a problem.’
‘That is indeed a relief,’ Becky responded in a mocking and flawless imitation of The Procurer’s own accent with its faint Scottish lilt.
‘I do not intend any slight or offence,’ The Procurer said. ‘Firstly, for reasons which will become clear, it is important that your voice does not betray your humble origins. And secondly, I am relieved because your facility with language indicates that you will find a foreign tongue as easy to master as the accent of those who call themselves our betters here in London.’
Becky snorted. ‘Judging from your own accent, madam, I’d say that you are in the other camp.’
‘I would have thought that you would know better than to judge by appearances, Miss Wickes, for they can be very deceptive. The performer I observed executing those sleight-of-hand tricks was a very confident, almost arrogant individual. Very different from the female standing before me now. Your alter ego had a certain air about her, one may say.’
‘One might.’ Becky eyed her astonishing visitor with respect. Any doubts she’d had about the woman’s claim to be the mysterious Procurer vanished. ‘Most people only see what you want them to see.’
‘That is my experience, certainly.’
‘So there’s another woman behind The Procurer, then? I wonder...’
‘I suggest most strongly that you dampen your curiosity.’ The frigid tone made Becky take an instinctive step back. ‘The first of my terms,’ The Procurer continued, ‘is that you will neither speculate nor enquire about me. And before you answer, let me assure you, Miss Wickes, that I will know if you do.’
Formidable, that was what the woman was. Well, so too was Becky, but she also knew there was a time for facing up to people, and a time for backing down. If she wanted to hear what The Procurer had to offer, then she’d better comply with The Procurer’s terms. ‘Fine,’ she said, throwing her hands in the air. ‘No questions. You have my word. And it can be relied on, I promise.’
She was rewarded with an approving smile. ‘I believe you. Now, to business. Do you have tea?’
‘I do, though I reckon you’ll think I’m serving you dishwater. If you will sit down I’ll see to it.’
The Procurer took a seat at the table, pinching off her gloves and unfastening her cloak, making no effort to disguise her surveillance of Becky’s spartan room. That clear, frankly intimidating gaze took in every detail: the rickety bed with its cast-iron headboard and thin cover wedged into the corner; the tin kettle on the hearth and the battered teapot beside it; the mismatched china cups and saucers which Becky set out on the scarred table with the wobbly leg. ‘I had heard that until your major faux pas you were rather successful in your... Let’s call them endeavours,’ she said, as Becky sat down opposite her, ‘but I see none of the trappings of that success here.’
‘Major faux pas!’ Becky repeated scornfully. ‘That’s one way of putting it, and a lot more generous than some.’
‘I’ve seen the reports in the press. Written with a view to selling copy rather than telling the truth, of course. I prefer to rely on my own sources, Miss Wickes, and I believe I know enough of your circumstances to think that you have been, if you will forgive the pun, dealt a very poor hand.’
‘But one I dealt myself,’ Becky said bitterly.
‘Really?’ The Procurer raised one perfectly arched brow. ‘I was informed that the plan was hatched by a certain Jack Fisher.’
Becky gave a scornful snort of laughter. ‘Your sources, as you call them, are impressively well informed. It was his idea all right.’ Her face fell, and her mouth thinned. ‘But it was my decision to go along with it, all the same. Even though I knew—but there, it’s done now, and at least I’ve had my eyes opened where Jack Fisher is concerned. I should never have trusted him.’
‘Console yourself with the fact that it is a mistake countless women have made with other such charmers.’
Was that the voice of experience she was hearing? Becky opened her mouth to ask, remembering her promise not to do so just in time. ‘Well, I won’t be making that mistake again,’ she said instead. ‘Once bitten twice shy, as they say.’
‘I did warn you,’ Becky said, surprised to discover that she could be embarrassed over a stupid thing like tea. ‘Dishwater, like I said, not whatever exotic blend you’re used to.’
She expected a polite denial. She was surprised when The Procurer smiled ruefully. ‘My apologies. I am fortunate enough to have a friend in the tea trade who indulges my passion for the beverage.’ She set the cup to one side. ‘Tell me, have you always resided here in St Giles?’
Becky shrugged. ‘Here and hereabouts. It’s the safest place to be, for those of us born and raised here, and the most dangerous for unwelcome visitors who were not. How did you find me? Was it Jack who tipped you off?’
‘I have not had the misfortune to meet your paramour. In fact I’m reliably informed that he is en route to the New World.’
‘I would rather you’d been reliably informed that he was on his way to the underworld,’ Becky said sharply. Flushing, she covered her mouth. ‘I don’t really mean that.’ The Procurer raised an enquiring brow. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lying, cheating—’ She broke off, digging her nails into her hands. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on him. I fell hook, line and sinker for his handsome face and his charming ways and his lies. He played me like a fish, and I was gullible enough to believe every sweet nothing he whispered in my ear.’
Becky forced herself to unfurl her fingers, acutely aware of the cool gaze of the woman sitting opposite her. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson,’ she said with a grim little smile. ‘From now on, whatever happens in the future, it’ll be down to me and me alone.’
She’d meant to sound confident. Defiant. But something in her voice or her expression betrayed her thoughts. The Procurer reached across the table, briefly touching her fingers with her own. ‘It can be done, Becky. A fresh start. A new you.’
‘You sound so certain. How can you be so sure?’
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa Page 1