‘I know, and I very much admire you for that.’ Luca caught her wrist as she made to shuffle again. ‘Whatever happens, you cannot go back to that life.’
Completely taken aback, Becky let the cards fall. ‘If I fail here, I might have no choice.’
His gaze dropped to her hand, where his fingers circled her wrist. He stared at it for some moments, his heavy lids covering his eyes, allowing her no clue to his thoughts. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her wrist. ‘Then we will simply have to ensure that we do not fail,’ he said, smiling. ‘Show me another trick. This time I am determined to spot how you do it.’
She was unsettled, though she wasn’t sure why. Her time in Venice so far, though brief, had been all-consuming. She’d conveniently forgotten it would come to an end and she’d have to consider her future. But there really was no point in worrying about it just at the moment, when what she should be doing was concentrating on earning the money that would at least offer her choices.
She picked up the cards, slipped back into her Covent Garden role and expertly riffled the deck. ‘This time, you pick the card and hold on to it. Look at it, remember what it is, then place it face down on the table.’ Shuffling—nice, showy shuffling—was required here, to hold his attention. ‘The card you selected is the Ace of Cups.’
‘How on earth do you know?’
‘Because I have it here,’ Becky said triumphantly, turning the top card over to reveal the Ace.
‘You can’t have because I...’
‘You have the Knave of Swords.’ The way his face fell as he turned over the card made her burst into a peal of laughter.
‘How on earth did you do that?’
‘Magic.’
‘Show me some more,’ he said eagerly.
‘This one’s called Find the Lady,’ she said, beginning to enjoy herself as she set out the cards. ‘But since we’ve no Queen of Hearts we’ll use the King of Coins, see here? Ready? Now, what you have to do is...’
* * *
‘Tricked again!’ Luca threw down the card he’d picked in mock disgust. He grinned, pushing back his hair from his eyes. ‘Don’t explain how you do it, I prefer to believe it really is magic. I would have liked to see you perform in front of an audience. You have a presence—is that the word?—like the best actresses when they come on to the stage, you know?’
‘I do, though I think you’re flattering me.’
‘Not at all. I mean it.’ He studied her as she sorted them into their separate suits and packs with speed and dexterity without seeming to look. She was a different person when she worked her tricks, managing to draw him in, making him feel as if she was wholly absorbed in him, only in him, and at the same time creating a barrier between them, as if she were untouchable. He couldn’t explain it, he couldn’t have said what it was that changed in her expression or her voice or her manner, only that now, as she set the cards aside, it was gone, and she was Becky again. Or the person he knew as Becky, which was different from the one who played Cousin Rebecca so exhaustively during the day and throughout every meal. Was this the real one? He had no way of knowing.
How hard he had worked to stop himself from imagining showering her with kisses as they sat here night after night playing cards. His desire for justice burned ever more fiercely as Carnevale approached, but his desire for the woman who would help him achieve it kept pace with it. It was because she was so very different from any other woman he had desired. It was because he had ruled her out of bounds that he wanted so desperately to break his own rules. It was because she was his avenging angel. He understood all these things, but they did not make his attraction to her any less real.
Becky closed the lacquered box which held the cards. She met his eyes and read his thoughts instantly. He watched, fascinated, as his desire kindled hers. Her eyes became lambent, and her mouth softened, becoming sensuous. Was he imagining it? No, he was sure he was not, and his resolve crumbled.
He pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms tightly around her. ‘I have tried so hard not to think about this.’ If she resisted, he would let her go. Sophistry. He knew she would not resist. Her hair had escaped its daytime pinning, forming a cloud of curls around her face. She had such a delightful curve to her bottom that it was impossible to resist the temptation to flatten his hands over it, relishing the little puff of breath that escaped her mouth as he pulled her closer.
It wasn’t a good kiss—it was too awkward. She was too small, and he was too tall. They weren’t adjusted. They were far too eager. They had waited too long. He lifted his head, saw his confusion reflected in her eyes, wondering how something that should have been so perfect could be so disappointing. Now was the time to stop, Luca told himself, but she made no move to free herself and he was already beyond logic.
Their lips met again. He kissed her slowly, resisting the urge to devour her, sensing the same urge and the same restraint in her. Already he was on fire with wanting her, already afraid that he would lose control. He ran his fingers through her hair, tugging it free of restraining pins so that it cascaded down her back. The skin at the nape of her neck was hot. She watched him, violet eyes under heavy lids, both imperious and sultry. He kissed her again, and she gave a little moan as his mouth found hers, that both reassured and aroused. This was what fire would taste like, feel like, enveloping them both as their mouths opened to each other, as their tongues touched, danced, teased.
He ran his hand down her spine. A perfect curve. She arched her back, pressing herself urgently against him, and their kisses became wild. Her hands tugged at his coat. He shrugged himself out of it and she ran her fingers down his back, clutching at his buttocks, pulling him tighter against her. He managed to steer them both to a sofa, just enough room for him to lie half on her, half by her side, still kissing. Her gown was too high at the neck, but beneath it her breasts were soft handfuls, her corsets barely in evidence. He teased her nipples, watching with a potent pleasure as she moaned, as they tightened, but it was a double-edged sword, for it only served to rouse him to new heights of yearning.
What the devil was he doing? Appalled at his lack of control, and even more appalled at how easily he could have lost control all together, Luca released her, cursing under his breath. ‘Mi scusi. I did not mean...’ He stopped short, unwilling to lie, for he had meant, all of it and more. ‘I had no right to take such liberties,’ he finished lamely.
Becky pushed herself upright, her colour high, gathering up the hair pins that he had scattered so carelessly. ‘You didn’t take anything, Luca. If I’d asked, you would have stopped.’ She took the pin he had found on the sofa, sticking it carelessly into her hair. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t,’ she said, shamefaced. ‘You won’t believe me now, but I...’
‘Am not that sort of woman,’ he finished for her wryly. ‘But I do know that, and it made no difference, though it should have. You are a respectable woman.’
She laughed drily. ‘Hardly. I’m a card sharp.’
‘One with principles, who does not take amore lightly, I think. While I—I have always taken it very lightly.’ Luca shook his head. ‘We should not find it so very difficult to restrain ourselves.’
She flinched. ‘Well, you did in the end, didn’t you? I should thank you.’
‘I wish I could say you are welcome. By morning, perhaps I will have persuaded myself it was the right thing to do.’
He was rewarded with a mocking little smile. ‘Then there’s no point in my bidding you to sleep well?’
‘None at all.’
‘Try the cards,’ Becky said, nodding at the box which sat on the table. ‘That will take your mind off anything else.’
‘Is that what you’ll be doing?’
‘Tonight, as I do every night. This one is no different.’
The door closed softly behind her. Luca caught sight of himself in the huge mirr
or above the mantel and grimaced. His hair was a bird’s nest, his cravat a tangled knot and his cheeks flushed. Had a servant walked in on them...
He cursed, pouring himself a small glass of grappa. He took a sip of the potent digestivo, closing his eyes as it burned its way down his throat, settling in a warm glow in his belly. What had he been thinking to take such an unnecessary risk when so much was at stake? Another sip, and Luca sank down on to the chair at the card table. He hadn’t been thinking; that was the point.
They had not been caught, and he couldn’t pretend that he regretted it, though it was true, what he’d said to her. Card sharp or no, Becky was a respectable woman with principles and Luca never dallied with respectable women. He enjoyed women’s company. He enjoyed making love, though he had never, contrary to what his friends and fellow officers assumed, been the kind of man who took his pleasures whenever and wherever he could. His Italian blood made him passionate, not indiscriminate.
He finished his grappa. He opened the card box and took out a deck, attempting to shuffle as Becky had, but the cards flew from his hand, scattering on to the floor. She was right—he was no match for her, but how to find someone suitable, without giving their game away? Frowning, Luca retrieved the cards and began to sort them into suits.
Looking back over the nights when they’d sat here playing, he realised that though she talked freely enough of what she called her Covent Garden days, she’d revealed little of her most recent history. He knew that she had plied her trade in gaming hells. He guessed, from the way she talked, that she had loathed it. Why then had she given up street entertainment which, if tonight was anything to judge by, she thoroughly enjoyed? The obvious answer was money, but there was nothing obvious about Becky. She did not play to become rich. So why play the hells at all? Was it the man who had been at her side in those hells? A protector, in more ways than one perhaps, and one she had been happy to leave behind, by the sounds of it.
What had made her take the bold step of coming here to Italy at the behest of The Procurer? Again, money was the obvious answer. Yet her needs were modest. A home, a fire, a full larder were the extent of her ambition. It touched him strangely that she should aim so low, pained him that such an extraordinary woman should dream of such a humble life.
Humble to him, but extraordinary to Becky, Luca reminded himself. Who was he to condemn such a choice, to dare to think it unworthy? She would be offended, and rightly so, if she were privy to his thoughts, but still he couldn’t help thinking that she deserved so much more. He had never met a woman like her. Perhaps it wasn’t very surprising after all that he found her so fascinating and so irresistible. Even though he knew he was playing with fire.
Luca placed the cards back in the box. Tomorrow night, Becky was to make her debut as Cousin Rebecca. In a few weeks, she’d be making her first appearance as the Queen of Coins. The first steps on the path to seeing justice done for his father, the money returned to Venice, its rightful owner. He poured himself another small measure of grappa and turned his mind to ensuring that happened.
Chapter Five
Becky turned the brass handle on the heavy door at the top of the winding flight of stairs, stepped out on to the roof of the Palazzo Pietro and marvelled at the view laid out before her. Roof after roof of red terracotta tiles topped buildings huddled even more closely together than in the worst of London’s rookeries, though they looked decidedly prettier. She made her way to the parapet, leaning over to gaze down at the Grand Canal. From this height, she could make out the twists and turns of the channel as it flowed below bridges before meeting the deep blue waters of the lagoon on which Venice floated. Beyond that, a long strip of land which must be the Lido, and clusters of islands. She’d no idea there were so many.
It was a clear day. The sky was pale blue, for once distinguishable from the turquoise waters below. It was Isabel who’d told her about the rooftop garden, accessed by climbing many staircases, past the servants’ quarters to the entrance in the attics. Looking around her, Becky didn’t think it much of a garden. There were no plants, no greenery at all, just a couple of benches and a table. A waste, she thought. There were any number of other rooftop gardens visible, real gardens, some with small trees, pots, wooden trellises. It would be lovely up here in the summer.
The view was already lovely. There seemed to be hundreds of churches in the city. The huge one, right on the edge of the lagoon with its vast piazza, she knew was San Marco. It reminded her a little bit of St Paul’s, but everywhere she looked she could see others, the bell towers marking their locations. The myriad of canals looked like streets from here, winding through the tightly packed houses, some intersecting, some coming to dead ends, the colours dazzling, changing from shades of blue to green to brown, depending on how narrow they were, how high the buildings lining them and the colour of the painted stone. Becky leaned far over the parapet. She’d never seen buildings painted in such bright colours. Golden yellow. Soft pink. Burnt orange. Sparkling white. Though many, when she peered more closely, seemed to be simply stone, and quite decrepit and crumbling at that. Venice, the city of contrasts, was, when it came to rich and poor, not much different from London. There were so very few open spaces though—no parks, only the piazzas, which she now knew to call campos.
She was wearing one of her new gowns. A day dress, Isabel called it. White muslin, printed with broad vertical stripes in shades of buff and blue, the skirt hung straight from the fashionable empire-line bodice. The three-quarter-length sleeves were narrow, fitted tight to her wrists. It looked simple enough, but what a palaver it had been to get into it, with all the buttons and loops and ribbons. A soft breeze ruffled the flimsy fabric, which would have been completely transparent, were it not for the many layers of underclothes which Becky had donned. Chemises and petticoats and a corset laced so tight she’d protested that she couldn’t breathe. It certainly helped make sure she sat up straight. She could now appreciate the need for a lady’s maid. You’d have to be an octopus to get yourself dressed without help. Perhaps that explained why young ladies like Cousin Rebecca held on to their innocence for so long, it would be too much effort for any man to get through all those barricades. Perhaps if she had been wearing these clothes last night...
Even though she was completely alone, Becky could feel her cheeks flushing. Just as she’d told Luca she would, she had practised cards into the night, falling into an exhausted sleep which left no room for reflections. Then Cousin Rebecca’s wardrobe had arrived first thing this morning. There had been an embarrassing amount of clothes to be unpacked. Far too many for one person’s needs, though Isabel had assured her otherwise. Day dresses and walking dresses, which seemed completely unnecessary since no one could possibly walk any distance in this city without falling into a canal. There were half dresses and half pelisses and half-boots too, though strangely nothing called a whole dress or a quarter-boot. Yards of petticoats. Countless pairs of silk stockings so sheer they could pass through a wedding ring. Nightgowns, dressing gowns, evening gowns. Silk and satin and lace, ribbons and buttons.
‘What about this one for your introduction into society tonight?’ Isabel had asked, holding up a pretty rose-pink gown. ‘Or what about this one? Or this?’
White, lemon, sky blue, mint green, the colours worn by a young unmarried girl, Becky now knew. They were all beautiful, but none of them were really hers. She felt a fraud, looking in the mirror just before she came up on to the roof. Now she was in costume, a dress rehearsal for tonight, so to speak, she was overcome with nerves, utterly certain she was going to falter. Isabel, who already knew her far too well for comfort, had seen all of this in her face, and sent her up here to get her equilibrium back, as if she was a set of scales out of balance when what she was, was a girl from the rookeries, a fish from a very small pond, suddenly cast into a huge ocean. And she was floundering.
She scanned the view, but not even the beauty of Venice could dis
tract her. Last night, in the small parlour, for heaven’s sake, when any servant could have walked in on them, she had abandoned herself to passion. She had never before behaved in such a wanton way, had never before lost all sense of her surroundings, lost all sense of herself, been so consumed with one and only one desire. She simply couldn’t understand it. Luca was nothing to her.
No, that wasn’t true. Becky paced to the other side of the roof, gazing sightlessly down at the network of narrow canals. Luca was a very attractive man, there was no doubt about that, and she could happily admit that his particular combination of good looks and devil-may-care air appealed to her on a visceral level. This plan he had concocted, it was bold and it was risky and it was outrageous, as well as honourable. She might be dreading her debut tonight, but she was relishing the fact that she was vital to him—or rather to his cause. He made her feel powerful. She enjoyed being his avenging angel. After the disaster at Crockford’s and Jack’s betrayals, Luca’s cause and Luca himself were very welcome balms to her shattered confidence.
So it was hardly surprising he aroused such passion in her, Becky reasoned. Indifference would have been more surprising. She smiled to herself at the very idea. Such a potent combination of extraordinary man and extraordinary circumstances, it was no wonder at all that she had lost control last night. In fact it was a perfectly natural consequence, and nothing at all to be ashamed of. Or worried about either, she decided. It wasn’t as if she was in any danger of falling in love with Luca. She’d tried love on for size and it wasn’t for her. Besides, there could not be two more different men than Luca and Jack. Becky wrinkled her nose in disgust.
A shout from the window of one of the houses on the far side of the roof attracted her attention. Another shout, and then another, saw her pick her way across the roof in search of the source. There were people hanging out the windows on both sides of the narrow canal beneath, shouting abuse and encouragement at the two groups of men and boys clustered on either side of the bridge. She couldn’t make out a word of the Venetian dialect, probably because none of the words were polite enough for Luca to have taught her, but it was obvious enough what was going on. Her own early experience had taught her that the less people owned, the more stoutly they defended their turf.
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