amount.’
‘A life-saving amount! Enough to get me far from here before they find me and make an example of me by stretching my neck.’ Becky finished her cold tea and fixed The Procurer with a defiant stare. ‘Robbery and fraud, they’d hang me for, you know, and they’d have every right. I cheated. It doesn’t matter that he could well afford to lose, I still cheated.’
‘You did not act alone. Your partner in crime...’
‘Is halfway across the Atlantic by now with his pockets full of gold,’ Becky said impatiently. ‘What a fool I was.’
‘Love can make a fool of the best of women, sadly.’
‘Love! It doesn’t just make a fool of us, it makes us blithering idiots. I thought the earth, moon and stars revolved around Jack Fisher. All I ever wanted was to make him happy. Was that love? I was certainly in thrall to him.’ To Becky’s shame, tears smarted in her eyes. She brushed them away angrily. She’d cried enough tears to mend the most broken of hearts. ‘Never again. I’ve learnt my lesson the hard way. As you have, I reckon,’ she added pointedly.
For the first time, The Procurer failed to meet Becky’s eyes. ‘To continue with my rules of engagement,’ she said brusquely, ‘if you accept this assignment, my client will require your unswerving loyalty. He will also require you to complete the terms of your contract to the letter. The terms, as I mentioned, are generous. I should caution you, however, that you will be paid only upon successful completion of your assignment. Half measures will not be rewarded. If you leave before the task is completed, you will return to England without any remuneration.’
‘Return to England?’ Her anger and embarrassment forgotten, Becky leaned forward eagerly in her seat. ‘Where am I to go? Is your client a foreigner? Is that why you mentioned my—what did you call it?—ear for language? I can’t imagine—’
‘No, I don’t expect you can,’ The Procurer interrupted, laughing softly. ‘Let me enlighten you.’
Venice, Kingdom of Lombardy–Venetia—November 1818
Drizzly rain was softly falling as Becky embarked on the final stage of her long journey from London, which consisted of the short sea crossing from the nearby mainland port of Mestre to the island of Venice itself. The black gondola which she had boarded with some trepidation a few hours ago made her think of a funeral barge, or some sort of huge menacing aquatic creature with a vicious golden beak. The crossing was choppy, and the felze, the poky little cabin which straddled the central seats, afforded her no view of her destination. Clutching gratefully at the gondolier’s hand as she climbed the narrow flight of slippery stairs on the jetty, she felt completely disoriented.
The first thing she noticed was that the rain had stopped. The sky had turned from leaden grey to an eerie brackish pink, tinged with pewter. The waters of what she assumed must be the Grand Canal were no longer churning but calm, glinting green and brown and grey, echoing but not mirroring the sky. The air felt heavy, making everything sound muted and muffled. She felt as if she were in a shadowland, as if the gondola had transported her to some mystical place.
Casting around her, Becky began to distinguish the buildings which slowly emerged from the mist, as if voile curtains were being pulled back from a stage set. Somehow she hadn’t imagined that the houses would look as if they were actually floating on the water. Their reflections shimmered, creating a replica underwater ghost city. There were palaces as far as the eye could see, jostling for position on the Grand Canal, encrusted with intricately worked stonework as fine as lace, adorned with columns, a veritable menagerie of stone creatures prowling and crouching, standing sentinel on the flat rooftops.
She shivered, entranced, overawed and struck by an acute attack of nerves. She had been travelling for weeks. The journey had been meticulously arranged, leaving her little to do but hand over her travelling papers to be validated, keep an eye on her luggage and get herself from carriage to boat to carriage to boat, the world changing so quickly and dramatically before her eyes that she could only marvel at the different vistas, listen to the changing notes and tones of the languages, all the while trying to appear the world-weary traveller lest anyone mistake her for a flat and try to rob her of her meagre funds.
But now she was in Venice, her final destination, about to meet the man on whom her carefree future depended. Conte Luca del Pietro lived right here, in the Palazzo Pietro, on whose steps she was now, presumably, standing. By the looks of it, it was one of the grandest palaces of all those which lined the Grand Canal. Craning her neck, Becky counted three storeys, which seemed to consist almost entirely of tall glass double doors, separated by columns. A balcony ran the length of the first floor. Lions stood guard all along the parapet of the roof. There was a coat of arms on a shield right above the huge arched double doors, which were being thrown open by two servants in green and gold livery. A third, imperious member of the household, clearly a butler or major-domo, made his stately way to her side. ‘Signorina? If you please, come this way.’
Stomach clenched with nerves, knees like jelly, Becky followed in his wake as the servant led her into the Palazzo Pietro, where she was relieved of her travelling cloak, hat and gloves. The hallway was patterned in a complicated mosaic of black and white tiles. The walls were hung with tapestries. The ceiling, soaring high above her, was elaborately corniced. There was a chandelier so enormous she couldn’t imagine how it could be secured so as not to crash to the ground. She barely had time to register anything else as she was swept up a staircase with an intricately carved balustrade, three short flights set at right angles to each other, before they reached the first floor. The middle one of five sets of double doors was flung open.
‘Signorina Wickes, Conte del Pietro,’ the servant announced, nudging her forward.
The doors were closed behind her. The room in which she stood was staggering. The ceiling was painted with a host of angels and cherubs, peeping from behind fluffy white clouds, gambolling naked in the celestial blue sky, and haughtily strumming on harps and lyres. Another breathtakingly beautiful chandelier glittered and sparkled, reflecting the light which streamed in through the windows on to the highly polished floor. Shelves of decorative china and plates lined the walls. There were clusters of chaises longues, sofas and chairs, scatterings of tables bearing busts, ormolu clocks and garnitures. Outside, the canal had changed colour again, now buttery yellow and seaweed green.
Dazzled, Becky did not notice the man at first. He must have been sitting in one of the chairs facing out of the window. But as he got to his feet and began to make his way towards her, she forgot all about the opulence of her surroundings.
‘Luca del Pietro,’ he said, making a slight bow. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Wickes.’
Becky dropped into a curtsy, her knees all but giving way. Rising awkwardly, she followed him, taking the seat he indicated by the window, aware that she was staring, but unable to drag her eyes away from the man who was throwing himself carelessly into the chair opposite, one long boot-clad leg crossed over the other. A count, The Procurer had informed her, the product of an Italian father and English mother. Becky had imagined—blooming heck, it didn’t matter what she had imagined, this man couldn’t be more different.
His hair was raven black, silky soft and too long for current fashion, reaching the collar of his shirt. His brows were thick, fiercely arched, his eyes a warm chocolate brown. A strong nose, sharp cheekbones, a decided chin. A small, meticulously trimmed goatee beard of the style favoured by Walter Raleigh, appropriately enough, for this man looked more like a pirate than a count. Dangerous—yes, very. And wild—that too. Then he smiled at her, and Becky’s stomach flipped. Dear heavens, but that smile would melt ice.
‘I must tell you, Miss Wickes, that your appearance is not at all what I expected.’
He spoke English with a trace of an Italian accent. His lips were pale pink against the clean, precise line of his beard, sensual, almost feminine. Not that