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 there was anything at all feminine about the Count. Quite the contrary. There was a litheness, a suppleness in the sleek lines of the body lounging with catlike languor in the chair that made her think of him pacing the decks of a ship with the same feline grace. Becky, who had been certain that experience had numbed her to all male charms, was alarmed to discover that she was wrong.
‘Conte del Pietro,’ she said, relieved to hear that her voice sounded surprisingly calm, ‘how do you do?’
She was rewarded with another of those smiles. ‘I do very well now that you are here, Miss Wickes. Will you take some refreshment? We have a great deal to discuss. Though perhaps you are tired from the journey. Would you like to see your room first?’
Becky shook her head decisively. She had regained her composure—or near enough so that this stranger wouldn’t notice, she hoped. First impressions were more important than anything. This was no time for first-night nerves. The stage was set. Now she had to deliver the required performance. She smiled politely. ‘I’m not one bit tired, thank you very much. What I am is extremely curious to know exactly what it is you require of me. So if you don’t mind, let’s get down to business.’
Luca couldn’t help it, he laughed. Despite all the tales he’d heard of the woman who called herself The Procurer, despite the personal recommendation he’d managed to extract from a very senior member of the British government, and despite the enormous advance he’d already paid, part of him had doubted that the woman would deliver anyone suitable, let alone this extraordinary female sitting opposite him. To business, Miss Wickes insisted, but Luca was in no mood to proceed just yet. ‘I know from the time I’ve spent in England,’ he said, getting to his feet to pull the bell rope at the mantelpiece, ‘that you like to take tea before you do anything. Tell me, how was your journey?’
‘Gruelling,’ she replied in a tone that made it clear she was in no mood for small talk. ‘But I’m here now, so if you don’t mind...’
‘All in good time,’ Luca said as his major-domo arrived with the tea. He could sense her impatience watching the tea service being laid out with the slow, deliberate care with which Brunetti executed every action. When finally the doors closed behind the servant again, he was pretty sure he heard Miss Wickes exhale with relief. ‘Would you like to pour?’ he asked her, sitting back down.
To her credit, she did not demur. To her credit also, she did not falter in the ritual, spooning the tea from the lacquered caddy, pouring the boiling water into the silver pot, the milk into the china cups with the steadiest of hands. Evidence of her skills with the cards, or a genteel upbringing? Luca wondered. Her accent was not the cut-glass, clipped tone of the English aristocracy which he found so grating, but nor did it have the burr of a peasant woman—which was hardly surprising, and a great relief. Venice was no place for a rustic of any nation. ‘You are from London?’ he hazarded, since he knew that was where her journey had commenced.
Miss Wickes paused in the act of raising her teacup to consider this. ‘Yes.’
‘You have lived there always?’
‘Yes.’ Miss Wickes set down her cup. A lustrous jet-black curl fell forward over her forehead. She brushed it impatiently away, before treating him to a prim smile. ‘Something I intend to remedy, with your assistance.’
Luca returned the smile. ‘I was under the impression that I was paying you to assist me.’
She chuckled. Their gazes snagged, and Luca could have sworn there
