His Rags-To-Riches Contessa. Marguerite Kaye

Yes, please.’

       ‘Ostriche alla tarantina.’

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

      ‘You’ll like them. This is octopus. Try it. And these are biancheti.’

      ‘Whitebait,’ Becky exclaimed triumphantly after a brief study of the little fish. ‘I’ll have some of those too, please, unless—Am I supposed to try only one dish?’

      ‘No. This is antipasti, the whole point is to sample a little of everything.’ Luca sat back down, filling his own plate. ‘Use your fingers, then rinse them when you’re done. That’s what the bowl at the side of your plate is for, see, with the slice of lemon floating in it.’

      ‘Well, I’m glad you told me that or I might have drunk it, thinking it lemon soup!’

      ‘You mustn’t worry, Becky. People will expect you to be confused by our customs here. They’re very different.’

      ‘Were you the same, when you first went to England? When was that?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, I forgot. No questions.’

      ‘I’m willing to waive that rule if you are.’

      Becky examined the chunk of octopus on her plate, then popped it into her mouth. She’d expected it to be chewy, fishy, but it was neither, melting on her tongue, tasting of wine and lemon and parsley. Luca was waiting on an answer, but he could wait. She took a sip of wine. Also delicious. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her humble background, but it was like night and day to all this. Would Luca think less of her for it? In one way it didn’t matter, since he’d already committed to her staying.

      She picked up an oyster shell, tipping the contents into her mouth, giving a little sigh of pleasure as this too melted on her tongue, soft and sweet, nothing like the briny ones served from barrels back home. Yes, of course it mattered. They were going to be spending a lot of time together. She had warmed to Luca immediately and she wanted him to like her in return. She certainly didn’t want him looking down his aristocratic nose at her, but if she didn’t reveal a little of her humble origins, he wouldn’t know just how much help she was going to need to learn how to be convincing in her role as his cousin. If she had to learn, and make any number of mistakes in the process, she’d rather it was from him, in front of him, and not in public. And there was the fact that she wanted to know more about him too.

      ‘Go on, then,’ Becky said, ‘let’s agree to forget the rule for now. But you first. What took you to England?’

      ‘The Royal Navy,’ he said promptly. ‘When I was twelve, my father sent me as an ensign. When I resigned my commission four years ago, I was a captain.’

      ‘I knew it!’ Becky exclaimed. ‘When I first set eyes on you, I thought you looked liked a pirate.’

      ‘I think the Admiralty might have something to say about that description,’ he answered, grinning, ‘though there were times when it was accurate enough.’

      Becky pushed her empty plate to one side. ‘Have you been all over the world? I can picture you, leaping from deck to deck, cutlass in hand, confiscating chests of gold from the Spanish.’

      ‘You forgot to mention the parrot on my shoulder. And my peg leg.’

      ‘And the lovely wench, swooning in your arms because you rescued her from a rival pirate, who we know must be the evil one, because he’s wearing an eyepatch.’

      Luca threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’ve watched too many plays.’

      ‘Not watched, but acted in them,’ Becky admitted, smiling at the surprise registered on his face. ‘And not any of the kind of roles you’re imagining either.’

      ‘What do you think I’m imagining?’

      ‘Breeches roles. Not that I wasn’t asked, and not that I bother about showing off my ankles or playing the man, but...’ Becky’s smile faded. ‘It’s the assumption associated with those particular roles that I resented. I haven’t been on the stage for—Oh, five years now. Since I was seventeen,’ she added, ‘in case you’re curious and too polite to ask my age.’

      ‘It’s not the thing in England,’ Luca agreed, ‘to discuss age or money. But you’ll find attitudes differ here in Venice.’

      Brunetti, the major-domo, entered the dining room at this point, followed by his minions bearing more dishes, and Luca busied himself with serving her the next course. Risotto, he called it, rice with wild mushrooms, to be eaten with a spoon. It was creamy but not sweet, and though it looked like a pudding it tasted nothing like.

      ‘I think you might be right about Italian cooking, compared to English,’ Becky said. ‘Not that I’m exactly qualified to compare, mind you. I’ve never had a dinner like this. All this food just for two people, it seems an awful lot. We didn’t even finish the—What did you call it?’

      ‘Antipasti. It will doubtless be finished in the kitchen. Palace staff eat better than most. What kind of food do you like to eat, Becky?’

      ‘Whatever I can lay my hands on, usually. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ She spoke flippantly. What she’d meant was, I don’t want to talk about it. Then she remembered that she’d agreed to talk, and that Luca had talked, and it was her turn. ‘I don’t have a kitchen, never mind a cook. I eat from pie shops. Whatever’s cheap at the market at the end of the day, bread—ordinary food, you know?’

      He didn’t, she could see from his face. ‘But you seem... Not comfortable, but you don’t seem to be uncomfortable with all this,’ Luca said, waving his hand at the room, frowning.

      ‘Well, that’s a relief to know. The only time I’ve ever sat at a table anything like this was on the stage, where the food was made from plaster and cardboard. I’m a good actress. Luckily for me, The Procurer spotted that.’

      ‘She saw you onstage?’

      Becky shook her head. ‘I told you, I’ve not been on the stage for five years, and The Procurer is...’ She bit her tongue, mortified. ‘Now, that is one subject I’m not at liberty to discuss.’

      ‘Then tell me instead, what you meant when you said that you resented the connotations of—What did you call them, breeches roles?’

      ‘That’s when a girl plays a boy on the stage.’ Becky studied him over her wine glass. ‘You know perfectly well what I meant. That a girl who flaunts her legs on the stage is reckoned to be willing to open them offstage,’ she said bluntly. ‘It’s what draws most denizens of the pit, with good reason in many cases. But I wanted none of it, and it was easier to remove myself from harm’s way than to keep fending them off.’

      ‘Surely whoever was in charge—the theatre manager?—would have protected you.’

      Becky laughed harshly. ‘Then he would have needed to protect me from himself. He was the worst of the lot. A perk of the job is how he viewed it,’ she said sardonically. ‘Play nice, you get the best parts. Refuse to let him paw you with his grubby little hands, the work dries up. I decided to take the decision out of his hands by quitting. There are many actresses who are happy to exploit their good looks to their advantage, and good luck to them, but I, for one, refused to. They are the ones being exploited, in my view.’

      She was surprised to see that Luca seemed genuinely shocked. ‘Which makes you rather remarkable, I think,’ he said. ‘Was there no one else to look out for you?’

      ‘I was seventeen, hardly a child. You grow up quickly, in that game. If you mean my parents, I never knew my father. As for my mother, she was an actress herself. She lived long enough to put me on the stage alongside her. I was six, maybe seven when she died.’ Becky finished her risotto and drained her wine glass, and decided to put an end to this conversation too. She wasn’t used to talking about herself. ‘I never went to school, but I didn’t need to, not with the stage