Miss Weston's Masquerade (5 page)

Jostled by the crowd, Cassandra struggled to keep an eye on their things. ‘Nich… My lord! Where are they taking the baggage?’

‘The Custom House. Follow me and keep your mouth shut.’

Nicholas strode off in pursuit of their porters, Cassandra scuttling to keep up through the press of touts all shouting the names of various inns.

In the Custom Hall officials searched their bags with an insolence that shocked Cassandra. ‘Why do you not protest?’ she whispered, scandalised as dirty hands rummaged through the fine linen.

‘Quiet, or they will deny us a passport.’

‘But you have one.’

‘An English passport will not serve here, we need a French one for the onward journey.’

Cassandra jumped in alarm as a hand was thrust into her pocket. The searcher tossed her pocket handkerchief onto the bench, then turned with the obvious attention of searching the rest of her clothing.

She felt the man’s fingers touch the breast of her coat, then Nicholas’s hand whipped out and clamped onto the official’s wrist.

‘Un moment, mon ami
. I think this is what you are looking for.’ There was a glint of gold coin and the man turned away, waving them through the throng to the row of desks where clerks were writing passports.

Cassandra stood swaying, hardly conscious of what was going on around her until Nicholas’s firm hand under her elbow guided her out into the fresh air.

‘Cassie? Are you unwell?’ His face was close as he bent over her. Cassandra blinked, forcing herself to concentrate on him. For the first time she noticed brown flecks in his green eyes and the way one brow slanted up fractionally more than the other.

‘Stuffy in there,’ she mumbled.
And that hairy hand, right on my breast…

‘Cassandra,’ Nicholas’s voice was peremptory. ‘You can’t faint here, pull yourself together. We’re going to an inn now, you need food.’

Obediently she stumbled over the cobbles beside him, following the handcart loaded with their luggage. She was hungry, yes but it wasn’t that that had made her feel faint. It was the thought of those dirty rough hands pawing her body, the reek of garlic and sweat in the Hall and the land seeming to move under her feet.

But by the time their porter delivered the bags to the doors of the
Hotel d'Angleterre
she was feeling more herself and able to look around at the scurrying servants and throng of well-dressed guests. The air was full of noisy English voices raised in demands for food and wine, and the shouts of ostlers backing horses between the shafts of travelling carriages.

Eyeing the hubbub, Nicholas remarked, ‘It’s as well I reserved a private suite. This place has regained all its popularity with people doing the Grand Tour after the war and they say the owners have made a fortune here.’

They dined alone in their own parlour, ignoring the waiter’s raised eyebrows at a nobleman’s latitude in permitting his valet to share his table.

‘Won’t they think it odd?’ Cassandra asked as the door closed behind the man.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘It’s of no matter, they think the English are mad, anyway. Pass the buttered crab, I believe it is the speciality of the house.’

Drowsy with food and sea air, Cassandra fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow in the tiny chamber Nicholas secured for her.

Next morning she tumbled downstairs rubbing the sleep from her eyes to find him already up and dressed, impatiently tapping his foot on the cobbles as he watched the first carriages leaving the inn yard.

‘Hurry up, Cass, if you want any breakfast,’ he ordered. ‘And, for heaven’s sake, do something about that neckcloth, you look more like a scarecrow than a valet.’

She was becoming accustomed to his uncertain temper first thing in the morning and, sure enough, by the time they settled themselves in the carriage hired from the inn, Nicholas’s mood was positively cheerful. Cassandra gathered he approved of the horses they had obtained and that even the French postillions passed muster.

After the dismal streets of Calais the wide open countryside with its fields of green corn and red poppies came as a surprise and a pleasure. There were no hills or deep valleys to slow the horses, only a rolling greenness which pleased the eye until interrupted by small, squalid, villages, or collections of tumbledown farm buildings.

‘Bored?’ Nicholas enquired sometime later as she settled herself back against the cushions with a deep sigh.

‘I expected it to be so different, but the countryside could be Hertfordshire.’

‘What did you expect?’ Nicholas grinned at her. ‘Dragons or strange costumes? This is France, not Cathay.’

‘But after the sea crossing, everything seems so ordinary,’ Cassandra lamented.

‘Can you play cards?’ Nicholas produced a pack and started to shuffle them. ‘No? I'll teach you to play piquet.’

By the time they passed through the gate of Amiens that evening, Cassie had won several sixpences.

‘Are all card games this simple?’ she enquired disingenuously, as Nicholas put away the pack.

‘I am learning a little about you, Cassie. Under that country girl exterior beats the heart of a gamester.’ Nicholas regarded her wryly, wondering whether she had been lying about her lack of expertise at cards. ‘My mother will not be pleased with me, teaching you to gamble.’

Despite the warmth of the cheerfully-lit inn, he saw her shiver as she carried the dressing case inside. Poor girl, she had borne up far better than he could have expected. Most delicately raised young women of his acquaintance would have had the vapours inside five minutes, but then, he was forgetting just what a child she was. He patted her arm. ‘Bear up, Cassie, we’re nearly there. By this time tomorrow you’ll be safe with Mama.’

‘I’m not… I’m enjoying myself, this is an adventure,’ she said stiffly. ‘I just realised how close to the end of it we are. But you’ll be glad. You’ll leave me in Paris and go off and I’ll learn to be female again.’

‘Ah, well.’ He paused in the act of tying a clean neckcloth, aware that a slight smile of anticipation was curving his lips. ‘I intend enjoying Paris to the full. I think I deserve a little diversion after playing the governess.’

Cassie snapped back, ‘Have I been such a burden then? After all, it was your idea to bring me!’

Now what?
It seemed he couldn’t do right for doing wrong in her eyes.
‘You ungrateful brat.’ He swung round, fists on hips, to regard her coldly. ‘I would have left you on the doorstep if you hadn’t threatened to throw yourself in the Thames.’

‘It wasn’t that at all,’ she flared, inexplicably angry. ‘After your valet broke his leg, it simply suited your convenience to bring me with you. But, of course,’ she added sarcastically, ‘I should have realised, you’re regretting not going to stay with Aunt Augusta and meeting the eligible Miss Hare.’

‘If nothing else, Miss Hare would be more amenable,’ he said, holding on to his temper by a thread.

‘And such a
suitable
match.’

‘You provoking brat.’ He seized her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. ‘You ungrateful, ungracious…’

‘You needed a valet.’ Cassie struggled, but only succeeded in making him tighten the hold. ‘If I hadn’t come with you, you wouldn’t be here now. So don’t try to pretend you did it out of the goodness of your heart. It suited your purposes, that’s all.’ Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were parted, the blue eyes flashed with temper.

Nicholas felt his own eyes narrow as he studied the angry face raised to his. ‘How old did you say you were, Cassandra?’

‘Fifteen,’ she stammered.

‘Old enough to be trouble.’ He dropped his hands and stepped back. ‘I suggest you curb your temper in future dealings with gentlemen. Some might take it as a provocation.’

‘And you wouldn’t?’ she threw at him.

Heaven help me…
‘All you provoke me to, brat, is an urge to paddle your britches! Come on, I need my dinner.’

The next day’s journey from Amiens to Paris was accomplished in an atmosphere of cool politeness. She suspected that Nicholas knew that he had gone too far, just as she had, but it seemed neither was prepared to admit it and apologise.

If she had thought the formalities at Calais irksome, they were much worse at the gates of Paris, where officials of the
Bureau du Roi
examined the carriage and its contents at tiresome length.

‘Why don’t you bribe them?’ Cassandra enquired irritably, tired of being jostled by the importuning crowd of touts and trinket sellers who had descended on the travellers.

‘I am more inclined to hire a new valet from amongst those offering their services,’ Nicholas remarked, gesticulating at the crowd of smartly-dressed young men who noisily proffered references from previous employers.

‘They’re wearing earrings,’ Cassandra observed censoriously.

‘But no doubt they can tie a cravat.’

Her smouldering silence lasted just as long as her first glimpse of the Seine and the sight of the fashionable quarters where the great houses of the nobility still existed, despite the Revolution.

At first, Cassandra was enthralled, but after a few minutes she turned to Nicholas, her nose wrinkled with disgust. ‘It’s
filthy
. Just look at the mud. And there are no pavements. See that lady there.' She pointed to an elegantly-dressed woman hopping from one stepping stone to another, her gown gathered up. ‘And it is so noisy and crowded.’

‘I believe it is reckoned to be the most populous city in Europe,’ Nicholas remarked. ‘But there are compensations. When my mother begins to take you about, you will enjoy the gardens and the shops, no doubt.’ He spoke absently. Cassandra was convinced he had all but forgotten her now they were almost at his uncle’s house and he could be rid of her.

‘And what will you do?’

‘Meet with friends, play cards, go to the opera,’ he said vaguely. Cassandra noticed the way his head turned to watch a handsome young woman promenading slowly along the edge of the Tuileries gardens.

Cassandra ran her hand through her tumbled curls and twitched her neckcloth into some sort of order, ready to meet her godmother.
What a pity it is
, she thought,
that a nice boy who rescued kittens from trees should grow up to be frivolous, bad tempered, arrogant…

‘Why are you frowning, Cassie? And try at least to stop sulking. We’re here. If you look like that my mother will pack you straight back to your father.’

The postillions wheeled their horses to swing through the elaborate ironwork gates of the
porte cochere
of a great
hote
l. Immediately servants ran into the wide cobbled courtyard to fling open the carriage doors and let down the steps.

Cassandra climbed down and stood looking around her, mouth half open at the magnificence of the classical pilasters and the regular ranks of many-paned windows.

‘Does your uncle own this?’ she whispered, awed.

‘No, he hires, like everyone else who visits. He is never here long enough to warrant a permanent establishment.’ He broke off to acknowledge the bow of the steward who stood at the head of the steps to greet him. ‘
Bonjour
, Gaston. Is my uncle at home?’

‘I fear not, milord. Sir Marcus has been recalled to Vienna.
Helas
! He will be
desolé
at missing your lordship-but,
c'est la vie
, these are the inconveniences of the life of the diplomat.’

Cassandra felt a wave of relief. She had not relished the thought of being introduced to Sir Marcus Camberley, who could not help but disapprove of her actions. Now she would have Godmama to herself and could explain it all. Feminine company and sympathy, a woman to talk to who would understand her dilemma…

Gaston was ushering Nicholas across the wide marble entrance hall, bowing him into the salon Cassandra following behind. With a snap of his fingers he summoned a footman, ‘Take his lordship’s valet to his suite.’

‘No, Gaston, I want him with me.’ He ignored the steward’s raised eyebrows. ‘Is the Countess at home?’

‘Pardon
, milord, I have not made myself clear,
Madame la Comtesse
has accompanied
Monsieur
her brother to Vienna. She acts as his hostess this Season, you understand.’

If Cassandra had not been so distressed herself, the look on Nicholas’s face would have been almost comical. ‘Not here?’ He pushed his hands through his hair, then sat down in the nearest chair, his long legs thrust out in front of him. For a long moment he looked from Cassandra to the steward and back again. The silence stretched on, then he came to a decision.

‘The brandy, Gaston. Bring it yourself and close the door. I need to consult with you.’

‘Certainment
, milord.’

Cassandra sat numbly on the edge of a brocade-covered sofa. She hadn’t thought beyond Paris, beyond the sanctuary Godmama would provide. Now her mind seemed blank, all she could do was sit, watching while Nicholas warmed the brandy glass between his palms, apparently lost in thought. The steward waited patiently, his intelligent dark eyes flicking from Nicholas to her.

‘This person, Gaston, is not my valet. It is
Mademoiselle
Weston, the god-daughter of my mother.’

‘Indeed, milord.’

‘Indeed. She has had to leave the shelter of her home for reasons I do not propose to enter into and, finding my mother away from home, has accompanied me here. For purposes of discretion and propriety she has been dressed as you see her. Now I find
Madame la Comtesse
is not here to take charge of her. You see my predicament, Gaston?’

‘I do, milord,’ the steward said. ‘A situation of some delicacy,
n’est-pas
?’

‘You have had experience of many delicate matters in your years with my uncle. Does any solution present itself to you now, perhaps?’

The steward hesitated only briefly. ‘If I may suggest, milord, the housekeeper,
Madame
Robert, is a woman of intelligence and refinement. She would be an excellent chaperone for the young lady until
Madame la Comtesse
returns. I presume there is no question of Mademoiselle Weston going out into Society until then?’

‘Certainly not. Your solution will answer admirably.’ Nicholas finished the brandy and began to get up. ‘I knew you would come up with a solution to the, problem Gaston. A respectable housekeeper is just the person to take charge of the girl.’

‘Do I have no say in the matter?’ Cassandra enquired frostily. The play of emotions on Nicholas’s face was all too plain, he’d rid himself of an inconvenience, his duty as her godmother’s son was quit, now he could get on with enjoying himself.

Nicholas eyed her. ‘No.’

‘So I am to be a prisoner in this house, bored to tears, with no diversion…’

‘There is no alternative, unless you want me to pack you straight home again, you ungrateful br– ’ He stopped suddenly, clearly recalling the steward’s presence. ‘I shall do my best to make sure you are not bored. If I arrange a small allowance for you, you may engage a dressmaker. Tomorrow I will find you a dancing master, a French master and a drawing master. That way your days will be filled, and by the time my mother returns, you may be fit to go about with her, perhaps even attend young people’s parties.’

Cassandra felt a rush of contrition. Repeated disappointments were hitting her like blows, making her act like the girl he thought her. Nicholas was trying to do his best for her under the most difficult of circumstances. The suspicion that he would have done almost anything to get rid of her was unworthy.

‘Thank you, Nicholas, that is very kind of you,’ she said meekly.

‘That is settled, then.’ He shot her a suspicious glance, as if he had expected some resistance. ‘Go with Gaston now, he will take you to
Madame
Robert. And behave yourself, child.’

He kept calling her
child
. It galled, but it served her purpose.

The sharp-eyed Frenchwoman to whom Gaston handed her with an explanation in rapid French was not so easily fooled.

‘I thought
Monsieur
Gaston said you were fifteen,
Mademoiselle,
’ she commented an hour later, handing Cassandra a towel as she climbed out of the bath.

‘I…’ Cassandra was within an inch of confirming the lie when she looked up and met the other woman’s beady regard. The dark eyes were not unkind, but they were shrewd. ‘I am eighteen,'’ she confessed. ‘But the Earl believes me to be younger.’

‘And you thought it wise not to set him right,’ the housekeeper said drily. ‘I see.’

‘You do,
Madame
?’ Cassandra was surprised.

‘But, yes. You have to leave home – an
affaire
of the heart, no doubt? – the Earl is your only friend. Why embarrass him with the truth?’

Cassandra smiled to herself, but said only, ‘You speak excellent English,
Madame
.’

‘My late husband was a wine merchant. For many years during the war we lived in Bristol. When he died I returned to France. The English climate does not suit me.’

She bustled around gathering up the discarded male clothing. ‘When you are dressed
à la jeune femme
, we will engage for you a lady’s maid. Until then, we must be discreet, I will look after you.’ She held up a peignoir borrowed from the Countess’s wardrobe. ‘Put this on and I will fetch you a little supper. Tomorrow we will find you a few simple dresses. While the Earl is here, it is best you remain fifteen.’ Her lips quirked in amusement.

Cassandra relaxed, curled up in an armchair before the fire. The warmth of the day had turned to evening cool in the high-ceilinged mansion. Despite everything, she felt happiness creeping back. She was in Paris, her father would never find her here, and
Madame
Robert was a wonderful ally. She was going to enjoy herself, and, when Nicholas returned from his Grand Tour, he was going to find a young lady of quality and accomplishment staying with his mother. He would never call her
brat
again.