Miss Weston's Masquerade (13 page)

‘It is rather fine,’ he remarked casually, then grinned at her fierce expression, ‘Oh, yes, you’re right, it is wonderful. A dream city.’

Their passage across the lagoons of Chioggia and Malamocco gave them different vistas every few minutes as the boatmen wove between mud banks and islets. At last they entered the
Canale della Giudecca
, a waterway as wide as the Thames at London, and as crowded, with craft of all sizes, from sea-going galleys with banks of oars, to the narrow black gondolas.

‘Look,’ she said, pointing, her grip on his arm making him smile. ‘Gondolas, I’ve read about those. But reading of Venice in Papa’s study gave me no idea it would be like this, so alive.’

Seeing it through her eyes added to his own perception, Nicholas realised. The noise of bargemen shouting, the bustle of constant activity between the shore and the boats, the vivid colours under the brilliant sun and the exotic shapes and colours of the buildings were almost overwhelming. At his side Cassandra seemed to have forgotten her miseries and discomforts.

‘Ouch! Cass, let go of my arm.’ The excited grip sent sharp fingernails digging in. She hadn’t even known she had hold of him, he realised as she let go and smoothed down the creased cloth of his sleeve with a penitent hand. ‘Never mind that.’ He pointed ahead. ‘There’s St Mark's and the Campanile.’

Cassandra was trying to find the correct page in the guidebook without taking her eyes off the gorgeously exotic facade of the Doge’s Palace, its delicate pink and white walls seeming to float on the water, its walls crowned with Arabic ornaments and spikes.

No sooner had the barge drawn up alongside the crowded pavement than she had scrambled ashore and was hopping from one foot to the other with impatience, while Nicholas retrieved their luggage. ‘Come on,’ she urged, ‘we go up here to get to the Piazza.’

Nicholas had to seize her by the collar to restrain her. ‘Not now, Cass. Wait here and guard the luggage while I hire a gondola to take us to the
palazzo
.’

‘A
palace
? We're staying in a palace?’ All thoughts of exploration had clearly fled.

‘If you hadn’t been sulking for the last sennight, I would have told you,’ he said, amused ‘It’s been hired by my friend Beckwood, but he’s been summoned to Rome by his uncle at the Embassy, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.’

And the thought of that privacy and comfort was a considerable relief. In a private lodging Cassie would have only the servants to deceive. There would be no sharp-eyed noblemen to avoid, no sharp-tongued harridans to gull. And he could relax, knowing she was in a safe, comfortable environment.

Travelling in the gondola after the heavy barge was like riding a horse after being in a carriage. The gondolier, dextrously propelling the swift craft with strokes of his oar, dodged between the shoals of boats ferrying people of all classes about their business. They made their way up the Grand Canal, under the Rialto Bridge, then turned sharply into a little side canal no more than twelve feet wide and flanked by twisting alleys and landing stages.

Their gondolier finally drew into the side of a miniature square with marble steps leading down to the water. The paving was decorated with coloured inlays and in the centre a little fountain bubbled.

Close to, the glamour was a trifle tarnished, he realised. The fine frontages were stained with water marks and the stucco was peeling to expose the stonework. Greenish water lapped at the walls and he laughed as Cassandra’s nose wrinkled at the smell. ‘The tide will not flush these little waterways as it does the main canals. Is the palace not as grand as you expected?’

‘It is wonderful,’ Cassandra protested. ‘So old and mysterious.’ She fell silent at the appearance at the door of a black-coated major domo flanked by footmen. With a gesture, he dispatched them to unload the rowing boat loaded with luggage which had followed the gondola and then advanced on Nicholas.

‘My lord.’ He bowed low. ‘Welcome to the Palazzo Lucca.
Signore
Beckwood is devastated that he cannot be here to greet you, but all is prepared. Pray enter.’

Nicholas rolled his eyes at Cassandra and followed the self-important little figure as it swept up the steps to the main door. Cassandra began to follow, then stopped, looking up. He followed her gaze to where her eye had been caught by a flash of colour at a window in the facade to her right.

A woman dressed in a robe of emerald green taffeta was leaning on the sill watching their arrival, idly brushing out the mass of coppery-gold curls which cascaded over one bare shoulder. Nicholas knew he was staring, but he had rarely seen such a blatantly sensuous creature before. As she watched, a man’s bare arm appeared, caressing the naked shoulder, and the woman turned and disappeared into the shadowy room.

‘I thought you said there was no one else staying here,’ Cassandra hissed when she caught him up in the monumental entrance hall.

‘There isn’t.’ He turned as she tugged at his sleeve.

‘But I thought I saw someone in the window over there.’ She pointed to the wing of the
palazzo
.

‘That’s another house,’ he explained. ‘Every building is crowded in against its neighbour, land is so scarce.’ He turned away and mounted the staircase in the wake of the major domo, trying not to think about the alluring woman so close and the temptations of the one even closer.

Cassandra mused to herself that she was certainly learning a great deal about the world. She could hazard a guess at the woman’s profession, but somehow the broad daylight made her state of undress seem even more scandalous. Nicholas had not seemed to react at all. Perhaps he hadn’t seen quite as clearly as she had.

They were shown into a suite of rooms overlooking the canal at the front and the courtyard at the side. Nicholas’s bedchamber faced directly across from the courtesan’s balcony and Cassandra closed the carved wooden shutters and jammed down the locking bar. ‘The sunlight is bad for the draperies,’ she explained, as he blinked in the sudden gloom.

‘The perfect housewife,’ he remarked drily, but made no move to re-open them. ‘Baths and hot water for myself and for my valet,’ he said to the major domo, but the man was already ushering in footmen with hip baths and brass water jugs.

Cassandra retreated to her own room which adjoined Nicholas’s with a shared balcony between them. As she closed the shutters, she peeped across at the opposite window, but it, too, was shuttered now.

The magnificence of her chamber stunned her with its cool, high ceiling adorned with cherubs and gods disporting on swirling clouds. The walls were lined with painted and gilded panelling interspersed with vast, cloudy mirrors and the bed was piled high with silk-covered pillows and hung with billowing draperies.

Cassandra caught a glimpse of herself in the glass and shuddered. Her hair was dark with dust and perspiration and her skin was dirty, too. Under the grime she suspected that she was not only tanned, but freckled also. She tore off the restricting waistcoat with a sigh of relief and threw off the rest of her clothing. The wide boards were cool under the soles of her feet and she wandered naked across the room to peer more closely at her reflection.

Her shoulders and breasts were milk white in contrast to the golden tan of her face and hands. The poor food and the strains of the journey had honed her already slender body and the unaccustomed freedom of striding around in breeches had sculpted her leg muscles, chasing away all traces of girlish plumpness.

Suddenly self-conscious, Cassandra crossed to the door onto the landing and turned the key. The major domo would not be inclined to knock before entering the room of a mere valet. Doubtfully, she contemplated the tall double doors connecting her chamber with Nicholas’s. There was no key in this escutcheon.

Need she worry? Nicholas had always been scrupulous in respecting her privacy, even when they were sharing a room. But yet, she felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the opulent femininity of the room, the air of decadence hanging over the whole city. She carried the painted and gilded chair from the dressing table and wedged it as best she could under the door handles.

The bath was deep and hot and, when she had washed all over once, she unlocked the door, retreated behind a screen and rang for more water. Clean at last, she let her mind drift as she luxuriated in the scented warmth. It was remarkable how quickly being clean lifted her spirits and improved her temper. Why, she felt quite in charity with Nicholas again.

Unbidden, the memory came back of lying against his long body, safe in the shelter of his arms, and more disturbing, the recollection of that kiss in Paris, the response it had kindled in her…

Idly, she squeezed out the sponge and saw how wrinkled her fingertips had become. It was time to get out before she resembled a prune. A pile of large linen towels were heaped on a chest and Cassandra draped one around herself under her armpits, tucking it in at the front. She found a smaller one and began to rub her wet hair, so much easier to dry now in its boyish crop.

Glancing up, she gazed at the ceiling once more, the painted scene suddenly making sense, revealing itself not as an innocent pastoral scene as she had thought but as a naughty playground where gods and satyrs chased naked nymphs through wooded glades. And when they caught them…

Her mouth dropped open at the explicitness of what was depicted there. Did men and women
truly
do that, like
that
? And, if they did, was it as pleasurable as it was depicted here?

Fascinated, Cassandra walked slowly backwards, her head tipped right back as she followed the unfolding scene.

‘Cassandra?’ Nicholas's voice called, but she was scarcely aware of it. The next second there was a crash, a curse and Nicholas was lying on top of her, inexplicably entangled in a chair.

‘What the devil?’ he gasped. ‘Why was that chair there? Are you hurt?’

Cassandra pushed the wet towel from her mouth and the hair from her eyes. He had knocked the wind out of her as they had fallen together and for a moment she couldn’t speak.

‘Cassandra?’ His green eyes, full of concern, were very close and her damp limbs were entwined with his.

‘I’m all right,’ she managed to say. ‘You squashed the breath out of me. Why didn’t you knock?’

‘I did, but there was no reply. I was worried about you, thinking you might have fallen asleep in the bath and drowned yourself.’

It seemed to Cassandra that indeed Nicholas was concerned for her. He was pale, his breath uncertain and he held her to him strongly. He was stroking her bare shoulder, almost as though he was unaware he was doing so, and his gaze was on her mouth.

‘Nicholas…’

‘Yes?’ His voice was husky, his face so close that his breath fanned her cheek.

‘I wanted to ask you something, but I think you will be shocked.’

He brushed the wet hair away from her temples and smiled down at her. ‘You can ask me anything, Cassandra.’

‘Well... this ceiling.’ She freed an arm and pointed upwards. ‘I… I mean... does that sort of thing really go on between men and women? I thought I knew... you know, what happens. But nothing like
that.’
She pointed to a particularly rapacious and inventive satyr.

Nicholas was silent, following her pointing finger. Then he broke into helpless laughter, rolling over and releasing her as he did so. He sat up, hands on knees, and regarded her as she gathered up the folds of towelling.

‘Cassie, my mother would thoroughly approve of your influence on me.’ He ignored her puzzled frown and got to his feet, ruefully rubbing a bruised knee. ‘Hurry up and get dressed, dinner will be ready. And,’ he paused in the doorway, ‘what the blazes was that chair doing there?'

‘I, er, I couldn’t find the key.’

‘For future reference, Cassie, that trick only works when the door opens towards you. Although, if you wish to cripple your would-be ravisher, this method is quite effective.’

‘But Nicholas, what about the ceiling?’

‘Ask my mother. It is a godmother’s duty to explain such matters to a young lady. I am certainly unequal to the task!’

The servants had left clean linen set out on the chair and Cassie dressed swiftly. Nicholas’s sudden eruption into her room had driven everything from her head, even the impropriety of finding herself scarcely-clad in his arms. Now everything she had felt while she sat under the olive tree in Nice and thought of Nicholas came back to her. She felt again the touch of his caressing fingers on her bare skin and a shiver ran through her, bringing with it, inexplicably, a vision of the woman in the green robe. Nicholas might anger and irritate her, make fun of her, but she was still in love with him and she still yearned for his touch.

And it was so improper to feel like this, she scolded herself, as she tied her neckcloth. A well-bred young lady should admire and respect a man she believed she loved, and the warmth of affection was all that should animate her. Surely this desire to be in his arms, to taste his skin again with her lips, to feel his strong body against hers, was shameful and sinful?

She was feeling somewhat shaken when she knocked on the door of his chamber, but outwardly she was composed as Nicholas opened the door to her.

The marble-floored dining salon was even more ornate than the bedchambers. The long table had been laid with two places at one end and candles cast pale shadows on the polished wood. The shutters were still half-closed against the early evening light and the air was warm and heavy.

‘Nicholas,’ she whispered, as servants began to carry in dishes. ‘Is it the Venetian custom for master and valet to dine together like this? And why has the major domo given me such a magnificent bedchamber?’

He waited until the servants had withdrawn to their station against the wall before replying, and even then seemed strangely reluctant to look her in the eye. ‘I suspect that Antonio, the major domo, has penetrated your disguise.’

‘Oh.’ Cassandra was surprised at the man’s perception, but even more puzzled by Nicholas’s diffidence. He was fiddling with the long stem of his wine glass, uncharacteristically ill at ease. ‘Then he knows I’m a… That I am female? Doesn’t he think that’s odd?’

‘I believe he has jumped to the obvious conclusion. Have some turbot.’

‘The obvious conclusion?’ Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, then she dropped the serving forks with a clang onto the silver platter. ‘You mean he believes we’re… that I’m your… But that’s
absurd
. You must tell him, Nicholas, at once, that I am no such thing.’

‘And how do I explain you to him what you are if you are not my mistress?’ he asked drily, finally looking her in the eye. ‘An Englishman with a mistress in Venice is so common-place as to be beyond remark.’

‘Dressed as a boy?’ Cassandra interjected in amazement.

‘Dressed as anything. In fact if you really were a boy he would probably come to a similar conclusion.’ He ignored her shocked gasp and sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘But a runaway, especially a well-bred female runaway, will be a cause for gossip and rumour. Remember where we are. This is Venice, the home of intrigue. There are many English residents and tourists in the city who would relish the gossip.’

‘But what about my reputation?’ she demanded, then realised how ridiculous she was being. She had abandoned that the moment she had donned breeches and escaped from her home. Too late now to quibble over the precise cause of her disgrace.

The same reasoning had obviously occurred to Nicholas. He said nothing, but gave her a hard stare and continued to eat his fish. Finally, after the servants had served a platter of quail, he remarked, ‘And I am not certain what the penalty for abduction is in Venice: breaking on the wheel, probably. They have clung to positively medieval methods of execution.’

Put like that, masquerading as his mistress seemed the lesser of two evils. They finished the meal in virtual silence. both lost in their own thoughts. When at last Nicholas pushed back his chair and stood up, Cassandra asked, ‘What are we going to do now? It’s a lovely evening, can we go to St Mark’s Square?’

‘You are going to bed and I am going out,’ Nicholas said firmly.

‘Where to?’

‘Really, Cassie, you are beginning to sound like a nagging wife. You need a good night’s sleep.’ He sounded out of patience with her. ‘I need a game of cards, some company and perhaps some dancing.’

‘Dancing? Painted women, more like.’

‘What a good idea,’ he said smoothly. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? Some grown up company for a change.’

He was gone before she could think of a suitable retort. Back in her room, she kicked angrily at the flounced drapes around the bed, then threw herself down among the cushions. She complained bitterly out loud about being left behind, suppressing the small voice inside that told her she was being very unfair and that after two weeks of playing the duenna, Nicholas deserved some entertainment.

Her eyes focused on the painted ceiling again. Did gods and goddesses really do that sort of thing? Did
anybody
do that sort of thing? Was that what the courtesan across the square spent her time doing? Did Nicholas like..? Her hectic thoughts were interrupted by a soft tap at the door.

‘Come in.’ She sat up.

‘Good evening,
ma donna
. Do you have any commands for the household?’ The major domo seemed quite unperturbed to be addressing a young lady in valet’s clothing as if she were mistress of the household.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ Cassandra sat up straight, suddenly full of enthusiasm. ‘I want some new clothes, some nice clothes.’

‘Men’s attire or women’s?’ Antonio enquired calmly.

‘Men’s, I suppose,’ she said gloomily. ‘But some fine fabrics, please, Antonio. Silk and linen.’

‘It will be as you wish, by noon tomorrow. Does
ma donna
require wine and biscuits now?’

‘No, thank you. I don’t want anything to eat, I want to go out.’

‘But, of course, I will bring you a cloak, and perhaps a mask would be wise.’

So, it seemed that guarding her formed no part of Antonio’s duties. Cassandra threw open both shutters and windows and walked out onto the balcony. Below her the previously quiet canal was now busy with gondolas, each bearing a cargo of richly attired men and women out for the night’s entertainment.

Antonio reappeared with a cloak of dull black silk, a half-mask dangling by its strings from his fingers. ‘Shall I order you a gondola?’

‘No, I will walk. There is a map in this guidebook.’