Miss Weston's Masquerade (8 page)

‘A penny for your thoughts or can’t you decide what to do with that hand?’ he asked when she hesitated over a discard.

She put down a red three and said with her usual devastating honesty, ‘I was thinking how nice you were being, just like an older brother, not the arrogant Earl of Lydford.

Brother, yes that’s the way to think of her.
‘You make me sound like an ogre. Of course I’m being nice, you’re behaving yourself.’ He grinned. ‘And that was a very foolish discard. My point.’

Cassie swung one buckled shoe back and forth, clearly fighting the urge to kick him on the ankle. ‘Aggravating man,’ she muttered.

The Saône and Rhône met at Lyons, cutting their way through the ridge of hills down which the city tumbled to the quaysides. After the succession of squalid villages and provincial towns through which they’d passed, Lyons seemed almost as splendid as Paris.

The postilions turned the carriage in to the yard of the
Dauphin
, one of the best inns in the city. The tired horses stood steaming in the traces as Cassandra, who was pleased with the way her fluency was coming along, gave instructions in French to the porters and Nicholas was greeted by the
patron
, effusive in his greetings to the English milord.

‘We are in luck tonight,’ Nicholas commented, as the innkeeper bowed them through the front door. ‘I have secured two bedchambers and a private dining-room.’

‘Yes, I overheard.’

Nicholas arched a laconic eyebrow. ‘You are turning into an passable valet, Cass. The state of my linen is improving, although I cannot say the same for my boots, and your French is excellent.’

‘Your lordship is too kind,’ Cassandra murmured, sketching a bow as she stood aside for him to enter the room.

‘Impertinent brat, and yes, I
am
too kind,’ Nicholas murmured in return. ‘Wine and biscuits, my good man. And send hot water and two baths. I dislike dirty servants,’ he added, catching the innkeeper’s surprised look at such consideration for a valet.

The luxury of soaking in hot water, after days of surreptitious dabbing with a rag and cold water, was blissful. Cassandra emerged pink and glowing to rummage in the medicine chest for the salve to dab on her flea bites. The jar was almost empty, obviously Nicholas was similarly afflicted. She put on her one remaining clean shirt, buttoned her waistcoat firmly over her breasts, checked with a sideways glance in the mirror for betraying curves and, satisfied, tapped on Nicholas’s door.

He was sitting, feet up, in the window seat, languidly paring his nails and watching the street below.

‘We need to go shopping,’ Cassandra remarked. ‘I need a shirt and you need neck cloths and we both need flea salve. I don’t believe oil of lavender does anything to keep them away, whatever the books say.’

‘And you need another haircut.’ Nicholas studied her critically. ‘Those wispy little curls are really quite fetching – ’ His green eyes were suddenly warm on her face and Cassandra felt the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘but not on a valet. Come here, I’ll do it now while I have the scissors out.’

Reluctantly, Cassandra came and perched on the edge of the window seat.

‘Look down so I can do the back.’ His fingers seemed to burn on the skin at the nape of her neck as he lifted and snipped each curl. ‘Stop wriggling,’ he ordered, dropping one hand to her shoulder to hold her steady as he trimmed around her ear.

Cassandra could feel the heat of Nicholas’s body, warm from the bath as hers was, his breath feathering her ear, the coldness of the metal as he rested the scissors on her cheekbone for a second. Her breath came short, and under the constricting waistcoat she felt her nipples harden against the fine linen shirt. Instinctively she turned her face to his, her lips slightly parted, and found him watching her, the scissors still in his fingers.

There was a long silence, heavy in the hot room, the only movement the swirl of the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Nicholas bent towards her, his eyes fixed on her parted lips. The scissors dropped from his heedless fingers and skidded across the polished boards with a clatter and they jerked apart.

Cassandra leapt to her feet. ‘Where's the clothes brush? I’ve got hair all over my waistcoat.’ She was almost gabbling, avoiding his eyes as she rummaged in the dressing case for the brush.

A tap on the door and a waiter bringing in a tray of wine and almond biscuits was a merciful distraction. Nicholas seemed quite relaxed as he sipped the wine, but Cassandra still could not bring herself to meet his eyes.

He had once more made himself comfortable in the window seat, thumbing through the guidebook for references to Lyons. ‘At least the shops here are recommended, both for clothes and for luxuries. It’s getting cooler, shall we go now and eat when we return?’

‘Er… yes.’ Cassandra shrugged her coat on. Nicholas seemed quite calm, she must have imagined he had been about to kiss her again. It was extremely immodest of her to feel like this, to want him to kiss her, she told herself severely, trying to look as masculine as possible by matching his long stride as they crossed the yard.

The streets were bustling, the crowds jostling in the
traboules
, the narrow alleys which threaded their way between the medieval houses to the river quays. The
Lyonnais
were noisier, more lively than the northern French. They were darker, more voluble and their French was alarmingly fast to Cassandra, trying to catch phrases as she walked.

When they reached the shopping quarter, Cassandra found an apothecary’s shop, its window full of jars of vipers in oil and even a stuffed crocodile. She purchased a large jar of unguent, guaranteed to repel even the most virile flea, more oil of lavender and a good supply of olive oil soap in angular brown lumps.

There was no shortage of linen drapers and, acting the good servant, Cassandra was soon loaded with parcels of shirts, neck cloths and body linen. Nicholas was striding on ahead when she caught a glimpse of sunlight on vivid colours and he had to come back, only to find her, nose pressed against the glass, gazing longingly at a display of the most exquisite painted silk fans. There were flower patterns, roses, Chinese scenes, lovers in arbours. Small fans and large fans and fans with feathers and beads.

‘Cass, come on, I want my dinner.’ Cassandra turned to find him laughing at her. ‘Valets do not stand lusting after fans. You are being stared at.’

‘I don’t care, Nicholas,’ she breathed. ‘They are beautiful. Look at that one at the back with the classical scene. It’s Arcadia, I think. See the nymphs and fauns.’

‘Wait there.’ He left her standing on the pavement and went inside, shaking his head ruefully. When he emerged, he had a flat package tucked under his arm, silk ribbons streaming.

‘What’s that?’ Cassandra demanded, tripping over her feet as she tried to keep up with him, while looking back over her shoulder at the shop window.

‘Never you mind. You gave me an idea. It’s a present for a lady l know.’

Cassandra glared at the blue broadcloth stretched taut across his shoulders. So that was it, a trinket for one of his married mistresses when he got home to England.

However, it seemed the lady was nearer at hand. As the waiter brought food into their private dining-room, Nicholas strode in, fastening his cloak over his evening attire.

‘You’re not going out?’ she demanded.

‘I certainly am. I’ve ordered you an excellent dinner, you’ll be quite comfortable here with no need to go out. And don’t wait up,’ he called as the door closed behind him.

Cassandra tore a roll apart and spread butter on it with a lavish hand. He obviously wasn’t going out for dinner - he could have had a perfectly good dinner here with her, even if that was a fricassee of frogs’ legs she could see at the end of the table. And she very much doubted if an evening of cultural activity was what Nicholas had in mind, although she suspected the theatre would feature in his plans. Cassandra had heard about opera dancers, who apparently provided much of the entertainment for gentlemen bored with the play.

She was still wide awake as the clocks were chiming two and the door to the adjoining chamber creaked open.
About time
. He was so inconsiderate, here was she, lying sleepless, imagining him with his throat cut by pickpockets in some darkened alley…

No, it wasn’t that keeping slumber at bay, she admitted to herself. It was the thought of Nicholas in the arms of the lady for whom the fan was intended, of her gratitude for the pretty gift.

Candlelight showed under her door and footsteps crossed the floor. To her surprise, her door opened slowly, and Nicholas tiptoed in. Cassandra froze, her fingers grasping the coverlet. What was he doing in her room? Even when she’d had to sleep behind a screen in his chamber, he had never once entered that private space.

She half closed her eyes, trying to feign sleep, certain he would hear the sound of her racing pulse in the silent room. Under her lashes she watched him move towards her bed and bend down. Cassandra closed her eyes and almost stopped breathing. She knew he shouldn’t be there, knew she should cry out, but she could not, she didn’t want to. She felt him gently place something on the foot of the bed, then he tiptoed out again.

Gradually she relaxed her fingers as the door closed behind him and sounds made it obvious Nicholas was preparing for bed. The candle next door was snuffed. Cautiously Cassandra sat up and peered down at the foot of the bed. In the moonlight she could clearly make out the shape of an oblong package with a tangle of ribbon. He had given her the fan.

When Cassandra woke in the morning the package was clutched in her arms like a child’s doll, the ribbons crushed. Eagerly she pulled off the paper to examine the prize in the daylight. Gold leaf gleamed around the edge, the ivory sticks were smooth as butter under her fingers. Slowly she opened it up, tracing the delicate painted figures with a fingertip.

The door of Nicholas’s chamber banged, startling her out of her reverie. What time was it? Judging by the bustle in the street below and the strength of the light flooding through the windows, she had overslept. Nicholas must have gone out without her.

Cassandra balanced on one foot, tugging on her other shoe, worrying about oversleeping. Usually she was up well before Nicholas and had his hot water, clean linen and breakfast all organised before he shouted for the first cup of coffee.

In his room, yesterday’s shirt was tossed on the floor and in their private parlour, the remains of rolls and an almost empty coffee pot showed he had eaten before leaving. Cassandra rang for chocolate and rolls for herself and began tidying the bedchamber.

Should she pack their valises or not? Nicholas had not said how long he intended to stay, nor what their route from here would be.

When the chocolate came, she curled up in the window seat, the opened fan propped up at her feet, sipping the hot drink. Beneath her the street was thronged with tradesmen making deliveries both to the inn and to the private houses on either side. There were few carriages abroad at this hour and few gentry on the street: Nicholas ought to be easy to spot when he returned.

It was blissfully warm in the sunlight bathing the window seat. Cassandra wriggled comfortably against the cushions and realised to her surprise that she was happier than she had ever been in her life. Despite the fleabites, the boy’s clothes, the bumpy roads and Nicholas’s uncertain temper she felt alive, vital, free. For nearly eighteen years she’d been her father’s silent companion. Showing emotion was frowned upon, as were high spirits, or any display of temperament.

At best, her father had treated her as a rather unintelligent housekeeper. Now she was discovering that she could live off her wits. Rubbing shoulders with all classes, speaking French, pretending to be a boy, were all new experiences. A few weeks ago she would never have believed this could happen. When she’d run away from home she was only seeking sanctuary, not this new world of vivid impressions.

But the most unexpected boon was this companionship she and Nicholas had achieved. If that was what it was. Cassandra looked at the fan again, biting her lip with indecision. If only she knew what he felt about her, what his reasons were for giving her the fan.

She’d missed Nicholas in the street below, she realised as the door behind her opened and he strolled in whistling, hands in pockets.

‘You sound very cheerful,’ Cassandra remarked, wondering who was responsible for putting the twinkle in his eye and the spring in his step.

‘The sun is shining and not every young woman in Lyons is toothless.’ He tossed his cane and gloves to one side. ‘So, you decided to get up at last. Are we packed?’

‘No, because you didn’t tell me we were leaving this morning.’ Cassandra scrambled off the seat, then remembered the fan. ‘Thank you for the, er,..’ She could feel herself blushing and blundered on. ‘The fan… it is very beautiful.’ She gazed at the buckles on her shoes, wondering why it was so difficult to thank him.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. You’ve been a good girl, and I couldn’t resist the look on your face, like an infant in a toyshop.’ He flicked open the top of the chocolate pot to see if any remained, then threw himself down in a winged chair. ‘You can put it somewhere safe until you’re grown up.’

A good girl? Cassandra burned with indignation, within an ace of telling him just how old she was, then bit back the words. What would he do if he realised she was eighteen? Pack her off to Vienna with a respectable widow – or give in to the instincts that had brought them so close to a kiss yesterday?

Cassandra couldn’t decide which would be worse, when all she wanted was to stay with Nicholas on this long route to Vienna, to build on the friendship that was growing between them. Anything else was too complicated.

‘Cassandra?’ Nicholas had obviously been speaking to her for a few moments. ‘Do wake up! The cases need to be packed. See to it while I talk to the postillions. We’ve got a boat to catch.’

A boat
? Cassandra was still asking questions when they arrived on the quayside. The postillions unhitched the horses, were paid off by Nicholas and clattered away, leaving the carriage stranded on the cobbles.

‘But where’s the boat? And we can’t leave the carriage here.’

‘Stop tugging at my coat tails and watch.’

A group of men swung a crude wooden crane over the carriage and heaved until it dangled precariously in the air. The wheels were removed and handed over the quayside into a large, flat-bottomed boat where they were laid flat, half submerged by dirty bilge water. To Cassandra’s horror, the body of the carriage was swung over and down until it rested upon them.

‘We can’t go in that,’ she protested looking at the crude boat rocking on the swift flowing River Rhône. ‘It’s nothing but a giant punt!’

‘That giant punt is costing me seven guineas. Would you rather jolt over miles more road? Or perhaps crowd onto the public boat? We can stop at night, there are inns all along the banks.’

Cassandra looked dubiously at the vicious swirl of the current and felt her stomach contract. ‘I can’t swim, Nicholas.’ The ship on the sea was one thing, this virtual raft, so low on the water, quite another.

‘Nonsense, nobody’s going to fall in. And look how much you enjoyed crossing the Channel.’

She wouldn’t let him see how nervous it made her. Cassandra watched the four boatmen making ready their long poles and sorting ropes. A rather more practical problem asserted itself. ‘Nicholas.’

‘Hmm?’ He was watching them make the carriage secure with a lashing of cords.

‘Will we be on the boat all day? I mean… they’re all men and I…’

Nicholas grinned at her discomfiture. ‘Don't worry, brat. The very latest in travelling commodes is in the carriage which, as you know, is equipped with curtains.’

‘Oh, thank you. I didn’t think it would occur to you.’

‘It didn’t, but it’s suggested in the guidebook. Now climb down and let’s be off.’

Once the moorings were let go, the boat was pulled swiftly into the current. Two of the boatmen pulled on the primitive rudder, a long oar protruding through a hole cut in the stern, while the others fended off with poles on either side.

‘Cass, what are you doing? Get in.’ Nicholas was already in the carriage, but Cassandra perched on one of the thwarts, keeping her feet out of the bilge water with difficulty.

‘I’m staying here,’ she stated flatly. ‘If this thing goes down, I’m not going to be stuck in the carriage.’

Gradually the novelty of being on the river overcame her nervousness and she started to relax and enjoy herself. The tall houses and warehouses began to diminish as they left the city behind them, but the river was surprisingly busy with traffic crossing from bank to bank, or boats like their own laden with every cargo from sheep to bales.

The men had to work hard to keep a straight line down the Rhône, using their poles as brakes and steering oars. Other boatmen waved or shouted comments, some of them obscene enough to bring a blush to Cassandra’s cheeks. Unsteadily she stood up and spoke to Nicholas. ‘They all seem very rough. Are they reliable?’

‘This was the most respectable crew I could find.’ Nicholas seemed relaxed, but Cassandra noticed the coach pistols were out of their holsters and very much to hand. ‘This is hardly a pleasure trip on the River Thames. When the boat reaches Arles it will be broken up for firewood and the men will have to make their own way back upstream. They need to be tough.’