Miss Weston's Masquerade

Chapter One

The Audley Street Chapel clock struck nine, echoed by others more distant, their chimes carrying clearly on the still morning air. At last. Cassandra Weston emerged stiffly from the shelter of a dusty laurel bush and brushed down her cloak as she surveyed her surroundings in daylight.

There were people abroad in Grosvenor Square, but they were servants and tradesmen hurrying about their masters’ business, not, at this hour, any of the Quality who might pose a danger to her. At home in Hertfordshire she and Papa would have already breakfasted by now, the workers at Home Farm would have finished the milking and the streets of Ware would be bustling with market-goers. But this was the heart of fashionable London, another world altogether.

She drew back into cover as a small cart rumbled past over the cobbles. Now it was full light and she could see where she was, see just what she must look like, her courage wavered, but nothing would be gained by hesitating. Going on had to be better than going back. She ran her hands over her hair, dislodging several leaves and a twig, gave a jaw-cracking yawn and picked her way across the cobbles to the steps of the big house in front of her.

The knocker was heavy and cold in her hands but she still hesitated before letting it fall. It was five years since she had last seen her godmother. What if she had miscalculated, presumed too much on the lasting affection of Mama’s best friend? Perhaps Lady Lydford would take one look at her and pack her straight back to Hertfordshire and Papa. And if she did that, what options would be left to her? Cassandra thought of the oily, sliding waters of the Thames, shuddered, and the knocker fell from her fingers with a resounding thud.

The door swung open so sharply that she took a step back, stumbling over the hem of her cloak. She had expected a footman, not the stately figure of the family butler, eyebrows raised in distain at the sight on the doorstep.

‘The tradesman’s entrance is at the rear.’

The door was already closing before Cassandra found her voice. ‘Wait, please, Peacock. You are Peacock, aren’t you?’

The butler hesitated and looked down at her. ‘And what if it is?’ he demanded, frowning. obviously puzzled by the contrast between the sight before him and an educated voice.

‘I must see Lady Lydford.’

‘The Dowager Countess is not at home.’

‘Then I will wait,’ Cassandra said, attempting to put some confidence into her tone.

‘I did not mean that her ladyship is not At Home, I mean that her ladyship is not at home. She is, in fact, not even in the country. a fact that any of her ladyship’s acquaintances well know.’ Peacock began to close the door again.

‘Out of the country?’ In her desperation she had never considered the possibility that her godmother would not be in London. All her courage, all her determination, seemed to vanish until all she was conscious of was shock, hunger, fatigue. Peacock’s figure wavered in front of her eyes, grew taller as her knees gave way. The impact of cold, hard stone steps jarred through her. ‘Godmama is not here?’

Peacock stooped, his hand closing around her upper arm, his eyes sharp on her face. ‘Godmama? You cannot remain here on the steps. Come inside.’ He hauled her to her feet none too gently, and cast a rapid glance across the Square. Instinctively she looked too, but the only people in sight were a milkmaid emerging from Brook Street with pails suspended from the yoke across her shoulders, a street sweeper and a hurrying page boy.

The butler released her arm as the door closed and Cassandra found herself standing in the hall, an expanse of black and white marble. The light from the central lantern gleamed richly on the balustrade of the curving staircase and the few pieces of carefully placed furniture. She rubbed her arm and tried not to show that she was impressed by the elegance. At least she was inside and not out on the street.

A footman emerged silently from an anteroom to disappear through a door under the stairs. Peacock sighed almost imperceptibly, his eyes on the man’s back. ‘I think it best you should go to his lordship at once and not wait where the other servants can see you.’

‘The Earl is at home?’ For some reason she had assumed that with Godmama away, all the members of the family would be absent.

‘For the present. He leaves for the Continent today.’ Peacock gestured abruptly to her to follow, probably regretting his impulse to admit her. Cassandra caught sight of her distorted reflection in a great silver urn as she passed, a slight figure in a dusty cloak, following Peacock’s disapproving bulk. She tried not to let her ill-fitting shoes clatter on the polished stair treads as she stumbled, too tired to co-ordinate properly.

With a glance behind him, presumably to see if the unwelcome and embarrassing visitor was still there or had simply been a butler’s nightmare, Peacock halted and scratched lightly on the door in front of him.

Cassandra craned her neck as the door opened, but only a portion of the room was visible past Peacock’s black-clad shoulders, and she could see nothing at all of the man inside who was speaking.

‘How the devil would I know how many neck cloths I will need before we reach Paris? Does it matter? Do they not manufacture such articles on the Continent?’

Nicholas Anthony St John Cheney, Seventh Earl of Lydford, was evidently out of humour. Cassandra fought down the urge to turn and run down the staircase, across the chequerboard hall, out into the morning-quiet street beyond, and stood her ground.

‘None of the quality we would accept, my lord.’ The valet coughed softly. ‘Mr Peacock is at the door, my lord.’

‘I am aware of th