at, Franklin. Well, Peacock? Have you come to announce some further disaster to overset my plans?’
‘I could not say, my lord. There is a young… person to see you.’
‘What makes you think I would wish to interview a young person, or, indeed, anyone else, at this hour in the morning?’ A flash of vivid crimson brocade was intermittently visible. The Earl appeared to be pacing.
‘I believe you will wish to see this one.’ The butler spoke with a curious emphasis, stepping aside as he did so.
Exposed, Cassandra forced herself to stand still and not shrink back into the door embrasure behind her. She looked up and met the irritable gaze of a tall gentleman wearing a dressing gown shrugged carelessly over shirtsleeves and breeches.
‘Have you been at the port, Peacock? Why should I wish to see this scrubby boy?’
‘The young person was asking for the Dowager Countess, my lord.’ Peacock was very much on his dignity. Butlers of his superiority, Cassandra guessed, were not used to having their judgment questioned. ‘In view of her ladyship’s absence, I thought it best to escort the young…’
‘Will you kindly stop referring to this boy as a Young Person, Peacock. Here, you boy, come in, stop skulking in the shadows. Have you performed some service for my mother which requires recompense? Are you from one of her charitable projects?’ He turned impatiently to the butler. ‘I do feel, Peacock, that you could have dealt with this.’
‘Perhaps, my lord, if you were to enquire the young person’s name… Meanwhile, there is a matter which requires Franklin’s urgent attention in the laundry room. A question of a scorched shirt.’
The valet grimaced as he slipped out onto the landing. ‘Got out of bed the wrong side and three hours too early,’ he muttered sotto voce as he passed them.
Peacock propelled Cassandra into the bedchamber with a firm hand on her shoulder and shut the door. Her heart sank at the disappearance of her only ally, however reluctant.
Lord Nicholas stood regarding her, arms folded across his chest. In the bright sunshine streaming in through the long casements he narrowed his green eyes and looked down, then up, then focused on her face. Cassandra stood there in her travel-stained borrowed clothes and resisted the urge to squint at the smudge she could see on her nose. He resembled, with his aquiline features and high cheekbones, nothing more than a sparrow hawk who had sighted an insignificant but tasty mouse.
‘Should I know you?’ There was a hint of puzzlement in the deep voice and he pushed the dark hair back from his brow with impatient fingers.
Cassandra pushed aside the folds of cloak and stepped forward into the sunlight that spilled onto the boards between them. ‘Yes, you do know me, although it must be nearly ten years since we last met.’ She knew she was blushing. She had not expected to find herself in a gentleman’s bedchamber, least of all that of the man who had been her hero since she was eight years old. ‘I was hoping to see Godmama.’
‘Your Godmama? My mother, you mean? Then you must be…’ He looked her up and down again, this time frankly incredulous.
‘Cassandra Weston.’ She let the heavy wool fall to the floor to reveal the jerkin, breeches, coarse woollen stockings and the ill-fitting shoes she had given the stable boy a sovereign for before yesterday’s urgent flight.
‘Little Cassie? Good G– ’ He checked the oath and walked slowly round her, his expression half-way between amusement and exasperation. ‘What prank are you engaged on? You shouldn’t be jauntering around London in those clothes, you silly chit. Where is your maid?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘No, I suppose not, at your age.’ He came to a halt in front of her, hands on hips, amusement winning out over irritation. ‘How old are you? Twelve?’
‘Certainly not!’ She was about to tell him she was eighteen, then instinct made her hold her tongue. Let him believe she was still a child, at least until they were in more proper surroundings with a maid as chaperone.
‘Well, fifteen, then, you cannot be much more. You look the most complete urchin. What have you done to your hair?’ The Earl leaned forward and lifted a strand between fastidious fingers. ‘It appears to have been cut with shears and it is full of cobwebs.’
‘Embroidery scissors because they were all I could find,’ Cassandra replied bleakly. The loss of her mass of chestnut curls had seemed a small sacrifice at the time, but now, seeing herself through his critical eyes, she regretted it. ‘And I had to hide in the gardens of the Square. The stage arrived at ten last night and it took me so long to find the house, I thought it too late to knock.’
‘If we retire before two in this household we consider it a dull night, but I suppose in the wilds of Hertfordshire all activity ceases as the sun goes down.’ He was watching her face as he teased her and she concentrated on standing still and not shaking like a leaf. Or falling down at his feet in their elegant slippers. She saw his eyes narrow. ‘You’re as white as a shirt under that dirt, child. When did you last eat?’
‘At noon yesterday. Luncheon.’ And she could not tell him that after her father’s ultimatum she had run from the dining room and been violently sick.
The Earl tugged the silken bellpull beside the hearth and gestured her into a chair with its back to the door. ‘Breakfast, now,’ he snapped when the door opened and then paced until a footman brought chocolate, ham, bread and sweet rolls.
Under his unsmiling gaze she tried not to bolt the food, did her best to chew thoroughly. He watched her eat for a few moments, then poured himself a cup of chocolate.
‘Would you care for some ham?’ Cassandra suddenly remembered her manners.
‘Not at this unearthly hour of the morning, thank you.’ He gave a snort of amusement at her expression.
‘But it is almost ten o’clock. Surely you would not still be in bed?’ Her father was always railing against the laxity and dissipation of London life, and she had not expected to see persons of quality on the streets yet, but surely they were not all still asleep? Perhaps Papa was right.
‘Indeed I would be in bed, asleep, if I were not taking the Dover road this morning. But never mind that.’ He sat down, poured more chocolate. ‘What mischief are you about? Your father is not going to be pleased to receive you home looking like that.’