Miss Weston's Masquerade

She raised her eyes to meet those of the very different man who was offering her the chance of escape.

‘Cassandra,’ Nicholas prompted. ‘I realise I have given you an impossible choice. You are between the Devil and the deep sea, but we have no time to waste. You must decide now.’

An impossible choice? What seemed impossible was to hide her elation from him, make him think she was the frightened, vulnerable child he believed her to be, not the determined eighteen year old she was. Cassandra could think of nothing she would rather do in the entire world. To journey abroad. To visit Paris. And with Nicholas, whom she had idolised since she was eight years old. Hastily she lowered her gaze before he could see the welling excitement there.

‘Yes, Nicholas.’ She managed to sound demurely obedient and trustful. ‘If you think it would work.’

‘All we have to do is to get you to Paris. Mama will know what to do with you. No doubt she will announce that she invited you to stay and invent a suitable chaperone for the journey. You’ll be safe and, this way, at least I catch tomorrow’s boat.’

And escape Aunt Augusta’s schemes, Cassandra thought wryly, although she did not voice it aloud. Life with Papa had taught her that men needed their dignity preserving, however ridiculous they could be.

‘Do you trust me to look after your linen?’ she enquired with mock seriousness, eyeing the careless elegance of his attire. The dressing gown had gone, to be replaced by a dark blue double-breasted coat, a snowy cravat and shining Hessians over buff breeches.

‘Looking at the way you are turned out, I have the deepest misgivings.’ He eyed her dubiously. ‘Where did you get those garments? The stable boy?’

‘Yes, as it happens. They are his Sunday best.’

‘But hardly suitable for the valet of an earl. I’ll see what I can do with your hair, meanwhile.’ He tugged the bell pull. ‘Come back into the dressing room and we’ll see to that. Ah, Peacock, what do you have in the way of clothing that would fit m

y new valet?’

Cassandra hopped off the bed with alacrity, glad to escape from the bedchamber. Not that she felt threatened in any way. Naturally she had no experience of how a man should react to finding a girl in his bed, but it seemed to her that Nicholas was unflatteringly unmoved.

In the dressing room, she submitted meekly to being swathed in a towel while he dragged a comb through what remained of her curls. ‘This will have to be a severe crop if you are not to look as though the moth’s been at it.’ He snipped quickly and deftly, the fine hair falling on to her face and making her sneeze. Nicholas brushed it off her cheeks with surprising gentleness.

Peacock entered the room without knocking, a suit of dark clothing over his arm, disapproval etched on every feature. ‘The under-footman’s church clothes, my lord,’ he announced frostily. ‘An undersized youth. They should fit Miss Weston.’ He departed, stiff-backed.

‘He knows who I am?’

‘He seems to have recognised you at second glance. He has been with the family twenty years, so he certainly knows who my mother’s godchild is.’ Nicholas tossed aside the towel impatiently. ‘Hurry up and get dressed. It will soon be noon. We will eat on the road at the first change of horses.’ He paused with one hand on the doorknob. ‘If you need anything, ring for Peacock. Don’t be seen outside these rooms. And hurry,’ he urged as the clock chimed once more.

The under-footman’s Sunday best was a good fit. Cassandra tucked the ends of the neckcloth into the black cloth waistcoat and straightened a wrinkle in one of her stockings before examining herself in the long glass. The waistcoat was rather tight, but that was a good thing, she reflected. It served to flatten her breasts and for the first time she was grateful for their unimpressive size. When she shrugged on the coat, the effect was complete. No-one would guess she was not a boy, she assured herself. Many youths were positively effeminate in appearance, after all.

Ten minutes later, Nicholas’s keen scrutiny confirmed what she had seen in the glass. ‘Passable, in fact, more than passable. It’s a good thing you’re not pretty. Just remember to stride when you walk, stand up straight, and don’t say anything unless you have to.’ He seemed oblivious to the hurt look Cassandra gave him. She knew she wasn’t pretty, but he might at least have said she made a good-looking boy. ‘That’s right, scowl like that,’ he added, blithely piling insult on injury.

Cassandra followed him down the curving staircase to the hall where Peacock handed him into his caped driving cloak. ‘Is the luggage stowed, Peacock?’

‘It is, my lord, and the heavy baggage should have reached Dover this morning. Your gloves and hat, my lord.’

Trying to ignore the butler’s disapproving glance, Cassandra ran down the steps to where the curricle waited with a diminutive tiger holding the heads of four matched bays. ‘I shan’t be needing you, Jem. Have a holiday.’ Nicholas swung up onto the box, gathered the reins in his gloved hand and steadied the team.

‘What, m’lud? Not taking me? Who’ll sort the ’orses out?’

‘I think I’m capable of giving simple instructions to ostlers, Jem. You can follow tomorrow and bring the team back from the Shoulder of Mutton at Dartford. Get up, er, Cass.’

Cassandra scrambled up to sit beside him.

‘Cross your arms and sit up straight,’ Nicholas hissed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Let them go, Jem.’

The team was fresh and enough of a handful to occupy Nicholas’s attention for the first ten minutes as he negotiated the thronged streets leading to Piccadilly and Green Park. Sitting up straight as she’d been ordered, Cassandra hardly knew where to look first. The quiet streets had been transformed into bustling life, so crowded she wondered that the traffic was moving at all.

Carriages of all kinds wove their way around tradesmen with barrows, a man was driving pigs, a broken-down hackney carriage with the wheel off half blocked the street while two coachmen quarrelled over who had caused the accident…

‘Look at that beautiful lady, Nicholas.’ She uncrossed her arms to tug at his sleeve. ‘Oh, I wish I had a dress like that.’

Nicholas glanced in the direction she was pointing and snapped, ‘Sit still and cross your arms! And don’t gawp.’

‘But I’ve never seen a gown like that, so daring. How does she make it cling so?’