Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘But you have one.’

‘An English passport will not serve here, we need a French one for the onward journey.’

Cassandra jumped in alarm as a hand was thrust into her pocket. The searcher tossed her pocket handkerchief onto the bench, then turned with the obvious attention of searching the rest of her clothing.

She felt the man’s fingers touch the breast of h

er coat, then Nicholas’s hand whipped out and clamped onto the official’s wrist.

‘Un moment, mon ami. I think this is what you are looking for.’ There was a glint of gold coin and the man turned away, waving them through the throng to the row of desks where clerks were writing passports.

Cassandra stood swaying, hardly conscious of what was going on around her until Nicholas’s firm hand under her elbow guided her out into the fresh air.

‘Cassie? Are you unwell?’ His face was close as he bent over her. Cassandra blinked, forcing herself to concentrate on him. For the first time she noticed brown flecks in his green eyes and the way one brow slanted up fractionally more than the other.

‘Stuffy in there,’ she mumbled. And that hairy hand, right on my breast…

‘Cassandra,’ Nicholas’s voice was peremptory. ‘You can’t faint here, pull yourself together. We’re going to an inn now, you need food.’

Obediently she stumbled over the cobbles beside him, following the handcart loaded with their luggage. She was hungry, yes but it wasn’t that that had made her feel faint. It was the thought of those dirty rough hands pawing her body, the reek of garlic and sweat in the Hall and the land seeming to move under her feet.

But by the time their porter delivered the bags to the doors of the Hotel d’Angleterre she was feeling more herself and able to look around at the scurrying servants and throng of well-dressed guests. The air was full of noisy English voices raised in demands for food and wine, and the shouts of ostlers backing horses between the shafts of travelling carriages.

Eyeing the hubbub, Nicholas remarked, ‘It’s as well I reserved a private suite. This place has regained all its popularity with people doing the Grand Tour after the war and they say the owners have made a fortune here.’

They dined alone in their own parlour, ignoring the waiter’s raised eyebrows at a nobleman’s latitude in permitting his valet to share his table.

‘Won’t they think it odd?’ Cassandra asked as the door closed behind the man.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘It’s of no matter, they think the English are mad, anyway. Pass the buttered crab, I believe it is the speciality of the house.’

Drowsy with food and sea air, Cassandra fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow in the tiny chamber Nicholas secured for her.

Next morning she tumbled downstairs rubbing the sleep from her eyes to find him already up and dressed, impatiently tapping his foot on the cobbles as he watched the first carriages leaving the inn yard.

‘Hurry up, Cass, if you want any breakfast,’ he ordered. ‘And, for heaven’s sake, do something about that neckcloth, you look more like a scarecrow than a valet.’

She was becoming accustomed to his uncertain temper first thing in the morning and, sure enough, by the time they settled themselves in the carriage hired from the inn, Nicholas’s mood was positively cheerful. Cassandra gathered he approved of the horses they had obtained and that even the French postillions passed muster.

After the dismal streets of Calais the wide open countryside with its fields of green corn and red poppies came as a surprise and a pleasure. There were no hills or deep valleys to slow the horses, only a rolling greenness which pleased the eye until interrupted by small, squalid, villages, or collections of tumbledown farm buildings.

‘Bored?’ Nicholas enquired sometime later as she settled herself back against the cushions with a deep sigh.

‘I expected it to be so different, but the countryside could be Hertfordshire.’

‘What did you expect?’ Nicholas grinned at her. ‘Dragons or strange costumes? This is France, not Cathay.’

‘But after the sea crossing, everything seems so ordinary,’ Cassandra lamented.

‘Can you play cards?’ Nicholas produced a pack and started to shuffle them. ‘No? I’ll teach you to play piquet.’

Chapter Five

By the time they passed through the gate of Amiens that evening, Cassie had won several sixpences.

‘Are all card games this simple?’ she enquired disingenuously, as Nicholas put away the pack.

‘I am learning a little about you, Cassie. Under that country girl exterior beats the heart of a gamester.’ Nicholas regarded her wryly, wondering whether she had been lying about her lack of expertise at cards. ‘My mother will not be pleased with me, teaching you to gamble.’