Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘No, but it is a powerful aid to virtue. Come, let’s play cards.’ He pulled out a pack from one of the numerous pockets lining the doors of the coach and began to deal. ‘Your piquet is becoming passable.’

‘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.

Chapter Eight

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.’