Miss Weston's Masquerade

Nicholas regarded Cassandra over the rim of his cup. She looked drawn and tired and he cursed himself for having woken her in the early hours. She seemed as heavy-eyed as he felt and she was certainly as silent as they sat down to break their fast at ten o’clock the next morning. The servants, obviously used to the effects of Venetian entertainments on visiting foreign guests, moved with unobtrusive silence around the table, then melted away discreetly.

Last night the overwhelming need to look at Cassie had drawn him to her door. After letting himself be so thoroughly duped by the artful mock-innocence of the young courtesan, he had had to reassure himself what true innocence really was. Cassandra must be about the same age as Antoinette, he supposed, although it was hard to believe as she sat there in prim black suiting, her face scrubbed and her hair tied back in a queue. What a contrast with that silken creature last night. And what a contrast with the scene he interrupted when he had gone looking for Antoinette. The ageing diplomat, flushed and dishevelled, ridiculous in his outrage. Nicholas shuddered and wondered if he was not so ridiculous himself.

Cassandra glanced up from the roll she was crumbling and caught his eye, her expression wary.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Cassie. I’m not angry with you, I told you I was sorry I was so harsh. Don’t be frightened of me.’ Colour flooded her cheeks, and he made his voice more gentle. ‘I was angry because I was frightened for you. You don’t know how dangerous this place can be and you are too innocent to even guess at the viciousness beneath the surface glamour.’

‘No, of course I’m not afraid of you, Nicholas,’ Cassandra said briskly, pushing back her chair and getting up. ‘You said we were leaving, shall I go and direct that our bags are packed?’

‘I have already told Antonio to prepare for our departure,’ he said as he stood. ‘Now I am going out to arrange for our travel papers. Do you wish to come with me? It will be a long and tedious business, I fear.’ He wanted her out of there. Wanted her away from this place that made him act in a way that shamed him.

‘No, thank you,’ Cassie said and to his relief she smiled. ‘I would rather pack my own things myself.’

He met the major domo in the hall below as he was leaving.

‘Tell me, who is the occupant of the palazzo opposite?’

‘La Puttana d’Oro.’

‘The golden whore?’ Nicholas translated.

‘A very great and powerful lady,’ Antonio said drily. ‘And a dangerous one. She is said to have the ear, shall we say, of our most powerful senators. Few dare to cross her, for she has influence with many of the diplomats and ambassadors, and acts herself as their agent.’

‘I see,’ Nicholas said slowly. ‘Perhaps I have an enemy I am unaware of.’ He caught himself thinking aloud and added more briskly, ‘I am not certain when I shall return, Antonio, but make sure all is ready for an early departure tomorrow.’

‘As you command, milord.’

Chapter Seventeen

lf Nicholas would be gone all morning, it would give her the chance to slip across to Lucia’s house and return the wrapper and slippers, Cassandra thought. And she could satisfy her curiosity as to what had transformed Nicholas from lover to penitent.

When she heard the front doors close behind him Cassandra went back to her chamber, folded the slippers and jar of salve into a neat parcel inside the wrapper, tucked the whole parcel under her arm and tiptoed downstairs. Once more the door into Lucia’s palazzo opened as if by magic. Cassandra wondered if the little maidservant was in truth a mute as she gestured her towards the stairs.

The courtesan was in bed, sitting up sipping a cup of chocolate. She looked tired, and for the first time since Cassandra had met her, she realised that Lucia was not in the first flush of youth.

Her skin, now bare of maquillage, was smooth, but there were fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Her hair had been captured into a long plait over one shoulder and the severity of the style emphasised the intelligence and experience in her face.

Cassandra could well believe that she was in the presence of a powerful and influential woman and wondered again at Lucia’s background and parentage.

‘Well, little one? How is your Niccolo this morning?’

Cassandra grimaced. ‘Subdued. Very out of character. I am not used to him like this. He apologised for being so angry with me.’

Lucia smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. ‘And that does not make you happy that he is no longer cross?’

‘No, it doesn’t. I am sorry to seem ungrateful, Lucia, but I should never have done it, never agreed to such a deception.’

‘It will do you no harm to realise early what hypocrites men are,’ Lucia remarked coldly. ‘And your Niccolo is no exception.’

‘But what happened last night when I had left?’ Cassandra perched on the end of the bed. ‘I expected him to be angry, but he seemed chastened.’

‘A man like that is not used to rejection.’ She laughed shortly. ‘And he came across Sir Humphrey with me. Trust me when I tell you that Sir Humphrey was nothing if not ridiculous. Your Niccolo has the intelligence to see that what is exciting and romantic when you are young and dashing and firm-fleshed, is ludicrous and sordid when one is flabby and ageing.’

Cass

andra was taken aback by the vehemence and contempt in Lucia’s voice. She experienced a flash of pity for Sir Humphrey, and to her surprise, for Lucia, too. The diplomat could not help aging and yet still wanting to experience passion – and she suspected that Lucia feared the march of time deeply for herself.

So, that explained Nicholas’s revulsion – he had seen sex and intrigue away from the glamour of the masquerade as ludicrous and sordid. Suddenly she wanted to be in the fresh air, away from the cloying scents and veiled malice.