Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘Does your uncle own this?’ she whispered, awed.

> ‘No, he hires, like everyone else who visits. He is never here long enough to warrant a permanent establishment.’ He broke off to acknowledge the bow of the steward who stood at the head of the steps to greet him. ‘Bonjour, Gaston. Is my uncle at home?’

‘I fear not, milord. Sir Marcus has been recalled to Vienna. Helas! He will be desolé at missing your lordship-but, c’est la vie, these are the inconveniences of the life of the diplomat.’

Cassandra felt a wave of relief. She had not relished the thought of being introduced to Sir Marcus Camberley, who could not help but disapprove of her actions. Now she would have Godmama to herself and could explain it all. Feminine company and sympathy, a woman to talk to who would understand her dilemma…

Gaston was ushering Nicholas across the wide marble entrance hall, bowing him into the salon Cassandra following behind. With a snap of his fingers he summoned a footman, ‘Take his lordship’s valet to his suite.’

‘No, Gaston, I want him with me.’ He ignored the steward’s raised eyebrows. ‘Is the Countess at home?’

‘Pardon, milord, I have not made myself clear, Madame la Comtesse has accompanied Monsieur her brother to Vienna. She acts as his hostess this Season, you understand.’

If Cassandra had not been so distressed herself, the look on Nicholas’s face would have been almost comical. ‘Not here?’ He pushed his hands through his hair, then sat down in the nearest chair, his long legs thrust out in front of him. For a long moment he looked from Cassandra to the steward and back again. The silence stretched on, then he came to a decision.

‘The brandy, Gaston. Bring it yourself and close the door. I need to consult with you.’

‘Certainment , milord.’

Cassandra sat numbly on the edge of a brocade-covered sofa. She hadn’t thought beyond Paris, beyond the sanctuary Godmama would provide. Now her mind seemed blank, all she could do was sit, watching while Nicholas warmed the brandy glass between his palms, apparently lost in thought. The steward waited patiently, his intelligent dark eyes flicking from Nicholas to her.

‘This person, Gaston, is not my valet. It is Mademoiselle Weston, the goddaughter of my mother.’

‘Indeed, milord.’

‘Indeed. She has had to leave the shelter of her home for reasons I do not propose to enter into and, finding my mother away from home, has accompanied me here. For purposes of discretion and propriety she has been dressed as you see her. Now I find Madame la Comtesse is not here to take charge of her. You see my predicament, Gaston?’

‘I do, milord,’ the steward said. ‘A situation of some delicacy, n’est-pas?’

‘You have had experience of many delicate matters in your years with my uncle. Does any solution present itself to you now, perhaps?’

The steward hesitated only briefly. ‘If I may suggest, milord, the housekeeper, Madame Robert, is a woman of intelligence and refinement. She would be an excellent chaperone for the young lady until Madame la Comtesse returns. I presume there is no question of Mademoiselle Weston going out into Society until then?’

‘Certainly not. Your solution will answer admirably.’ Nicholas finished the brandy and began to get up. ‘I knew you would come up with a solution to the, problem Gaston. A respectable housekeeper is just the person to take charge of the girl.’

‘Do I have no say in the matter?’ Cassandra enquired frostily. The play of emotions on Nicholas’s face was all too plain, he’d rid himself of an inconvenience, his duty as her godmother’s son was quit, now he could get on with enjoying himself.

Nicholas eyed her. ‘No.’

‘So I am to be a prisoner in this house, bored to tears, with no diversion…’

‘There is no alternative, unless you want me to pack you straight home again, you ungrateful br– ’ He stopped suddenly, clearly recalling the steward’s presence. ‘I shall do my best to make sure you are not bored. If I arrange a small allowance for you, you may engage a dressmaker. Tomorrow I will find you a dancing master, a French master and a drawing master. That way your days will be filled, and by the time my mother returns, you may be fit to go about with her, perhaps even attend young people’s parties.’

Cassandra felt a rush of contrition. Repeated disappointments were hitting her like blows, making her act like the girl he thought her. Nicholas was trying to do his best for her under the most difficult of circumstances. The suspicion that he would have done almost anything to get rid of her was unworthy.

‘Thank you, Nicholas, that is very kind of you,’ she said meekly.

‘That is settled, then.’ He shot her a suspicious glance, as if he had expected some resistance. ‘Go with Gaston now, he will take you to Madame Robert. And behave yourself, child.’

He kept calling her child. It galled, but it served her purpose.

The sharp-eyed Frenchwoman to whom Gaston handed her with an explanation in rapid French was not so easily fooled.

‘I thought Monsieur Gaston said you were fifteen, Mademoiselle,’ she commented an hour later, handing Cassandra a towel as she climbed out of the bath.

‘I…’ Cassandra was within an inch of confirming the lie when she looked up and met the other woman’s beady regard. The dark eyes were not unkind, but they were shrewd. ‘I am eighteen,’’ she confessed. ‘But the Earl believes me to be younger.’

‘And you thought it wise not to set him right,’ the housekeeper said drily. ‘I see.’