by Louise Allen
He made no attempt to disagree with her assessment, instead sat down again, leaned back in his chair and regarded her critically. ‘You are well-born and no doubt well dowered. You are young, but not impossibly so. And presumably, when correctly dressed, passably presentable. Why does he not permit you to have a Season next year and find an eligible husband you can accept?’
Cassandra chose to ignore his unflattering description of her looks and prospects. ‘The Season costs money and requires planning. He will spend neither time nor money on me, although I am his only child.’ She knew she was sounding bitter, but she was beyond caring. ‘Yesterday at luncheon, he told me if I did not agree to marry Lord Offley, I would be shut in my room until I acquiesced, however long that took.’ She shuddered. ‘Have you met Lord Offley? He has a wet mouth, and he keeps wanting to touch…’
The Earl’s mobile mouth was drawn into a thin line of distaste. ‘I know him only too well, although he is not of my circle. Your instincts about him are quite correct and there are tales I could not possibly tell an innocent girl.’ He got to his feet and walked to the window, pulling back one of the drapes to stare out over the Square.
Cassandra could not read his mood, but she felt reassured by his anger on her behalf. When she was eight years old he had come to visit with his mother. He had rescued her kitten from a tree and she had thought him the most wonderful youth in the world. Now, regarding his broad shoulders, she felt the same security she had experienced when he had swung down from the tall oak clutching the terrified cat.
‘My lord,’ she began as the silence stretched on.
‘Nicholas, call me Nicholas,’ he said absently. ‘ My mother is your godmother so that makes us almost cousins or something very like. Let me think…’ Distantly there was a crash and the sound of splintering wood.
‘What the devil?’ Nicholas strode across the room and wrenched open the chamber door, Cassandra at his heels. Leaning over the landing balustrade, they had a bird’s-eye view of the hall below. Franklin, the valet, was flat on his back on the marble floor, one leg twisted beneath him with Peacock directing two footmen to lift a valise from his body. Shirts cascaded from the split leather and neck cloths fluttered on the splintered ends of the banisters.
Chapter Two
‘Is he all right?’ Nicholas called down.
The butler looked up. ‘I think not, my lord. He is unconscious and I fear his right leg is broken.’
‘Send for the surgeon and get Mrs Mitchell.’
‘At once, my lord. We will carry him through to the anteroom sofa while he is still unconscious.’
Nicholas thrust Cassandra back into his room. ‘Wait there.’
As she wandered round the chamber, a fresh cup of chocolate in her hand, Cassandra felt her spirits lighten despite her concern for the unfortunate Franklin. She had no idea what was to become of her, unchaperoned in this great house with a nobleman who was about to leave the country, but she had an irrational confidence that Nicholas would take her side, would not allow this marriage to take place.
Behind a small screen she found a ewer and basin. After one appalled glance in the glass hanging on the wall behind the washstand she poured water and cleaned her hands and face, but even dragging a comb through her hair did nothing to tame it. Experimentally, she dipped the comb in the water and wetted her hair, smoothing it closer to her head and back off her face.
She examined the result critically. Really, she thought, she made a very passable boy. Her lashes were rather long over her blue eyes, but she had dark, definite brows, high cheekbones and a firm mouth. She pressed her lips together, jutted her jaw. Cassandra was accustomed to being told she was a passably handsome girl, a description she had taken to mean she would never be pretty. Now that seemed an advantage.
By the time Nicholas returned, a furrow between his brows, she had brushed down her clothes, straightened her neck cloth and finished the breakfast. ‘Has the surgeon been?’
‘He has,’ Nicholas said shortly. ‘Franklin will be going nowhere for at least a month. His leg is badly broken but there’s no sign of a head injury and he can move all the other limbs, thank heavens.’ He pushed one hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘Well, there’s the end of it, I shall have to postpone my departure, I cannot possibly travel without my manservant and there is no hope now of finding a decent valet willing to travel at such short notice. Damn it, he’s not usually so clumsy.’
‘You do not seem very concerned about Franklin.’ Cassandra was slightly shocked that her hero seemed so unsympathetic.
Nicholas’s brows rose haughtily. ‘He is being attended by an excellent surgeon, he has a comfortable bed and has nothing to do but lie in idleness at my expense until his leg knits.’
‘You make it sound as if the man did it on purpose in order to inconvenience you,’ she retorted.
‘You have to admit, Cassie, I have had my full share of inconveniences today,’ he said wryly. ‘Now, what are we going to do with you?’
The question went unanswered. Distantly, from the stairs, Peacock’s voice could be heard raised in what even Cassandra realised was untypical agitation. ‘His lordship is not yet out of his chamber, my lady. He is not receiving visitors yet…’
‘Nonsense, Peacock, my nephew will see me.’ A forceful female voice overrode his protests.
‘Oh, Hades!’ Nicholas sprang out of his chair, dragged Cassandra to her feet and thrust her behind the screen. ‘Aunt Augusta.’
Outside the chamber door, Peacock could be heard making a despairing last effort. ‘I believe his lordship is not yet dressed…’
‘Well, he should be, idle young hound. I’m not waiting out here. He hasn’t got anything that I’ve not seen a hundred times.’
The door swung open as Peacock gave up the struggle. ‘Lady Augusta Armitage, my lord.’
‘So you are up, after all, Lydford.’ Through the crack in the screen, Cassandra could see a formidable matron wearing a crimson mantle and an alarming turban. Despite everything, she was hard-pressed not to giggle at the sight of Nicholas’s expression.
‘Good morning, Aunt. To what do I owe this unexpected, er, pleasure?’
‘Why are you not properly dressed? I do not hold with the habit you young men have of lolling about until all hours. Wait until you are married, all this will stop.’
‘I am sure it will, Aunt, and a very good reason not to marry, in my opinion. Won’t you take a seat? Let me ring for fresh chocolate.’ While his aunt sat and arranged her gown, Nicholas whipped Cassandra’s cup and saucer off the tray and hid them behind his back.
‘That would be very refreshing, Lydford, thank you. And now, to the purpose of my visit. Sit down, stop fidgeting, why don’t you?’
Cassandra had to stuff her sleeve in her mouth to stifle her laughter as Nicholas sat down cautiously, manoeuvring the cup under the chair. ‘Of course, I am always delighted to see you, Aunt, but you say you have a particular purpose for your visit today?’
‘Do stop squirming about and sit up straight. I certainly have a particular purpose and that is to bring you to some sense of your duty, since your poor mama seems unable to. I know you are about to set off on some wild escapade round the Continent…’
‘A series of cultural visits only, I assure you, Aunt. Now we are at peace with France again, the opportunity presents itself.’
‘It is to be hoped the Corsican Monster is safely caged this time.’ Lady Augusta paused long enough to allow him to pour her chocolate. ‘I shudder every time I think of that upstart Napoleon. However, I did not come here to speak of politics. It is time you were married, Lydford. I met my dear friend Lady Hare at a reception yesterday evening. Her niece was with her, a charming girl, eminently suitable. I have asked them both to stay next week at Woodham Park and I want you to postpone your departure and join us there.’
‘Aunt, grateful as I am for your invitation, what you suggest is impossible. I have a boat to catch tomorrow morning.’
&nb
sp; He really was doing quite a creditable job of sounding regretful, Cassandra thought.
‘Not without your valet, you won’t,’ his aunt retorted triumphantly. ‘I have heard of this morning’s accident, had it out of Peacock when I saw the state of the balusters. Do not try and gull me, you, of all men, will not leave without someone to look after your linen.’
The look on Nicholas’s face was so comic that Cassandra stepped back quickly before laughter got the better of her. The table she backed into rocked, she made a grab for it and a vase went tumbling to bounce on the carpet and roll slowly, inevitably, out from behind the screen.
‘Nicholas, what is that? Is there someone in the room?’
Cassandra seized a pile of freshly pressed shirts and scurried head down from behind the screen towards the door.
As she pulled it closed behind her, she heard the formidable voice demanding ‘Who was that?’ Controlling her breathing with an effort, Cassandra pressed her ear to the panels.
‘Why, my new valet, of course, Aunt.’
‘That scrubby boy? Are you out of your senses?’
‘It’s Franklin’s nephew. He will do until I reach Paris. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Even through the oak, Cassandra could hear the enjoyment in Nicholas’s voice. She suspected he rarely had the advantage over his aunt and was relishing it now. Abandoning her post, she tiptoed down the landing and let herself into the next room.
She realised she was in Nicholas’s bedchamber and through the linking door to the dressing room she could hear his voice and the more strident tones of his aunt. Goodness knew how long Lady Augusta would stay, she may as well make herself comfortable.
The freshly-made bed looked inviting. Cassandra put the shirts carefully on a dresser, kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the mattress. It was wide and soft with a mountain of white pillows. Surely it would do no harm to settle down here for a few minutes?
‘So that’s where you’ve got to.’ Cassandra struggled back to consciousness to find Nicholas standing at the end of the bed. ‘You can come out now, she’s gone.’
‘Are you going to Woodham Park to stay as she asks?’ Cassandra sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
‘And abandon my trip for a week of hideous embarrassment while she throws the simpering niece of Lady Hare at my head? I think not.’
Cassandra saw a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘Your aunt will be very displeased.’
‘All the more reason for not being here,’ Nicholas said with a grin. ‘Hurry, get up, I have had an idea. We have a lot to do – finding you clothes that fit for a start.’
‘Why, you are running away from her,’ Cassandra said as she swung her legs off the bed. ‘I do believe you are frightened of her.’
Nicholas’s mouth twisted into a rueful grin. ‘There is not a man in Christendom who isn’t, not if he’s any sense of self-preservation. Her late husband was terrified of her. But we will not be here to experience her wrath.’
Cassandra pricked up her ears at the we. It sounded as though, whatever the plan, he did not intend leaving her with the housekeeper after all.
‘You have a scheme for me?’ She looked at him, but his expression was preoccupied and he was not attending to her.
‘I must do something about trimming your hair,’ he began. ‘And I think I can find you some clothes to fit.’
‘But Nicholas,’ Cassandra shook his arm to gain his attention. ‘What are you going to do with me if you are going to France? And are you going to France without a valet?’
He looked down at her, a slow, mischievous smile curling his lips. ‘But I have a valet. I’m looking at him. Or, rather, at her.’
‘Your valet?’ she said incredulously, as his words sank in. ‘You want me to pretend to be your valet?’
‘I don’t want you to pretend to be anything. I want you to be twenty-five miles away in Hertfordshire under your father’s eye. But you’re not, are you? You’re here in my bedroom. On my bed.’ He crossed his arms across his chest and leant against the bedpost, ignoring her blushes. ‘And if Aunt Augusta walked in now and found you, I’d be marrying you, not Emily Hare.’ His smile was somewhat grim. ‘I don’t think either of us would thank her for that, would we? Well? Do you have any better ideas?’
Her mind seemed to be composed of porridge. Beds, marrying Nicolas… Under the coarse neckcloth, Cassandra could feel the rising heat of embarrassment. Marry Nicholas? He had been her idol for so long, a wonderful ‘big brother’, she could never think of him in that way. He was jesting, of course, believing her to be so young. And, of course, he was making it quite evident how unthinkable the idea was.
Cassandra got a grip on her rioting imagination. ‘I… why cannot I stay here with your housekeeper until Godmama returns?’ She broke off, realising he was still talking.
‘…there is no saying when my mother will return. After all, she is her own mistress with no-one to please but herself. My aunt, on the other hand, will not give up organising my life so easily. Quite simply, she must not find you here.’
‘But surely she’ll think the house is empty?’
‘All the more reason for frequent visits to supervise the servants. You cannot hope to remain here undetected and, I can assure you, my aunt is of the old school. If your father says you must marry Lord Offley, then marry him you will. She would have no truck with disobedience.’
Cassandra could well imagine Lady Augusta’s reaction if she discovered an unmarried girl who had run away from home and taken refuge in a gentleman’s bed chamber. She would have to marry Lord Offley, or Nicholas, or be ruined in the eyes of Society.
She was conscious of Nicholas’s silence. He had made a suggestion, now it was up to her to decide. Travel with him and take the risk of public exposure and ruin, or go back and face a marriage she abhorred. She shivered, remembering Lord Offley’s lascivious gaze. She may have led a sheltered life, but she was a countrywoman and she knew exactly what was in his mind when he looked at her like that.
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.