by Louise Allen
‘A certificate stating that neither of us has the pox,’ Nicholas supplied wryly. ‘That cost me more than any others because I had to bribe the doctor not to examine you.’
‘Examine me?’ Cassie cringed inwardly at the thought of such an indelicate procedure, to say nothing of the scandal. ‘Thank goodness everyone in this city has their price! And this?’ She held up a scroll.
‘Our permission to leave the Venetian Empire. It is rather easier to get in than to get out because once having secured your person they demand a high price for your freedom.’
Antonio brought in wine and salted almonds. ‘The packing is complete, my lord. Do you dine at home?’
‘Yes, we do,’ Nicholas rejoined, with feeling. ‘And we will be retiring early.’
‘Now this looks like a proper passport,’ Cassandra exclaimed, examining a leather-bound document the size of a small book.
‘Indeed, it is. That is our entry into the Austrian Empire and once we enter Trieste, it will be the only document we need until we reach Vienna. And that,’ he added with feeling, ‘cannot come soon enough for me.’
Cassandra bit her lip. ‘I am sorry, Nicholas. I know I have ruined your Tour. You haven’t seen Rome or Florence or any of the great buildings and treasures you must have planned on visiting.’
‘Never mind, brat, it wasn’t your fault.’ Nicholas smiled at her as he poured himself some wine. ‘I cannot deny I shall be more relieved than I have ever been in my life when I hand you over to my mother’s care but, mad as it sounds, I have enjoyed this journey.’
‘You have? What has there been for you to enjoy? You have been embarrassed in front of your friends, near drowned in the Rhône, attacked by bandits, bitten by every flea in North Italy and last night…’ Cassandra shut her mouth hastily.
‘Last night?’ Nicholas’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What about last night?’
‘Well, you obviously didn’t have a very nice time,’ she said feebly.
‘No, I didn’t have a very nice time,’ he agreed with a grimace. ‘But that was my own stupidity, doing what I thought I ought to want and not what my gut should have told me I really wanted to do.’ He paused, looking deep into his wine. ‘I have enjoyed your company, brat.’ He raised his glass to toast her. ‘And you have been a good influence on me. No doubt my mother will say it was time I assumed responsibility for something other than my own pleasures.’
‘I am sure Godmama will say it is high time you were married,’ Cassandra observed tartly.
‘No doubt.’ He poured her a small glass of wine and pushed it across the table. ‘Within hours of my arrival, she will have a bevy of eligible young women ready for my approval. The only consolation is that she has better taste than my Aunt Augusta.’
‘Do you not want to get married?’
‘I know I must marry. There’s the title and the estates to consider. But I want more than an alliance, more than a social arrangement.’ He twisted the stem of the glass between finger and thumb. Cassandra held her breath and sat still. It was almost as though he were thinking aloud to himself. ‘To me, marriage should be better than that. I want a wife with character and a lively mind, not some little mouse who acquiesces because I am her husband.’
‘Surely there are young ladies in the Marriage Mart who would fit the bill?’
‘I have yet to encounter one.’ He pitched his voice into a mocking falsetto. ‘Yes, my lord, anything you say, my lord. Of course, the moon is made of green cheese, Lord Lydford, if you say so.’
Cassandra laughed at him. ‘Surely they are not all such silly ninnies?’
‘Of course they are not. Not until their mamas school them in the ways of husband-catching. No, what I really need is a wife like you.’
Cassandra went very still. There was a ringing in her ears as her pulse raced and she realised her fingers were cramped on the arms of her chair. ‘Me?’ she croaked.
‘Not you, of course, but there must be one of them with a sense of fun. Someone with your resourcefulness and spirit. But I expect yours will disappear when you climb into petticoats again, more’s the pity.’
Clocks struck seven throughout the house and Nicholas drained his wine. ‘We must dress for dinner. I will tell you then my plans for the journey over the meal.’
Cassandra glared at his retreating back, fighting down the urge to throw something at him. Not her, of course. Miss Cassandra Weston was quite unsuitable.
She had a sense of fun, and resourcefulness and spirit, so he said. There were even moments when he found her attractive, however hard he tried to forget it. But was he so obtuse that he could not put these ingredients together and recognise that she would be the ideal partner for him? Or was it that Miss Weston was not good enough for the arrogant Earl of Lydford and therefore beyond consideration?
‘Oh – !’ She kicked the table leg, wishing it were Nicholas’s well-muscled calf. Just let him wait until they reached Vienna and she’d show him she was the same person in petticoats or in breeches.
‘I cannot believe it is only two months since I left Ware,’ Cassandra marvelled out loud as their carriage threaded its way along a highway lined with heavily imposing palace and town houses, the Imperial splendour a world away from the sedate buildings and maltings of her home town.
‘It seems like six,’ Nicholas replied repressively. He regarded her sombrely from the opposite corner of the carriage, ‘You are going to have to behave yourself here, brat. This isn’t Venice.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cassandra asked, her eyes on a magnificent team of horses pulling a carriage, its door emblazoned with a coat of arms, every panel glinting in the sunlight.
‘For one thing, the city is full of diplomats and their wives from every corner of Europe. If you make a scandal, there will be nowhere to retreat to and no corner where your business will not be known. As I said, this is not Venice. Here, Society is regulated and regimented. If it is discovered that you had spent just one night in my company, no allowance will be made for the predicament you found yourself in. One slip of the tongue and you will be ruined.’
Cassandra contemplated him thoughtfully from under her lashes, her excitement quite gone. If she was ruined, what would the scandal do to her Godmama and Nicholas? His words chilled her and, for the first time in many weeks, she was afraid. Both she and Nicholas had concentrated on attaining the goal of reaching Vienna and his mother, without thought of how their unexpected appearance could be presented to Society.
And for the first time doubts bubbled up in Cassandra about Godmama’s attitude to her flight from Lord Offley and her home. What if Godmama agreed with Papa? If she thought Cassandra wilful and disobedient in not going through with the marriage? And what if she blamed Cassandra for compromising Nicholas and blighting his chances of a good alliance? The thought of him marrying anyone else but herself was agony, but she knew it must happen.
It was a very subdued and nervous Miss Weston who finally climbed down from the carriage in the courtyard of the English Ambassador’s residence, a voluminous cloak concealing her valet’s clothes, the collar turned up around her face.
Seven weeks in Nicholas’s company had made her sensitive to every nuance of his voice and, through her own distress, she recognised the tension underlying his apparent composure as he dispatched the major domo to announce his arrival to the Dowager Countess.
‘Stand over there,’ Nicholas hissed at her, gesturing to a more shadowy corner of the sunlit room while he paced restlessly over the Turkey carpet.
Minutes later the servant reappeared and bade them follow him to Lady Lydford’s suite.
‘Are the Ambassador and my uncle, Sir Marcus Camberley, at home?’ Nicholas enquired, engaging the man’s attention as Cassandra followed quietly in their wake. ‘It is several weeks since I read a newspaper, but I imagine they are very much occupied with the Treaty.’
‘There are still many negotiations in progress, my lord. Although the Congress has long ended, there is much business to attend to
. However, we expect both His Excellency and Sir Marcus to return for dinner.’
The major domo flung open the double doors into the Countess’s salon and announced, ‘The Earl of Lydford, milady.’
As the doors closed behind them and Nicholas strode forward, Cassandra shrank back against the gilded panels, wishing she could melt into them and vanish.
The Dowager Countess was seated on a bergère armchair, a white Persian cat on her lap and a most becoming lace cap on her dark curls. From the drift of paper at her feet and the gilded chocolate cup at her side, it was evident her ladyship had been engaged with her morning’s correspondence when the news of her son’s unexpected arrival had been brought to her.
‘Nicholas, darling!’ She extended both hands in greeting, the heavy ruffles on her morning gown falling back to reveal smooth white arms. The movement sent the cat jumping to the floor, its plumy tail waving in irritation.
‘Mama.’ Nicholas stooped to kiss her on both cheeks, then stepped back to regard her. ‘You look even more ravishing than the last time I saw you. How do you manage it?’
‘I do, don’t I,’ she riposted with a twinkle in her dark eyes. ‘I was stifling in London with those boring matrons with their boring little daughters. No conversation, no intrigue. And the fashions.’ She shrugged delicately, ‘What could I do? Your uncle needed me, at least, so I told him.’
She regarded her tall son shrewdly, and Cassandra saw the sharp intelligence behind the coquettish pose. ‘Sit down, Nicholas, and tell me why I have the unexpected pleasure of your company. I am, of course, delighted to see you, but why are you not in Florence admiring the frescoes, as my reckoning tells me you should be?’
There was a silence while Nicholas took his time settling in a chair. He crossed one long, booted leg over the other and brushed an invisible speck of dust from the knee of his breeches. ‘It’s a long story, Mama.’
Cassandra held her breath, catching her lower lip between her teeth. The white cat stalked over to where she stood and showed its displeasure at being neglected by sinking its claws into her stockinged ankle.
Cassandra let out a shriek of pain and clutched her leg. Lady Lydford’s sharp gaze moved rapidly from her son’s face to her standing by the door, apparently noticing her for the first time.
‘You, boy! Come here and stop provoking my cat.’ The summons was sharp. Lady Lydford had obviously sensed her son’s reticence and was becoming suspicious.
Cassandra obeyed, limping over until she stood directly in front of her godmother. She waited, eyes cast down, fingers twisting in the cord of her cloak.
‘Take off that cloak,’ Lady Lydford ordered quietly. Swallowing hard, Cassandra let it drop and stood revealed in breeches, waistcoat and shirtsleeves.
‘Lydford,’ the Dowager began frostily, after one comprehensive look at the shivering figure, ‘what leads you to believe that bringing your fille de joie into the Ambassador’s Residence – into my rooms – is acceptable behaviour?’ Her small figure seemed to grow by degrees as indignation filled her. ‘In what way did I fail in your upbringing that you believed I would be complaisant? Or did you merely assume my eyesight was failing?’
‘Mama, this is not a fille de joie,’ Nicholas said firmly.
‘Godmama,’ Cassandra interjected, falling on her knees, her cheeks burning with mortification. ‘He hasn’t… I mean… I’m not..’ Her voice faltered with nerves and emotion.
‘Cassandra?’ Lady Lydford said in a voice of utter incredulity. ‘Can it truly be you? Here? Dressed like this?’ There was real anger in her eyes as she turned to confront her son. ‘Lydford, what is the meaning of this outrage?’
‘Godmama, don’t blame Nicholas. It is not his fault,’ Cassandra pleaded.
‘Hold your tongue, Cassandra,’ Nicholas interjected. ‘Mother, this is not how it looks. Can we all sit down and I will explain everything.’
There was a long, considering pause, before his mother replied evenly, ‘Very well.’ Thankfully, Cassandra sank into an armchair next to Nicholas.
Beside her, she heard him draw a deep breath, but his voice was steady when he began the tale of their adventure. ‘Seven weeks ago Cassandra came to the London house seeking you. It was a foolish thing to do, but when I tell you that her father was coercing her to marry Lord Offley, you will see what desperate straits she was in.’
‘Offley?’ The Dowager shuddered. ‘He must be mad, that man is no suitable bridegroom for a gently-reared young lady.’
‘Exactly. Cassandra was desperate and, lacking all female friends with any influence, she had no one to turn to but yourself.’
‘I disguised myself as a boy and took the stage to London. It never once occurred to me you might not be at home,’ Cassandra interrupted.
‘My poor child.’ Lady Lydford reached out and gently touched her cheek. ‘What a terrible position to find yourself in.’ Her tender tone became barbed. ‘And, of course, my intelligent and resourceful son could find no better way to settle the crisis than to drag you across Europe dressed like that?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Nicholas said firmly. ‘At first I was going to leave her with the housekeeper, then Aunt Augusta turned up and my valet broke his leg.’
‘Oh, do stop rambling, Lydford. What has my sister to do with your valet breaking his leg?’ She broke off and regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Did you say seven weeks ago? Am I to understand that for all that time you have had Cassandra in your company, unchaperoned and dressed like this?’
Chapter Eighteen
‘It seems like seven years, I have to confess, Mama.’ Nicholas flashed a teasing smile at Cassandra as she glared indignantly at him. ‘But when we got to Paris – ’
‘Paris? Why were you in Paris?’
‘I thought you were still there. I was going to leave Cassandra with you and continue my Grand Tour.’
‘As if nothing had happened, I suppose,’ his mother said drily. ‘There are moments when you remind me so much of your dear father. If you had troubled to read my last two letters to you, you would have been aware of your Uncle Marcus’s posting to Vienna, and my intention to accompany him. But in any case, it does not take over a month to travel from Paris to Vienna.’ Her dark brows rose interrogatively.
‘We went via Lyons, Nice and Venice,’ Nicholas admitted.
‘And then there was the accident on the Rhône and the footpads on the coast road,’ Cassandra added helpfully.
A delicate shudder passed through the Dowager’s frame. ‘I think we will save the detail for later. Nicholas, go away. I am quite out of patience with you. And remember, you have no valet and you have not seen my goddaughter for ten years. I don’t want to see you until dinner. Cassandra, stay with me.’
After the door had closed behind Nicholas, Cassandra turned imploringly to Lady Lydford, ‘Please don’t blame Nicholas, Godmama, he had little choice.’
‘Nonsense,’ the Dowager said crisply. ‘I can think of at least two perfectly sensible courses of action.’ Then she smiled. ‘So like his dear father, so impetuous.’ She drew Cassandra down to sit beside her. ‘I suppose he took off without a thought to the practicalities of the situation. You have been travelling as his valet, I apprehend and that would necessitate a degree of intimacy I assume?’
Cassandra blushed, remembering the kiss in Paris, sleeping in his arms in Nice, the heat of his passion in Venice. ‘We had to share a bedchamber on occasion, but Nicholas was always, I mean, he never… there was always a screen around my bed.’
‘And nobody penetrated your disguise?’ Lady Lydford’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘For myself, I knew as soon as I saw you that you were no boy.’
‘Peacock, your butler knows. And after I fell in the Rhône, and nearly drowned, the keeper of the inn, a French gentlewoman, she knew my secret. And in Venice, the major domo of the palazzo where we stayed, he knew, but he assumed we were…’ She couldn’t complete the sentence under that critical gaze.
‘Quite. But, of course, no such thought entered either of your heads.’
‘Of course not,’ Cassandra protested, trusting her averted gaze would be mistaken for modest shock, not a guilty conscience.
‘And you would have me believe that my short-tempered, self-centred, pleasure-seeking son remained equable and considerate throughout this escapade? You have had a thoroughly pleasant time in his company?’
‘He was frequently very angry with me. I talk too much, you see, and I wanted to see the sights, and I answer back too much for a valet. But I did enjoy it, apart from the fleas, and nearly being drowned, and when I thought Nicholas was dead and I had to shoot the footpad.’
The Dowager rolled her eyes upwards. ‘You have your dear mama’s spirit, I see. Tell me no more now, that is all behind you. As for your being here, I think I can see how we may contrive to account for your sudden appearance. But, for now, we must get you out of those clothes before anyone in the household sees you. And you need a bath.’
The Dowager rang for her dresser, explained the situation to that formidable female in a few well chosen words and sent Cassandra off in her charge to bathe and rest. As she glanced back at the door, she saw her Godmama deep in thought, her firm little chin sunk in one palm, the merest frown shadowing her brow.
That evening Cassandra sat in the window seat in her room in the wing of the Embassy occupied by Sir Marcus Camberley and his sister. The street below was bustling with the fashionable life of the city as Society made its way to dinner parties and soirées before the curtain went up in the theatres and opera houses for which Vienna was famed.
If only she had her boy’s clothes again, she could have slipped out and joined the throng in the City of Music. But her godmother had ordered them removed and, Cassandra strongly suspected, burned.
It was strange how, now she had achieved the long-desired sanctuary and her tale was told, she was not as elated as she had expected. True, the worry that her godmother was going to send her packing back to her father had proved unfounded. She should be thankful, but surprisingly she was not, because the freedom and independence she had enjoyed for the past two months were now at an end. Once more she would have to conform to the strictures of Society which ruled and regulated the existence of every well-bred, unmarried, young woman.