Miss Weston's Masquerade (11 page)

Nicholas gazed past her to the edge of the river where an old woman was collecting driftwood. ‘I think it would be as well.’ His tone was studiedly neutral, as it had been since the rather stilted breakfast they had shared that morning.

A little devil prompted her to ask, ‘Why?’

The question was rewarded by a sharp glance from Nicholas’s green eyes. ‘People such as the Bulstrodes are in no position to know whether I have a ward or not, but the
ton
most certainly are. If a whisper of your presence gets back to those who know me then the coincidence of my mother’s missing goddaughter and a mysterious young woman travelling with me would be too marked to overlook.’

‘Yes, Nicholas,’ Cassandra agreed demurely. ‘That is a very good reason.’

And it was. But she knew the real reason as well as he did. Nicholas did not want the constant reminder of her femininity. Dressed as a boy and with the formality of the master-servant relationship restored, it would be easier to pretend she was simply young Cassie again.

In the cold light of day she realised what a narrow escape they had had last night from something they would have both bitterly regretted. She had only Nicholas’s self-control to thank for that.

‘Will we be moving on today?’ she asked, gathering up her skirts to cross the cobbled bridge. ‘I haven’t any boy’s clothes.’

‘The apothecary’s wife is buying some. I asked her this morning while I was making arrangements for the carriage.’

‘And the rest of the luggage?’ Cassandra rested her palms on the bridge parapet and watched the treacherous sucking water below that had so nearly taken her life.

‘We can buy everything we need in Orange, according to
Madame
. Stop looking at the river, Cassie, dwelling on the accident will not help you recover from it.’

She shivered and decided he was right. Her restless sleep the night before had been full of swirling green water overlying the image of Nicholas’s face and the remembered sensation of someone touching her skin with cold lips. He had kissed her when he had dragged her from the water.

Raising her eyes from the surface to the water’s edge, she watched a group of urchins chasing minnows in a muddy pool, shrieking with laughter. ‘The river is not all bad,’ she remarked with a smile, which froze on her lips at the appearance of the Bulstrode family party strolling along the far bank.

The Mesdames Bulstrode were a startling vision, the elder in lilac, the younger in an argumentative shade of puce. Both were having trouble controlling overlarge poke bonnets in the strong morning breeze.

‘Oh, yes, Cousin Nicholas,’ Cassandra remarked in a high, clear tone. ‘You are so right in observing that the state of the deserving poor in this country is much worse than that of our own. Good morning, Mrs Bulstrode.’ She dropped a neat curtsey. ‘The Earl and I were discussing the condition of the lower orders in these parts. The absence of a benevolent landowning class must be much to blame.’

‘Well, they are all Papists, and they murdered their rightful masters in the Revolution, so what can they expect?’ the older woman announced sweepingly, before turning her attention to Nicholas.

He, however, was too experienced in the ways of social climbers to be trapped by the Bulstrodes into a lengthy exchange. ‘You are so right, Madam,’ he agreed, straight-faced. ‘I wonder why that did not occur to us. Come Cas… Catherine, the wind is getting quite keen.’ He raised his hat to the Bulstrodes and shepherded a demure Cassandra back towards the inn.

‘You baggage,’ he accused, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘
Benevolent landowning class
, indeed. Where did you learn to spout such nonsense?’

‘The vicar’s wife talks like that all the time. I did it rather well, I think,’ she congratulated herself.

‘You do like to sail close to the wind, don’t you, Cassie?’ he remarked drily. ‘Now stay upstairs until the carriage is ready. I doubt my constitution will stand any more encounters between you and the Bulstrodes.’

How and when Cassandra would transform herself from demure young lady to valet had exercised them both. It would not do to risk encountering the sharp eyes of the older Mrs Bulstrode with Cassandra in boy’s guise but Nicholas cravenly refused point-blank to risk the icy disapproval of
Madame
Aubrac by enlisting her aid. Nor could Cassandra change in an inn along the way or the postillions would gossip.

Eventually she hurried out to the carriage while the horses were being hitched up, drew the blinds and scrambled out of the dress and into her shirt and breeches. She was just tying her second garter when Nicholas joined her.

She was perfectly decently clad but, for some reason, she felt exposed in her shirt sleeves and stockinged feet. Hastily she pulled on the waistcoat and coat, fastened the buttons tight, jammed on her shoes and began to fiddle with her neckcloth. She knew she was mangling it, but Nicholas made no move to help her as he would have done two days before. He seemed as conscious as she of the changed condition between them.

By the second day, as they neared Aix en Provence, it seemed the illusion of the clothes had worked, the truth about her age was forgotten and they were at ease with each other again.

Aix lived up to Cassandra’s expectations of what a ‘proper’ foreign city should be. There were wide, clean avenues of lime trees, fountains on every corner and gracious squares where the inhabitants took the air in the evening.

To her delight, it was warm enough to sit out after dusk and in the larger squares enterprising restaurant owners had set tables under the plane trees for couples to watch the promenaders while sipping wine and nibbling almond biscuits.

Cassandra had acquired a very decent suit of black superfine, and with her best linen and polished shoes, looked respectable enough to sit with Nicholas pretending to be his
courie
r.

‘You are causing much interest amongst the young ladies,’ she teased slyly. As the respectable family groups strolled past, several of the pretty daughters on their fathers’ arms were sliding interested looks under demure lashes to where they were sitting.

Nicholas snorted. ‘It’s not me,’ he teased back. ‘I think the little redhead has taken a fancy to you. Take care, Cass, I don’t want outraged fathers banging at our door.’

Cassandra burst into laughter, choking on her wine until Nicholas threatened to slap her on the back. ‘It’s good,’ she finally managed to say. ‘If I can deceive those girls, I can deceive anyone.’ Greatly daring, she added, ‘I do believe you're jealous of my success, Nicholas.’

‘Impudent whelp.’ Nicholas aimed a cuff at her ear. ‘I would have you know that respectable
bourgeoises
hold no fascination for me.’

No
, she thought, taken unaware by a sudden stab of jealousy.
It isn’t inexperienced, unsophisticated, chaperoned girls he wanted, it is the older, knowing, society women who attract Nicholas. Preferably those safely married to complaisant husbands.

Cassandra gave herself a little shake and picked up the
Gentleman’s Guide
. ‘It says here that Aix will please us more than any city we have seen in France.’

‘If you’re going to start quoting the guidebook, it’s time you were in bed. Come on, brat, you’ve broken enough hearts for one evening.’

From Aix, they turned due east and took the winding road through St Maximin and Brignoles. High ground covered with a scrub of lavender and wild thyme rose sharply on either side, fragrant and baking under the hot sun.

Even glimpses of snow on the distant Alps could not make the journey seem any cooler. Nicholas tossed aside his coat and loosened his neck cloth and Cassandra followed suit, too hot to worry about her shirt sleeves and exposed throat.

The road was rough, the low scrub of the
maquis
crowded close and the postillions were nervous. In every inn along the way, people were telling vivid tales of banditry, and now they were convinced every clump of trees contained brigands waiting to attack the carriage.

As the shadows lengthened, Nicholas cleaned and checked the pistols in the carriage holsters. When he reached for the balls to reload, Cassandra leaned forward and reached for one of the long-barrelled weapons. ‘Please show me how to shoot them, ‘I’ve always wanted to try.’

‘Don’t touch. They aren’t harmless toys to be played with, Cass.’

‘I know that. But what if we’re attacked by these brigands we’ve heard tales of at every inn along this road?’

‘The postillions have horse pistols,’ he began, then broke off, looking thoughtful. ‘Perhaps there is something in what you say. Look, it loads like this. Leave the hammer down and don’t point it at anyone. When you need to fire, you cock it like this.’

Cassandra watched as his strong thumb lifted the hammer, then eased it back down slowly.

‘Here.’ He handed her the unloaded gun. ‘Try with this one.’

The hammer was stiff and she had to use both hands to cock it, the metal cold and unfriendly against her hot hands. Suddenly she didn’t want anything to do with guns, but he took her hand in his, aiming it and the weapon out of the window.

‘Like this. Hold it steady and squeeze the trigger. Aim for the body, it’s the biggest target, you are more likely to hit something than if you aim for the head.’

Cassandra swallowed hard and handed the gun back. ‘Thank you.’ There was nothing exciting in the prospect of killing or maiming a man, however villainous.

Fréjus, however, was reached without incident. They put up for the night in a passable inn where the patron boasted of the parties of English tourists who had passed that way the week before.

‘They all took the sea passage, of course, milord. To avoid the brigands, you understand.’ The man rolled his eyes to emphasise the dangers. ‘Desperate men, milord! They would slit your throat for the clothes on your back. Much safer to take my brother-in-law’s boat.’

Nicholas turned from the landlord’s cheerful relish of the dangers ahead to see Cassandra turn as pale as a ghost.

‘Nicholas, not another boat? You didn’t say anything about another boat.’ She was trying to speak calmly, he could tell, but the colour of her face, the pitch of her voice were as good as a scream of panic.

‘All right, Cass,’ he said calmly. ‘We’ll say no more of it today and tomorrow we can look at the sea. Perhaps you’ll feel better when you see how calm it is.’

Next day the sea was indeed calm, but Cass was not reassured. When he tried to get her closer to the boat it was as though her feet were rooted in the shingle beach. In vain, the landlord’s brother-in-law demonstrated the fine lines of his craft, the strong arms of the boatmen and the wisdom of the captain. Cass shook her head mulishly and refused to move.

‘The lad was almost drowned on our way down the Rhône,’ Nicholas explained to the landlord, who was obviously of the opinion that a firm master would simply toss the young valet on board and be done with it.

‘Les anglais
,’ he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief at such indulgence.

‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ Cassandra whispered fervently, some of the colour restored to her face by his decision to turn down the hire of the boat. ‘I know I shouldn’t be such a coward.’

Nicholas cast a swift glance round. They were alone except for the small group mooring the boat. He gave her a swift, hard hug. ‘No, you’re not a coward. You very nearly lost your life and I should never have suggested it.’

Cassandra shivered in his embrace, despite the hot sun on her back. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the fine lawn shirt, the delicate bones of her shoulder... He let her go abruptly and strode ahead, shouting to the postillions to harness the horses. Stupid to forget, even for a moment. Touching Cassie was an indulgence he dare not allow.

The road left the coast to cut inland through the thick forest of pine and chestnut hugging the slopes of Mont Vinaigre. The rutted dusty track climbed steeply in hairpin bends up the flank of the mountain to a height of almost a thousand feet.

As they jolted over the deep ruts, Cassandra dozed uneasily while Nicholas sat with one hand resting on the holster set in the coach door, fighting to keep alert, despite the heat that seemed to bake through the very fabric of the coach.

At last the coach descended into the little fishing village of Cannes.

‘Are we there?’ Cassie asked. ‘Wherever
there
is.’

‘Almost.’ Nicholas relaxed against the cushions with a deep sigh. Keeping alert for the last twenty miles, keeping his eyes off Cassie, had left him with a stiff neck, a dry mouth and aching arousal.

Cannes was no more impressive than Fréjus had been and the inn was considerably worse. It was a relief to leave the next morning after a breakfast of coarse bread and evil coffee and now, with the threatening mountain road and its danger of brigands behind them, he could relax.

The route from Cannes to Nice lay along the coast, a winding, often alarming road hanging on the very cliff edge. The sea sparkled blue below them, sometimes hidden by clumps of pines, and white farmhouses set in the hillside made the land seem peopled, even though they saw scarcely anyone except a goatherd and his dog.

After the insignificant village of Antibes, the road dropped almost to sea level offering a continuous view over the dazzling Mediterranean with fishing boats bobbing at anchor. Cassandra stuck her head out of the carriage window. ‘What a wonderful smell. Hot pine resin, the sea and the scent of herbs.’

‘And dust.’ Nicholas seized the hem of her waistcoat and hauled her back into the carriage. ‘Get back in, brat, or you'll be out of the window at the next bump in the road.’

'Why are you laughing at me?' Cassandra demanded, when she saw the grin on his face.

‘You look like a retriever pup who has just had her first scent of game.’ But as he looked at her indignant face, flushed with heat and excitement, her hair awry, her eyes sparkling, he thought he had never had the urge to kiss one of his gun dogs.

The carriage suddenly slowed and one of the postillions shouted out. Nicholas put his head out of the window. ‘What is it? Why are we stopping?’

Then he saw the problem, a broken-down farm cart was slewed across the road, its meagre contents spilling out and the ancient driver tugging at the reins of an equally ancient mule.

‘Get down one of you, and help him or we’ll never get to Nice,’ Nicholas ordered. The man did as he was told, walking awkwardly in his heavy boots. He vanished round the cart. Seconds later there was a sudden cry, then silence.

‘What the devil?’ Nicholas jumped down, leaving the door swinging. ‘Stay there, Cassie, while I see what is happening.’

Cassandra leaned out, watching as Nicholas strode towards the cart. The drover took to his heels far too nimbly for the old man he appeared to be. Then there was a thump swiftly followed by a cry and the second postillion slumped to the ground from his horse, a knife-hilt protruding between his shoulder blades.

For a moment she was frozen, then she scrambled across the carriage to the open door. ‘Nicholas! Behind you!’ she shouted, as two men emerged from the cover of the cart, each with a cudgel and a curving knife in his hands.

Everything happened so fast it was blurred. Nicholas turned, stooped, picked up a rock and threw it hard, catching the nearest brigand in the centre of the forehead. The man fell as if poleaxed. The second brigand cursed and began to back away, holding the murderous knife in front of him.

Nicholas snatched up the fallen man’s knife and strode towards the retreating man as a shadow slipped from cover behind the horses, arm raised.

‘Behind you!’ Cassandra shrieked again, but too late. The man had brought the cudgel down in a crashing blow on Nicholas’s shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground, then kicked his head.

Cassandra saw red. Without conscious thought her fingers curled round one of the pistols, slipping it from its holster. The smooth wood of the butt felt right in her hand and this time the hammer pulled back smoothly under her thumb. She brought the muzzle up, aimed at the broad, leather-jerkined back, and fired.

The recoil shot her backwards painfully onto her tail-bone. Eyes streaming, shoulder numb, she scrambled down from the coach, brandishing the other pistol.

‘Get away from him! Get away or I’ll kill you!’ she yelled in English, but the message must have been clear enough. The brigand grabbed his injured colleague and stumbled off into the pines. Of the man Nicholas had hit there was no sign.

Cassandra ran, stumbling in her haste, and fell on her knees beside Nicholas. He was stirring, his eyes black in a deadly white face. ‘Nicholas?’

‘Stop pointing that pistol at me,’ he managed, then broke off, retching painfully.

‘Sit up.’ Cassandra half dragged him into the shade of the cart and propped him against the wheel. ‘I’ll fetch some water.’

After several deep draughts, he reopened his eyes and looked at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘Bloodthirsty brat. Where are all the bodies?’

‘One of the postillions is all right, he only had a tap on the head. He’s looking after the other one in the carriage. The brigands have gone.’

‘I am not surprised.’ His eyes were closed again.

‘I only shot one of them,’ Cassandra protested. ‘I think the others were taken by surprise because they didn’t know there was anyone else in the carriage.’

Nicholas shifted his position and grimaced. ‘I thought I’d broken my collarbone, but I don’t think I have.’ He opened and closed his hand, wincing.

Cassandra probed gingerly. ‘No, I don’t think you have either, but it is bound to be very badly bruised. Can you get up? We need to get all of you to a doctor, I have no idea if there is any head damage. And besides, what will we do if they come back?’

Unsteadily, leaning on her shoulder, Nicholas made his way back to the coach. The stabbed postillion was slumped silently in one corner, the other stood holding his head and moaning.

‘There’s money in it for you if you can drive us on to Nice,’ she said firmly to the man with the headache. ‘You have done well, the Earl will not fail to reward you generously.’