Miss Weston's Masquerade (15 page)

‘You keep making excuses for him, yet you are angry and hurt,’ Lucia remarked shrewdly. ‘Why?’

Cassandra got to her feet and began to fidget around the room. The question was disturbing, forcing her to confront her real feelings. ‘I am jealous,’ she said eventually. ‘I want him to see me, not an irritating child he’s been saddled with or a distracting body he must try and ignore. If he thinks of me at all, it's either as the little girl I was when he last met me, or as a package he must deliver intact to his mother, because his duty demands it.’

‘So you want him to recognise you are a woman. A woman who can say
yes
or
no
to him.’

‘I suppose so.’ Cassandra bit her lip, forcing herself to be honest. ‘But I wouldn’t say no. I want him. I know it is wrong, but I want him to love me – and to make love to me. He has always had everything he wants.’

‘And now there is something
you
desire?’ Lucia laughed. ‘And you need to learn how to use a woman’s power to make him see you and only you.’

‘But how?’ Cassandra sank down on the sofa, shaken by what she was saying.

‘You go home and go to bed, little one. Sleep. Eat your dinner in your room. Let your
Niccolo
believe you are not well, and when he goes out to the Turkish Ambassador’s ball this evening, come back here to me.’

‘How do you know where he is going this evening’' Cassandra asked, although nothing about this amazing woman would surprise her now.

‘All Society goes to the Ambassador’s masque. And so do the courtesans. And for one evening you will be one of us, for your
Niccolo
only. And then you may love him or not, as you decide. Now go, and take care no one sees you leave.’

Remaining in her room was simpler than Cassandra had feared. The encounter with Lucia seemed some sort of mad dream. How could she even contemplate anything so outrageous as to seduce Nicholas? She sent a message by Antonio that she was feeling unwell and would take her meals alone and received by return a curt note from Nicholas.

It is not to be wondered at that you feel unwell after your behaviour last night
, he wrote.
For myself I have no wish to set eyes on you until you have had time to reflect on your conduct and make amends. The servants have been informed that you will remain in your room until they receive my orders to the contrary
.

It was signed curtly,
Lydford
.

Cassandra read this missive through twice, unable to believe her eyes. So, he wanted her to confess
her
faults, while he offered no word of contrition for his conduct in putting her over his knee like a child or losing his temper. All doubts about Lucia’s wanton plan vanished.

Cassandra screwed up the paper and hurled it at the wall. It missed, sailed out of the open casement and into the canal where it sank gently beneath the greenish waters.

It was nine in the evening when Cassandra watched Nicholas emerge from the front door and make his way down the steps to his waiting boat. He was obviously dining out before the ball. Despite her anger with him, she felt her heartbeat quicken at the sight of him, magnificent in full evening attire. A heavy opera cloak lined with scarlet silk was thrown back over an evening suit of deep blue cloth. His neckcloth was immaculate in its complex folds, a single fob glinted against the dull sheen of soft silver threads in his waistcoat.

The major domo stood with Nicholas’s mask dangling by its strings in his hand. Against the Venetian servants, Nicholas’s rangy height was even more apparent.

More than anything else, Cassandra wanted to be with him, on his arm. To be helped into the boat by him with the solicitude he had shown his companion of the night before. After tonight, perhaps…

With the Earl’s departure, the public rooms of the
palazzo
rapidly emptied of servants, making it easy for Cassandra to slip out and across the courtyard. The door opened before she even knocked and once again she was conducted silently into Lucia’s presence.

The courtesan was already dressed in evening finery, although without paint. A large bathtub lined with white linen stood in one corner, a manservant filling it with flagons of warm water. Lucia sent him away and paused to consider a collection of glass phials.

‘Sandalwood, I think,’ she mused. ‘Heady, but not clinging. You will be able to wash it off later, and that may be important, for you may yet change your mind, little sister. Now, take off your clothes, and into the bath with you.’

An hour later Cassandra was being laced into a corset which produced a figure which she had no idea she possessed. She looked down, startled, at a surprising amount of cleavage but, oiled, warm and faintly light-headed from a glass of sweet wine, she felt no inclination to protest. At least her breasts were not fully on display.

The maid helped her into a gown the colour of crushed raspberries and began to fasten it. ‘But what about my hair?’ The boyish crop, even though it was beginning to grow into soft curls, was ludicrously at odds with the soft folds and low-cut bodice of the silk gown with its gauze overdress.

‘But a wig, of course.’ Lucia sat Cassandra to the dressing table, pulled back her hair with a ribbon and arranged a blonde mass of ringlets on her head. ‘There.’

Cassandra gazed into the glass and a creature who was not Cassandra gazed back. Only her dark, direct eyes, shadowed by uncertainty, were familiar.

‘Now, to paint your face. We will do it together.’

Cassandra sat passive as Lucia went to work with her brushes and myriad little pots. She brushed kohl around her eyes until they were huge and dark, then thickened the lashes with a black powder. She brushed Cassandra’s skin with rice powder, clucking over the fading sun-freckles. And then she painted her mouth with a red gloss the exact colour of the gown.

The sensuous touch of the brush following the curve of her lip made Cassandra pout. ‘Perfect,’ Lucia murmured. ‘Now, remember, do not bite your lips and be careful when you drink.’

Lucia, satisfied at last, led her to a full-length glass. ‘Look.’

Cassandra gasped. A total stranger stood there, sophisticated, beautiful, intriguing. Yet despite the paint and the tumbling blonde curls, there was no hint of coarseness or wantonness. The neckline teased, but did not reveal, the lines of the gown flattered rather than flaunted.

‘Now, slippers, a fan, a mask and you are ready. Not even your father would recognise you.’

Cassandra smiled. What her father would say if he could see his only child now beggared description. ‘Lucia, this is beautiful,’ she stroked the gown. ‘But I am still not certain I can go through with this.’

Lucia steadied the kohl brush as she shaded her own eyes. ‘We are going to the Turkish Ambassador’s ball and you will dazzle your
Niccolo
. What comes after is in your hands.’

‘I can’t do it, Lucia!’ Sudden panic ripped through her. When he found out, his anger would be unimaginable. Cassandra looked round for the maid to unlace her gown.

‘Nonsense.’ Lucia swept over and pressed her into a chair. ‘I do not recognise you and I created you myself. You do not have to decide anything yet. Follow your instincts. Here, drink this slowly and try on your mask.’

Cassandra slipped the wine then tied the strings of her mask. It covered her eyebrows, cheekbones and subtly altered the shape of her nose. Lucia was right, she could not recognise herself. And besides, she thought philosophically, there would be such a throng that perhaps Nicholas would never see her.

‘But my voice? What if he should speak to me?’

‘Oh, he will speak to you, that is certain.’ Lucia smiled her slow, mysterious smile. ‘You speak French? Good, then lower your voice, use a French accent and say only a little, with many French words. That will intrigue even more.’

Cassandra shrugged, still sceptical that Nicholas would even notice her among the throng of beautiful women, but the heavy scents of the room, Lucia’s confidence, the sweet potency of the wine, all came together, and suddenly she was careless of what the night might bring.

‘Wait,’ said Lucia suddenly, as the maid settled their cloaks around their shoulders. ‘One jewel is all you need.’ She clicked her fingers and the maid brought a casket, waiting while her mistress stirred the contents with one long finger. ‘Ah, yes, the very thing. This is a little gift for you to keep, my dear.’

She held up a flexible gold necklace, fashioned in the shape of a serpent. In its delicate jaws it held a rose quartz egg on a gold chain. Lucia fastened it around Cassandra’s neck where it hung, the jewel trembling on the swell of her breasts.

‘Thank you,’ Cassandra breathed, touching the ornament as she followed her companion from the room.

The journey was short, but their gondola had to wait, jostling for position with the dozens of others at the water gate to the Ambassador’s imposing
palazzo
.

Despite Lucia’s assurances, Cassandra was amazed to see groups of courtesans arriving, rubbing shoulders quite openly with nobility of all nationalities. English voices carried on the night air, mingling with the growl of Russian, German gutturals and mellifluous Mediterranean accents.

The entrance court was as bright as noon with turbaned servants lining the walls, each with a flambeau to light the guests threading slowly up the marble stairs to where the Ambassador greeted the company.

Lucia ignored the main throng and insinuated herself through a side door, up a flight of stairs and emerged, Cassandra in her wake, virtually at the Ambassador’s elbow.

He recognised her at once, bowing low over her hand with an intimate murmur of greeting. Cassandra realised all at once why Lucia had been so confident of her plan: the Turk was obviously a favoured client. The Ambassador’s dark eyes gleamed appreciatively as he bowed to Cassandra and she found herself smiling back at the hawkish, moustachioed face.

He snapped his fingers and an elegant young man, dressed like the Ambassador in national dress, hurried to his side. Cassandra heard Nicholas’s title murmured and the aide nodded and gestured politely for the ladies to precede him into the crowded salon.

It took some minutes to locate Nicholas. He was standing listening to a middle-aged man whose evening dress was bedecked with orders and medal ribbons. Cassandra recognised Nicholas’s rising boredom and stifled a giggle before sudden panic gripped her.

‘I must be
mad
,’ she whispered, pulling back against Lucia’s light grip on her elbow.

‘Do not worry, little one,’ Lucia whispered in return. ‘Go and fascinate your
Niccolo
. He will never know it is you, unless you choose to tell him. I will not be far away.’

The aide waited politely until the senior diplomat noticed him and broke off an exposition of the Russian situation.

‘His Excellency, my master, has commanded me to introduce these ladies to your eminences…’ The aide allowed his words to tail off discreetly as he melted backwards into the crowd.

The diplomat’s obvious irritation at the interruption vanished abruptly as his gaze fell on Lucia. She looked magnificent in her favourite emerald green, her white bosom scarcely contained in a jewelled net bodice, her Titian hair tumbled in artful disarray.

He stared for a moment through his quizzing glass, then it fell from his fingers as he surged forward to bend over Lucia’s proffered hand. ‘
Madame
! Your most obedient!’ He had no eyes for anyone, let alone Cassandra in her more modest attire and the Russian situation had obviously been instantly forgotten.

‘Sir Humphrey,’ Lucia purred. ‘I have met you at last. I have heard so much about you. Tell me, is it true that only your subtle intervention saved the talks at…’ She had already borne him off towards a curtained alcove and Cassandra never did discover Sir Humphrey’s great contribution to European statesmanship.

She was looking after them with bemused admiration for Lucia’s tactics, when Nicholas’s voice in her ear remarked, ‘Very prettily done. It is always a pleasure to see an expert at work.’

Cassandra started, realising with horror that she was all alone with Nicholas. He was looking at her with blatant admiration in his eyes, a warm smile playing round his lips. For the first time, she was experiencing all his charm, uncomplicated by their difficult, ambiguous relationship.

This was the man against whom prudent London mamas warned their susceptible daughters: not because he was a seducer of innocents, but because he would steal their hearts without for a moment taking them seriously. Many lures had been cast before the eligible Earl of Lydford, but none had hooked him.

Cassandra took a long, unsteady breath and the rose quartz jewel quivered between her breasts, drawing Nicholas’s eyes to the soft swell.

‘
Monsieur
?’ Cassandra hastily remembered the role she was playing and held out her hand to him. Nicholas took it and turned it so that his warm lips met the inside of her wrist in a lingering caress. Her heart leapt so she thought he must feel it in her pulse, but he drew her hand through his arm and began to stroll towards the terrace.

She forced herself to relax and move sinuously against him as he bowed and nodded to various acquaintances as they progressed through the crowd. A black page paused before them with a tray of wine glasses and Nicholas took two, offering one to Cassandra.

She took a cautious sip and realised it was champagne. The bubbles tickled her nose, but the taste was unthreatening and she drank more deeply.

Nicholas was intent on reaching the less crowded terrace and skilfully evaded all attempts to detain him with conversation. Outside it was much quieter, although couples and small groups strolled and chatted along the wide, balustraded space overhanging the Grand Canal. He found her a bench, its cold marble smothered in heaped cushions, and leaned against the wall at her side.

Cassandra could hear the slap of tiny waves as gondolas disturbed the water below, then quite forgot her surroundings as Nicholas spoke to her.

‘Will you tell me your name,
ma belle
?’ he asked. ‘I am Nicholas.’

‘Earl of Lydford,’ she finished for him, rolling her r’s.

‘You know? I am flattered.’ He dropped onto the bench beside her, stretching out his long legs, quite at ease.

‘I make it my business to know,’ she said, remembering Lucia’s words. ‘You may call me Antoinette.’

There was a small silence as they sipped their wine, their eyes meeting above the rim of the glasses. A frown creased Nicholas’s forehead and Cassandra was aware that he was puzzled somehow.

‘Something is wrong, Nicholas?’ She made her voice was husky, low and questioning.

He shrugged. ‘I thought you reminded me of someone, but no, it is a passing fancy. I cannot even recall who it might be.’

‘I, Antoinette, have never met you, Nicholas.’ Cassandra let her hand rest lightly on his sleeve. ‘I would have remembered
you,
’ she murmured to cover her alarm. There must be something about the way she moved, the way she held herself, that could not be disguised, and she was still not ready to commit herself to this masquerade.

Very well, then, she would use Lucia’s arts to divert his thoughts. He had known her in many rôles in their weeks together: tomboy, nurse, demure young lady, but never seductress. This was frightening, but excitement was racing in her veins.

She let her hand drift down his arm until her fingertips brushed his knuckles, then flexed her fingers, grazing the smooth flesh with her nails. She felt his instant reaction, and suddenly she was aware of her effect on him. This was what Lucia had meant when she spoke of the power her sisters wielded over men.

His free hand came over hers, trapping it. Again, he turned it, but this time, instead of carrying it to his lips, he rubbed one fingertip over the sensitive palm, the swell at the base of her thumb. A wave of tingling heat passed over Cassandra’s body, absurdly out of proportion to the lightness of his touch.

She met his eyes, allowing her painted lips to part invitingly. She could feel the snake on her breast rise and fall with her tremulous breathing.