Miss Weston's Masquerade
Read Miss Weston's Masquerade Online
Authors: Louise Allen
Miss Weston’s Masquerade
Louise Allen
Copyright © Louise Allen 2016. All rights reserved.
First edition 2016.
The right of Louise Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a substantially revised edition of a book of the same title by Francesca Shaw published in 1994 by Mills & Boon.
Requests to publish extracts from this book should be made via
www.louiseallenregency.com/contact
Author’s Note
I began writing fiction as a co-author under the pen name Francesca Shaw and Miss Weston’s Masquerade
was our
second historical romance published by Mills & Boon in 1994.
Now, writing alone as Louise Allen, I am delighted to have the opportunity to revise this story extensively and to bring it afresh to my readers.
Table of Contents
The Audley Street Chapel clock struck nine, echoed by others more distant, their chimes carrying clearly on the still morning air.
At last.
Cassandra Weston emerged stiffly from the shelter of a dusty laurel bush and brushed down her cloak as she surveyed her surroundings in daylight.
There were people abroad in Grosvenor Square, but they were servants and tradesmen hurrying about their masters' business, not, at this hour, any of the Quality who might pose a danger to her. At home in Hertfordshire she and Papa would have already breakfasted by now, the workers at Home Farm would have finished the milking and the streets of Ware would be bustling with market-goers. But this was the heart of fashionable London, another world altogether.
She drew back into cover as a small cart rumbled past over the cobbles. Now it was full light and she could see where she was, see just what she must look like, her courage wavered, but nothing would be gained by hesitating. Going on had to be better than going back. She ran her hands over her hair, dislodging several leaves and a twig, gave a jaw-cracking yawn and picked her way across the cobbles to the steps of the big house in front of her.
The knocker was heavy and cold in her hands but she still hesitated before letting it fall. It was five years since she had last seen her godmother. What if she had miscalculated, presumed too much on the lasting affection of Mama’s best friend? Perhaps Lady Lydford would take one look at her and pack her straight back to Hertfordshire and Papa. And if she did that, what options would be left to her? Cassandra thought of the oily, sliding waters of the Thames, shuddered, and the knocker fell from her fingers with a resounding thud.
The door swung open so sharply that she took a step back, stumbling over the hem of her cloak. She had expected a footman, not the stately figure of the family butler, eyebrows raised in distain at the sight on the doorstep.
‘The tradesman’s entrance is at the rear.’
The door was already closing before Cassandra found her voice. ‘Wait, please, Peacock. You are Peacock, aren’t you?’
The butler hesitated and looked down at her. ‘And what if it is?’ he demanded, frowning. obviously puzzled by the contrast between the sight before him and an educated voice.
‘I must see Lady Lydford.’
‘The Dowager Countess is not at home.’
‘Then I will wait,’ Cassandra said, attempting to put some confidence into her tone.
‘I did not mean that her ladyship is not At Home, I mean that her ladyship is not at home. She is, in fact, not even in the country. a fact that any of her ladyship’s acquaintances well know.’ Peacock began to close the door again.
‘Out of the
country
?’ In her desperation she had never considered the possibility that her godmother would not be in London. All her courage, all her determination, seemed to vanish until all she was conscious of was shock, hunger, fatigue. Peacock’s figure wavered in front of her eyes, grew taller as her knees gave way. The impact of cold, hard stone steps jarred through her. ‘Godmama is not here?’
Peacock stooped, his hand closing around her upper arm, his eyes sharp on her face. ‘Godmama? You cannot remain here on the steps. Come inside.’ He hauled her to her feet none too gently, and cast a rapid glance across the Square. Instinctively she looked too, but the only people in sight were a milkmaid emerging from Brook Street with pails suspended from the yoke across her shoulders, a street sweeper and a hurrying page boy.
The butler released her arm as the door closed and Cassandra found herself standing in the hall, an expanse of black and white marble. The light from the central lantern gleamed richly on the balustrade of the curving staircase and the few pieces of carefully placed furniture. She rubbed her arm and tried not to show that she was impressed by the elegance. At least she was inside and not out on the street.
A footman emerged silently from an anteroom to disappear through a door under the stairs. Peacock sighed almost imperceptibly, his eyes on the man’s back. ‘I think it best you should go to his lordship at once and not wait where the other servants can see you.’
‘The Earl is at home?’ For some reason she had assumed that with Godmama away, all the members of the family would be absent.
‘For the present. He leaves for the Continent today.’ Peacock gestured abruptly to her to follow, probably regretting his impulse to admit her. Cassandra caught sight of her distorted reflection in a great silver urn as she passed, a slight figure in a dusty cloak, following Peacock’s disapproving bulk. She tried not to let her ill-fitting shoes clatter on the polished stair treads as she stumbled, too tired to co-ordinate properly.
With a glance behind him, presumably to see if the unwelcome and embarrassing visitor was still there or had simply been a butler’s nightmare, Peacock halted and scratched lightly on the door in front of him.
Cassandra craned her neck as the door opened, but only a portion of the room was visible past Peacock’s black-clad shoulders, and she could see nothing at all of the man inside who was speaking.
‘How the devil would I know how many neck cloths I will need before we reach Paris? Does it matter? Do they not manufacture such articles on the Continent?’
Nicholas Anthony St John Cheney, Seventh Earl of Lydford, was evidently out of humour. Cassandra fought down the urge to turn and run down the staircase, across the chequerboard hall, out into the morning-quiet street beyond, and stood her ground.
‘None of the quality we would accept, my lord.’ The valet coughed softly. ‘Mr Peacock is at the door, my lord.’
‘I am aware of that, Franklin. Well, Peacock? Have you come to announce some further disaster to overset my plans?’
‘I could not say, my lord. There is a young… person to see you.’
‘What makes you think I would wish to interview a young person, or, indeed, anyone else, at this hour in the morning?’ A flash of vivid crimson brocade was intermittently visible. The Earl appeared to be pacing.
‘I believe you will wish to see
this
one.’ The butler spoke with a curious emphasis, stepping aside as he did so.
Exposed, Cassandra forced herself to stand still and not shrink back into the door embrasure behind her. She looked up and met the irritable gaze of a tall gentleman wearing a dressing gown shrugged carelessly over shirtsleeves and breeches.
‘Have you been at the port, Peacock? Why should I wish to see this scrubby boy?’
‘The young person was asking for the Dowager Countess, my lord.’ Peacock was very much on his dignity. Butlers of his superiority, Cassandra guessed, were not used to having their judgment questioned. ‘In view of her ladyship’s absence, I thought it best to escort the young…’
‘Will you kindly stop referring to this boy as a Young Person, Peacock. Here, you boy, come in, stop skulking in the shadows. Have you performed some service for my mother which requires recompense? Are you from one of her charitable projects?’ He turned impatiently to the butler. ‘I do feel, Peacock, that you could have dealt with this.’
‘Perhaps, my lord, if you were to enquire the young person’s name… Meanwhile, there is a matter which requires Franklin’s urgent attention in the laundry room. A question of a scorched shirt.’
The valet grimaced as he slipped out onto the landing. ‘Got out of bed the wrong side and three hours too early,’ he muttered
sotto voce
as he passed them.
Peacock propelled Cassandra into the bedchamber with a firm hand on her shoulder and shut the door. Her heart sank at the disappearance of her only ally, however reluctant.
Lord Nicholas stood regarding her, arms folded across his chest. In the bright sunshine streaming in through the long casements he narrowed his green eyes and looked down, then up, then focused on her face. Cassandra stood there in her travel-stained borrowed clothes and resisted the urge to squint at the smudge she could see on her nose. He resembled, with his aquiline features and high cheekbones, nothing more than a sparrow hawk who had sighted an insignificant but tasty mouse.
‘Should I know you?’ There was a hint of puzzlement in the deep voice and he pushed the dark hair back from his brow with impatient fingers.
Cassandra pushed aside the folds of cloak and stepped forward into the sunlight that spilled onto the boards between them. ‘Yes, you do know me, although it must be nearly ten years since we last met.’ She knew she was blushing. She had not expected to find herself in a gentleman’s bedchamber, least of all that of the man who had been her hero since she was eight years old. ‘I was hoping to see Godmama.’
‘Your Godmama? My mother, you mean? Then you must be…’ He looked her up and down again, this time frankly incredulous.
‘Cassandra Weston.’ She let the heavy wool fall to the floor to reveal the jerkin, breeches, coarse woollen stockings and the ill-fitting shoes she had given the stable boy a sovereign for before yesterday’s urgent flight.
‘Little Cassie? Good G– ’ He checked the oath and walked slowly round her, his expression half-way between amusement and exasperation. ‘What prank are you engaged on? You shouldn’t be jauntering around London in those clothes, you silly chit. Where is your maid?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘No, I suppose not, at your age.’ He came to a halt in front of her, hands on hips, amusement winning out over irritation. ‘How old are you? Twelve?’
‘Certainly not!’ She was about to tell him she was eighteen, then instinct made her hold her tongue. Let him believe she was still a child, at least until they were in more proper surroundings with a maid as chaperone.
‘Well, fifteen, then, you cannot be much more. You look the most complete urchin. What have you done to your hair?’ The Earl leaned forward and lifted a strand between fastidious fingers. ‘It appears to have been cut with shears and it is full of cobwebs.’
‘Embroidery scissors because they were all I could find,’ Cassandra replied bleakly. The loss of her mass of chestnut curls had seemed a small sacrifice at the time, but now, seeing herself through his critical eyes, she regretted it. ‘And I had to hide in the gardens of the Square. The stage arrived at ten last night and it took me so long to find the house, I thought it too late to knock.’
‘If we retire before two in this household we consider it a dull night, but I suppose in the wilds of Hertfordshire all activity ceases as the sun goes down.’ He was watching her face as he teased her and she concentrated on standing still and not shaking like a leaf. Or falling down at his feet in their elegant slippers. She saw his eyes narrow. ‘You’re as white as a shirt under that dirt, child. When did you last eat?’
‘At noon yesterday. Luncheon.’ And she could not tell him that after her father’s ultimatum she had run from the dining room and been violently sick.
The Earl tugged the silken bellpull beside the hearth and gestured her into a chair with its back to the door. ‘Breakfast, now,’ he snapped when the door opened and then paced until a footman brought chocolate, ham, bread and sweet rolls.
Under his unsmiling gaze she tried not to bolt the food, did her best to chew thoroughly. He watched her eat for a few moments, then poured himself a cup of chocolate.
‘Would you care for some ham?’ Cassandra suddenly remembered her manners.
‘Not at this unearthly hour of the morning, thank you.’ He gave a snort of amusement at her expression.
‘But it is almost ten o’clock. Surely you would not still be in bed?’ Her father was always railing against the laxity and dissipation of London life, and she had not expected to see persons of quality on the streets yet, but surely they were not all still asleep? Perhaps Papa was right.
‘Indeed I would be in bed, asleep, if I were not taking the Dover road this morning. But never mind that.’ He sat down, poured more chocolate. ‘What mischief are you about? Your father is not going to be pleased to receive you home looking like that.’
Cassandra jumped to her feet, sending the plate of rolls spinning to the floor. ‘I am not going back.
Never
. He mustn’t know I am here.’
‘You’ve run away?’ All the amusement was gone from his face. ‘This is not some prank hatched in the schoolroom, then? Hell’s teeth, have you no concern for your reputation?’ He must have read the answer in her face for, after a moment, he got to his feet and began to pace, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dressing gown. ‘You really could not have chosen a more inconvenient time to quarrel with your father, you know.’
‘It is more than a quarrel,’ Cassandra protested.
She realised the Earl was not taking any notice of her, his brow furrowed in thought. Eventually he announced, ‘If you stay here with Mrs Mitchell, the housekeeper, and write to your father, then no harm will be done. With the family away no-one of consequence will visit us here. You must stay in your room, of course, until your father comes to take you home.’
‘I will not go home.’ Cassandra grasped one brocade sleeve, the heavy silk creasing in her grip. ‘If you try and make me, I will throw myself in the Thames.’
There was a short silence while he freed her fingers from his sleeve and smoothed out the rich fabric. ‘What melodrama are you playing out?’ His voice, and face, were cold. ‘You ridiculous child, you are not between the pages of some novel.’