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stood ajar in front of her and through the gap came the chink of glass, the scrape of cutlery and the sound of voices.
    Her curiosity got the better of her and she went closer. By dint of flattening herself against the wall, Cassandra found she could see a wedge of the dining-room. It was warm, full of light and bustle and infinitely more enticing than the prospect of her own room. Besides, the plate of stew was cooling fast. Quietly she moved a stool closer to the door, perched on it and began to eat.
    The room was crowded with diners of the Quality. Cassandra chewed absently, her eyes and mind full of the shifting colours of the women’s gowns, the richness of the men’s attire. She wanted to be there, part of it. Her father had denied her the chance to join even the provincial social life that Ware had to offer. If dinner in a Dover inn was this glamorous, how much more wonderful was Paris going to be?
    She was almost lost in a reverie of elegant gowns and charming men when the party sitting nearest her door rose to reveal Nicholas and Lady Broome sitting alone at a table. Of Sir George, there was no sign.
    Cassandra gasped as her eyes took in Lady Broome’s gown, cut so low it scarcely contained the full swell of her breasts. What fabric was showing was silver gauze over deep rose silk. Her dark hair was cropped dashingly short in the latest mode, its only adornment a silver filet threaded through with its loose ends fluttering at her cheek.
    It was only then that Cassandra really noticed her companion. Nicholas was lifting his glass to toast her, a lazy smile curving his lips as their eyes met and held. Lady Broome leaned towards him to touch her glass to his. The two dark heads almost touched before Nicholas leaned back, still holding the look.
    Cassandra drew in her breath with a sharp hiss. This was a very different Nicholas to the safe elder brother who had teased and bullied her all day. Not, of course, that she wanted him to look at her like that… even at this distance it brought the hairs up on her arms.
    Absently, she took a sip of ale. Lady Broome was speaking now, her rippling laugh cutting across the hubbub of the room to reach Cassandra in her dark corner. She had obviously put a question to Nicholas who was shaking his head, a look of regret on his face. His fingers caressed the delicate filigree of silver ribbon by her cheek as his lips moved with soft words.
    ‘Silly goose,’ Cassandra muttered, unsure which of them she was referring to. Couldn’t he see how blatantly Lady Broome was flirting, playing with him? Of course he could, and he was enjoying every moment of it.
    When Cassandra regained the bedchamber, she still felt nettled and vaguely disappointed in Nicholas for being so easily beguiled. She unbuttoned her waistcoat and took a deep breath. Male clothing gave considerable freedom, but it pinched in unexpected places. She sat on the bed and peeled off her stockings, then realised she had no nightgown to put on. She held Nicholas’s up against herself, but it was far too long. She padded barefoot across the boards to a valise and tugged out a shirt. Pulled over her head it brushed the top of her knees, not quite seemly, but then she had little alternative.
    The bed was high and deep with an old-fashioned feather mattress which closed round her as she climbed in. Cassandra looked guiltily at the truckle bed, then hardened her heart. Nicholas had ordered her to take this bed, and after all he had enjoyed his evening. He hadn’t had to sit in the dark eating greasy stew while other people dined and flirted.
    She snuggled down into the pillows, stretched her aching legs and waited for sleep to overtake her. But, despite all that had happened over the past twenty four hours and her lack of rest the night before, her eyes refused to close.
    She supposed she ought to be worrying about what her father would be doing. Somehow she doubted he would have gone to the expense of hiring a Bow Street