‘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.