more respectable?’
‘Almost anything,’ Rebecca murmured. She pushed
her chair back from the workbench and got stiffly to
her feet. The idea of going out was curiously appeal-
ing. She was tired of staring at the same four walls
and enduring little but her own company. To go out
amidst the bright lights and a crowd of people, to lose
herself for one evening in noise and company and col-
our and life ... Suddenly the idea seemed powerfully
attractive. She had been living solitary for so long that
she felt starved of fun. Yet a worry nagged at the back
of her mind. There was something tense about Nan,
as though she would brook no refusal; although her
friend caught her glance and gave her a brilliant smile
that seemed to contradict Rebecca’s thoughts, still she
felt vaguely wary.
‘I have no suitable gown—’ she began, looking for
excuses, but Nan waved the objection aside.
‘I have brought one with me.’ She gestured to the
fall of cherry-red silken stuff in her arms. ‘It will be-
come you exceedingly. I will do your hair. Now come
along! We only have an hour. I do not wish to leave
Bosham unattended for long or one of those dreadful
Wilson sisters will snap him up. They have been wait-
ing to pounce on him for months!’
Rebecca had no more chance to demur, for Nan was
98
The Rake’s Mistress
already steering her towards the rickety wooden stair-
case and up to her narrow chamber. The room was
sparse but it had a dressing-table and a mirror, and
Nan appeared to have brought all the other items that
she required to transform Rebecca from ugly duckling
into, if not an elegant swan, precisely, then a seductive
siren. It was so contrary to Rebecca’s normal style of
dress that, when she saw her finished reflection, she
almost choked.
After three-quarters of an hour, they were ready to
leave. Whenever Rebecca thought Nan wasn’t looking
she would try to hoist up the front of the red silk dress,
which had a scandalously low dećolletage and some
artfully cut lace that seemed to accentuate rather than
conceal the curves of Rebecca’s breasts.
‘Do leave the gown alone, Rebecca,’ Nan scolded,
when she saw her. ‘I do not know why you are fussing.
It is demure enough for a nun!’
‘Only the sort of abbess who runs a Covent Garden
bawdy house,’ Rebecca muttered. She wrapped her
black cloak about her, trying to cover the exposed bits.
Thank goodness for the black velvet mask with the
matching cherry ribbons. If anyone was going to rec-
ognise any part of her, it certainly would not be her
face.
It was only when they reached Carlisle House that
Rebecca began to suspect that she had underestimated
the nature of the party. Either that, or Nan had delib-
erately misled her by understating the case. It was a
masked ball, but in the style of a Venetian masque,
which had been popular in the previous century. A
Nicola Cornick
99
crush of guests thronged the huge ballroom, which was
lit by at least five hundred candles. The light reflected
off the long, gold-framed mirrors, and it seemed that
an endless parade of dazzlingly attired strangers cir-
cled in the dance. They were dressed in every costume
imaginable, from pirates and highwaymen to shep-
herdesses and Roman goddesses, and some were rather
more undressed than others. The scene was decadent,
rich and glittering with vivid life. Rebecca felt as
though she had stepped into another world, and one
she was not sure she could deal with.
Nan squeezed her arm. ‘I told you it would be fun,
Becca,’ she said smugly.
Rebecca had stopped on the threshold and now she
almost choked at what was before her eyes. ‘A small
party?’ she said faintly. ‘Nan—’
Her mouth fell open even farther as she saw a young
woman who was disporting herself with a couple of
bucks. Her dress appeared to have lost its bodice and
the rest of it was nothing more than a gauzy net about
her legs. Not that the
‘Almost anything,’ Rebecca murmured. She pushed
her chair back from the workbench and got stiffly to
her feet. The idea of going out was curiously appeal-
ing. She was tired of staring at the same four walls
and enduring little but her own company. To go out
amidst the bright lights and a crowd of people, to lose
herself for one evening in noise and company and col-
our and life ... Suddenly the idea seemed powerfully
attractive. She had been living solitary for so long that
she felt starved of fun. Yet a worry nagged at the back
of her mind. There was something tense about Nan,
as though she would brook no refusal; although her
friend caught her glance and gave her a brilliant smile
that seemed to contradict Rebecca’s thoughts, still she
felt vaguely wary.
‘I have no suitable gown—’ she began, looking for
excuses, but Nan waved the objection aside.
‘I have brought one with me.’ She gestured to the
fall of cherry-red silken stuff in her arms. ‘It will be-
come you exceedingly. I will do your hair. Now come
along! We only have an hour. I do not wish to leave
Bosham unattended for long or one of those dreadful
Wilson sisters will snap him up. They have been wait-
ing to pounce on him for months!’
Rebecca had no more chance to demur, for Nan was
98
The Rake’s Mistress
already steering her towards the rickety wooden stair-
case and up to her narrow chamber. The room was
sparse but it had a dressing-table and a mirror, and
Nan appeared to have brought all the other items that
she required to transform Rebecca from ugly duckling
into, if not an elegant swan, precisely, then a seductive
siren. It was so contrary to Rebecca’s normal style of
dress that, when she saw her finished reflection, she
almost choked.
After three-quarters of an hour, they were ready to
leave. Whenever Rebecca thought Nan wasn’t looking
she would try to hoist up the front of the red silk dress,
which had a scandalously low dećolletage and some
artfully cut lace that seemed to accentuate rather than
conceal the curves of Rebecca’s breasts.
‘Do leave the gown alone, Rebecca,’ Nan scolded,
when she saw her. ‘I do not know why you are fussing.
It is demure enough for a nun!’
‘Only the sort of abbess who runs a Covent Garden
bawdy house,’ Rebecca muttered. She wrapped her
black cloak about her, trying to cover the exposed bits.
Thank goodness for the black velvet mask with the
matching cherry ribbons. If anyone was going to rec-
ognise any part of her, it certainly would not be her
face.
It was only when they reached Carlisle House that
Rebecca began to suspect that she had underestimated
the nature of the party. Either that, or Nan had delib-
erately misled her by understating the case. It was a
masked ball, but in the style of a Venetian masque,
which had been popular in the previous century. A
Nicola Cornick
99
crush of guests thronged the huge ballroom, which was
lit by at least five hundred candles. The light reflected
off the long, gold-framed mirrors, and it seemed that
an endless parade of dazzlingly attired strangers cir-
cled in the dance. They were dressed in every costume
imaginable, from pirates and highwaymen to shep-
herdesses and Roman goddesses, and some were rather
more undressed than others. The scene was decadent,
rich and glittering with vivid life. Rebecca felt as
though she had stepped into another world, and one
she was not sure she could deal with.
Nan squeezed her arm. ‘I told you it would be fun,
Becca,’ she said smugly.
Rebecca had stopped on the threshold and now she
almost choked at what was before her eyes. ‘A small
party?’ she said faintly. ‘Nan—’
Her mouth fell open even farther as she saw a young
woman who was disporting herself with a couple of
bucks. Her dress appeared to have lost its bodice and
the rest of it was nothing more than a gauzy net about
her legs. Not that the
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