Читать книгу A Marriage of Notoriety - Diane Gaston - Страница 12
ОглавлениеChapter Two
Phillipa walked briskly back to her family’s town house, emotions in disharmony. Her mind whirled. Rhysdale’s gaming house. Her father’s shameful behaviour.
Xavier.
She had not expected to see Xavier and her face burned with embarrassment that it had been he who exposed her family’s troubles to her.
Her family’s shame. Did there ever exist such a father as hers? What must Xavier think of him? Of them?
Of her?
She hurried through the streets.
How could she have been so insensible? Her family had been at the brink of ruin and she’d not had an inkling. She should have guessed something was awry. She should have realised how out of character it was for her father to hold a ball for anyone, least of all a natural son.
Seeing Xavier there distracted her.
No. It was unfair to place the blame on Xavier. Or even on her family.
She was to blame. She’d deliberately isolated herself, immersing herself in her music so as not to think about being in London, not to think of that first Season, that first dance with Xavier, nor of dancing with him again at the ball.
Instead she’d poured everything into her new composition. With the music, she’d tried to recreate her youthful feelings of joy and the despairing emotions of reality. She’d transitioned the tune to something bittersweet—how it had felt to dance with him once again.
Her mind had been filled with him and she’d not spared a thought for her family. In fact, she’d resented whenever her mother insisted she receive morning calls, including those of Lady Gale and her stepdaughter. It surprised her that she’d paid enough attention to learn that Ned intended to marry the artless Adele Gale. The girl reminded Phillipa of her school friends and that first Season when they’d been innocent and starry-eyed.
And hopeful.
Phillipa had paid no attention at all to her father, but, then, he paid no attention to her. She long ago learned not to care about what her father thought or did or said, but how dared he be so selfish as to gamble away the family money? She would not miss him. It was a relief to no longer endure his unpleasantness.
Phillipa entered the house and climbed the stairs to her music room. She pulled off her hat and gloves and sat at the pianoforte. Her fingers pressed the ivory keys, searching for expression of the feelings resonating inside of her. She created a discordant sound, a chaos, unpleasant to her ears. She rose again and walked to the window, staring out at the small garden behind the town house. A yellow tabby cat walked the length of the wall, sure-footed, unafraid, surveying the domain below.
Her inharmonious musical notes re-echoed in her ears. Unlike the cat, she was not sure-footed. She was afraid.
For years she’d been fooling herself, saying she was embracing life by her study of music. Playing the pianoforte, composing melodies, gave her some purpose and activity. Although she yearned to perform her music or see it published for others to perform, what hope could she have to accomplish that? No lady wanted a disfigured pianiste in her musicale. And no music publisher would consider an earl’s daughter to be a serious composer.
There was an even more brutal truth to jar her. She was hiding behind her music. So thoroughly that she had missed the drama at play on her family’s stage. All kinds of life occurred outside the walls of her music room and she’d been ignoring it all. She needed to rejoin life.
Phillipa spun away from the window. She rushed from the room, startling one of the maids passing through the hallway. What was the girl’s name? When had Phillipa begun to be blind to the very people around her?
‘Pardon, miss.’ The girl struggled to curtsy, even though her hands were laden with bed linens.
‘No pardon is necessary,’ Phillipa responded. ‘I surprised you.’ She started to walk past, but turned. ‘Forgive me, I do not know your name.’
The girl looked even more startled. ‘It is Ivey, miss. Sally Ivey.’
‘Ivey,’ Phillipa repeated. ‘I will remember it.’
The maid curtsied again and hurried on her way.
Phillipa reached the stairs, climbing them quickly, passing the floor to the maids’ rooms and continuing to the attic where one small window provided a little light. She opened one of the trunks and rummaged through it, not finding for what she searched. In the third trunk, though, triumph reigned. She pulled it out. A lady’s mask, one her mother had made for her to attend a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens during her first Season. It had been specifically designed to cover her scar.
She’d never worn it.
Until now.
Because she’d decided her first step to embrace life and conquer fear was to do what Lady Gale had done. She would wait until night. She would step out into the darkness and make her way to St James’s Street.
Phillipa would attend the Masquerade Club. If Lady Gale thought it acceptable to attend, so could she. She would don the mask and enter a gaming house. She would play cards and hazard and faro and see what sort of investment Ned and Hugh had made in Rhysdale.
He would be there, of course, but that was of no consequence. If she encountered Xavier, he would not know her.
No one would know her.
* * *
That night Phillipa stepped up to the door to Rhysdale’s town house. No sounds of revelry reached the street and nothing could be seen of the gamblers inside, but, even so, she immediately sensed a different mood to the place than earlier in the day.
She sounded the knocker and the same taciturn manservant who’d attended the hall that morning answered the door.
‘Good evening, sir.’ She entered the hall and slipped off her hooded cape. This time she did not need netting to hide her face; her mask performed that task.
The manservant showed no indication of recognising her and she breathed a sign of relief. The mask must be working.
She handed him her cape. ‘What do I do next? I am new to this place, you see.’
He nodded and actually spoke. ‘Wait here a moment. I will take you to the cashier.’
The knocker sounded the moment he stepped away, but he returned quickly and opened the door to two gentlemen who greeted him exuberantly. ‘Good evening to you, Cummings! Trust you are well.’
Cummings took their hats and gloves and inclined his head towards Phillipa. ‘Follow them, ma’am.’
The gentlemen glanced her way and their brows rose with interest. How novel. Without her mask most men quickly looked away.
‘Is this your first time here, ma’am?’ one asked in a polite tone.
‘It is.’ She made herself smile.
The other gentleman offered an arm. ‘Then it will be our pleasure to show you to the cashier.’
This was how she would be treated if not disfigured. With pleasure, not pity.
How new, as well, to accept the arm of a stranger when she’d been reared to acknowledge gentlemen only after a formal introduction took place. Would he think her fast for doing so? Or did it not matter? The gentleman would never know her.
She’d already defied the conventions of a well-bred lady by walking alone on the streets at night. She’d gathered her cloak and hood around her and made her way briskly, ignoring anyone she passed. Gas lamps lit most of the way and there had been plenty of other pedestrians out and about to make the trek feel safe.
Taking the arm of a stranger for a few seconds seemed tame after that.
He and the other gentleman escorted her to one of the rooms that had been hidden behind closed doors earlier that day. It was at the back of the house and, judging from the bookshelves that lined one of the walls, must have once been the library. Besides a few lonely books on the shelves, the room was as sparsely decorated as the hall. A large desk dominated the room. Behind the desk sat the man who had served her tea.
‘MacEvoy,’ one of her escorts said. ‘We have a new lady for you. This is her first time here.’
MacEvoy looked her straight in the face. ‘Good evening, ma’am. Shall I explain how the Masquerade Club operates?’
‘I would be grateful.’ She searched for signs that this man recognised her. There were none.
He told her the cost of membership and explained that she would purchase counters from him to use in play in the game room. She could purchase as many counters as she liked, but, if she lost more than she possessed, she must reveal her identity.
This was how patrons were protected, he explained. They would know who owed them money, and those who needed their identity protected dared not wager more than they possessed.
Phillipa had little interest in the wagering, but hoped she purchased enough counters to appear as if she did.
‘We will take you to the gaming room, ma’am,’ one of her escorts said.
‘That would be kind of you.’ She knew the way, but did not want the gentlemen to realise it.
When they entered the room, it seemed transformed, a riot of colour and sound. The rhythm of rolling dice, the hum of voices, the trill of shuffling cards melded into a strange symphony. Could such noise be recreated in music? What might be required? Horns? Drums? Castanets?
‘Ma’am, do you wish to join us in cards?’ One of her gentlemen escorts broke her reverie.
She shook her head. ‘You have assisted me enough, sir. I thank you both. Please be about your own entertainment.’
They bowed and she turned away from them and scanned the room as she made her way to the hazard table. To her great relief, she did not see Xavier. A pretty young woman acted as croupier at the hazard table, which surprised Phillipa. She’d not imagined women employed to do such a job. She knew the rules of hazard, but thought it insipid to wager money on the roll of dice. Phillipa watched the play, interested more in the people than the gambling. Several of the croupiers were women. The women players were mostly masked, like she, but some were not. She wondered about them. Who were they and why did they not worry about their reputations? Perhaps she was in the company of actresses. Opera dancers. Women who would not hide from life.
There certainly seemed to be great numbers of counters being passed around in the room. Those who won exclaimed in delight; the losers groaned and despaired. Happy sounds juxtaposed with despairing ones. She’d never heard the like.
She glimpsed Rhysdale. He circulated through the room, watching, stopping to speak to this or that person. He came close to her and her heart raced. He looked directly at her, nodding a greeting before passing on. She smiled. He had not recognised her.
She walked over to the faro table. If hazard was an insipid game, faro was ridiculous. One wagered whether a particular card would be chosen from the deck. If you placed money on the banker’s card you lost, if on the winning card you won double.
Still, she ought to gamble. To merely gape at everything would appear a bit suspicious.
She stifled a giggle. Out in society, people treated her as if she did not exist. Here she feared them noticing her.
She played at faro and became caught up in the spirit of the game. She cried with joy when she won and groaned at her losses, just like the other patrons. She was merely one of the crowd. Even her deep-green gown blended with the tableau as if she were a part of the décor of reds, greens and glinting golds. Her anonymity became like a cloak around her, protecting her so well she forgot that, besides Rhysdale, there might be someone at the club who could recognise her.
* * *
Xavier defused some escalating tempers, interrupted some reckless wagers and otherwise performed the same tasks as always at the Masquerade Club. His mind, however, continued to wander back to that morning.
Ought he have sent Phillipa to Rhys? Should it have been Rhys’s choice of whether to tell her about her father, about the gaming house?
No. Rhys might have some of the same blood flowing through his veins as Phillipa, but she was a stranger to him. Xavier had known her for ever, even before her injury. He’d been close to her once. Her injury bound them together.
Or at least it bound him to her.
He’d been wrong to neglect her since the war ended. He should have sought her out before this. Made certain she was in good health and in good spirits. Perhaps that was why she was so cold to him at the ball.
Perhaps he would call upon her soon. See how she was faring after what he’d told her this afternoon.
Satisfied with that thought, Xavier circulated throughout the room, perusing the players and the croupiers, remaining alert to any potential problems. Most of the players here tonight were familiar to him as regular attendees. Even the masked ones were familiar, although there were a few whose identities he’d not yet guessed.
A new woman caught his eye. He’d not seen her arrive and did not know in whose party she might be included, but there was something about her...
She dressed expensively in a gown of dark-green silk. Its sheen caught the lamplight and transformed the rather plain style into something elegant. Who was she and why she was here for the first time?
Xavier watched her.
And came more disturbed.
His brows knit as he walked closer to her. He knew her, did he not?
Xavier stood across the faro table from her, waiting for the puzzle pieces to sort themselves. She glanced up and her gaze held his for a brief moment. She quickly looked away.
He walked around the table and leaned towards her ear. ‘May I have a moment to speak with you, miss?’
She bowed her head and allowed him to lead her out of the room.
He brought her to a private corner of the hallway and backed her against the wall. ‘What the devil are you doing here, Phillipa?’
She glared at him. ‘How did you know it was me?’
How did he know? The set of her shoulders. The tilt of her chin. Her smile. ‘It was not that difficult.’
‘Rhysdale did not recognise me.’ That chin lifted.
‘He does not know you as I do.’ But he would not allow her to change the subject. ‘Why are you here?’
She shrugged. ‘To gamble. Why else?’
‘Who is with you?’ Her brothers were gone. And, if they had not been, they would have had to answer to him for bringing their sister here.
‘No one,’ she said.
‘No one?’ She could not have come alone. ‘How did you get here?’
She gave him a defiant look. ‘I walked.’
Walked? ‘Alone?’
She did not waver. ‘Yes, alone.’
He seized her arm. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? You cannot walk about alone at night.’
‘It is only a few streets.’ She continued to stare into his eyes. ‘Besides, Ned and Hugh taught me how to defend myself.’ She lifted her skirt and showed him a sheathed knife attached to her calf.
As if she would have time to draw it, if a man accosted her. As if such a man could not easily grab it from her hand.
‘And that makes you safe.’ He spoke with sarcasm.
‘There were plenty of people about and street lamps were lit along Piccadilly. It was like walking in daytime.’
He doubted that. He also doubted that she was there for the simple reason of gambling. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let us talk in the supper room.’
The supper room served wine and spirits and a buffet supper. Designed in the style of Robert Adam, its décor was light and airy, the opposite of the game room with its darker colours. Chairs and tables covered with white linens were arranged for conversation. Along one wall stood a huge buffet table upon which were set out a variety of cold meats, cheeses, cakes and compotes. Patrons could help themselves to the food and sit at tables covered with white linen. Servants attended the room, providing drink.
The supper room was a needed respite from the high emotions in the game room, Xavier thought.
‘Be seated. I’ll get you something to eat.’ He led her to a table set away from the few people seated in the room and made his way to the buffet.
To his dismay, Rhys was in the room, chatting with some gentlemen seated not too far away from the white pianoforte in the corner.
Xavier glanced back at Phillipa, whose posture had stiffened. She, too, had noticed Rhys.
Rhys excused himself and crossed the room to Xavier. ‘I noticed we have a new woman patron.’ He faced Xavier but his back was to Phillipa. ‘What is wrong with her? She did not seem to be falling at your feet like other woman.’
Xavier’s good looks did not matter one jot to Rhys. In fact, Rhys was perhaps the only person, besides Xavier’s own family, of whom he could say such a thing. Rhys was no fool, though. He knew women were attracted to Xavier.
Xavier evaded the question. ‘I am reasonably sure she is merely here for the gambling. Not the sort to cause trouble.’
Rhys laughed. ‘I thought you’d met your match.’
Xavier shook his head.
Rhys put a hand on Xavier’s arm. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’
During the war, Rhys twice saved Xavier’s life. At Badajoz. At Quatre Bras. Xavier would have done the same for Rhys. ‘What is it?’
Rhys glanced around. ‘Take over the club for a few days, will you? The gentlemen with whom I was conversing have an investment that may interest me, but it would require a few days’ travel.’
‘Certainly,’ Xavier agreed. ‘What sort of investment?’
‘Steam engines,’ Rhys replied.
‘Steam engines?’ The machines that had caused such riots and unrest in the textile industry?
‘Expanding their use. Making them smaller. Steam engines will do great things, you will see.’ Rhys wanted another way to build wealth besides a gambling house. He’d never intended to make gambling his life.
Gambling and soldiering had enabled Rhys to survive after Rhys’s mother died and Lord Westleigh abandoned him to the streets. Xavier, on the other hand, had grown up amidst luxury and the devotion of his parents and siblings. They made unusual friends.
Xavier nodded. ‘If it looks to be a good investment, make certain I have a share.’
Rhys leaned forwards. ‘If it is the sort of investment I expect, I may be asking you to take over the gaming house altogether.’
Run the gaming house? Xavier would do it. He delighted at doing the unexpected. Nearly everyone he’d ever met expected him to coast through life on his looks, but that was the last thing Xavier intended to do. He’d prove himself by skill, cunning, strength. Character. He’d already proved himself a good gambler, a brave soldier; he’d not mind proving he could run the best gaming house in London.
He glanced back at Phillipa. ‘I’ll take over the gaming house, if it comes to that, Rhys. But now I had better not keep this lady waiting.’
Rhys clapped him on the back and left the room.
Xavier brought two plates of food to the table where Phillipa waited.
‘You must not have told him,’ she said as he placed a plate before her.
‘Told him?’ Ah, she thought he would tell Rhys about her. ‘Of course not.’ He meant no one to know she’d come here. ‘I am going to get you through this folly of yours without injury to your person or your reputation.’
‘Reputation?’ She made a disparaging sound. ‘After what you told me about my father today, is not the whole family drenched in scandal? What does my reputation matter now?’
He signalled to a servant to bring some wine. ‘Society has always known your father to be a gambler and a philanderer. His self-exile to the Continent will seem like an honourable act. Your family’s reputation should stay intact.’
The wine arrived and Phillipa took a sip.
Her voice dipped low. ‘No matter. I have no need to preserve a reputation. That is for marriageable young ladies or matrons concerned about children.’
He felt a stab of sympathy. ‘You do not intend to marry?’
She glanced away. ‘Do not be absurd. You know what is beneath this mask.’ She turned back to him with a defiant gaze. ‘So there is nothing to risk. If I am attacked on the street, what will it matter?’
‘Do not pretend to be stupid, Phillipa,’ he growled. ‘A horror could befall you much worse than a cut on a face.’ At Badajoz he’d seen what violence men could inflict on women.
She blinked. ‘I know.’
He pushed the plate closer to her. ‘Have a bit of cake and let us speak of other things besides horrors.’
She obliged him and he found himself fascinated by the small bite she took of the cake, of her licking a crumb off her lip. Her lips were a most appealing shade of pink.
‘I am not really so much in the doldrums, you know,’ she went on. ‘I was merely trying to provoke you.’
He grinned. ‘Poke me and I’ll poke you back.’
They’d played that game as children. Much to his annoyance, as he recalled.
She pursed her lips. ‘You had better not poke me. I poke back much better than I used to. I am no longer a little girl, you know.’
He could not help but let his gaze peruse her. ‘I know.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Do not make a jest of me, Xavier.’
A jest? He was seeing her as a man sees a woman. ‘You ought to know me better, Phillipa.’
‘I do not know you at all now.’ Her expression turned bleak. ‘It has been a long time since we were children.’
‘I have not changed.’ He had changed, though. He’d once told himself he’d always look out for her, but he’d left her behind, a mere memory, as he grew to manhood and went to war.
‘I have changed.’ She lifted her chin again. ‘I have become quite independent, you know.’
‘Hence the excursion to a gaming hell.’ He touched her hand, but quickly withdrew.
Her fingers folded. ‘A gaming hell makes it sound so nefarious. It is rather staid, though. What a disappointment.’
He frowned. ‘What did you expect?’
‘Some debauchery, at least!’ She laughed. ‘I did not know what to expect, but my curiosity was piqued to see what my brothers thought would be the saving of our family. And of our village and its people. There are a great deal of counters being won and lost.’
‘In gambling, the house always has the advantage. Rhys’s success has been beyond everyone’s expectations.’ And Xavier vowed he’d make even more money from it.
Phillipa finished her wine. ‘May I return to the tables, Xavier? I still have money left to lose.’
He didn’t want to take her back to the game room. Not all the patrons of the place were gentlemen. She was too attractive—alluring, even—and she was alone. ‘Rhys is in the game room.’
‘Are you afraid he’ll recognise me this time?’ she asked.
‘You should worry over it,’ he countered. ‘He might recognise you. Or someone else might.’
Her eyes shifted. ‘No they won’t. They have never looked at me long enough to recognise me in a mask.’ She stood. ‘I wish to return to the tables. I was getting accustomed to faro. I believe I will play some more.’
He had no choice but to stand. ‘Very well, Phillipa.’
When they walked back to the doorway, she inclined her head towards the piano. ‘Who plays for you?’
He shrugged. ‘No one. It is left from the previous owner.’ Who also ran a brothel here as well as a gaming house, but she did not need to know that. A young fellow played the piano and the girls sang and flirted with the men.
He escorted Phillipa back to the game room and left her at the faro table where he had found her.
‘Campion brought you back?’ One of the men gave her a flirtatious look. ‘We despaired of ever seeing you again. Has the pick of the ladies, that one has.’
Xavier did not hear Phillipa’s response.
He could not hover around her, though. He’d only call more attention to her. There were gossips in the crowd who would make it their business to discover who she was.
He would watch from afar, in case she needed assistance, and when she made ready to leave, it would not be alone.
He stepped in to the hall where Cummings attended the door.
No one entered or left without Cummings knowing of it. ‘Do you recall the new woman who came earlier, the masked one in the dark-green gown?’ Xavier asked.
Cummings nodded.
‘When she is ready to leave, detain her and alert me. Do not allow her to leave until I speak with her.’
Cummings nodded again and, if he thought anything odd in this request, made no comment. But, then, Cummings rarely commented about anything.
‘I thank you, Cummings.’
Xavier returned to the game room, glancing first to see that Phillipa still played at the faro table. He’d keep an eye on her as well as on the other gamblers, and he’d be ready to see that Phillipa arrived safely to her town-house door.
* * *
After Xavier left her at the faro table, Phillipa’s very limited interest in gambling waned even further, but she persisted, merely to show him he could not drive her away.
One of the gentlemen who’d escorted her to the cashier and to the gaming room approached her. ‘Are you enjoying yourself, ma’am?’
How unexpected it was to be called ‘ma’am’ as if she were a married lady.
Xavier glanced in her direction so she smiled at the gentleman. ‘I am indeed. I even win sometimes.’
The gentleman laughed. ‘That is the main purpose of coming here.’ One brow rose. ‘Or do you have another purpose in mind?’
By his very significant look, she knew he meant something of consequence. She was not sure, but it could be flirtation. How very unexpected, if so.
‘The gambling attracts me, of course.’ Why not simply ask him what he means? ‘What else could there be?’
His eyes flitted over her person. ‘I saw that Mr Campion singled you out for notice. Are you to be another of his conquests?’
Her smile stiffened. This was the second man to suggest such a thing. ‘Another of his conquests? Goodness! How many does he have?’
He slid Xavier a jealous look. ‘He can have any woman he wishes.’
That did not precisely answer her question.
No matter. What difference to her how many women fell for the handsome Xavier Campion? What woman would not? She’d always known women found him irresistible.
For some odd reason, it bothered her to hear this man say so.
‘Does he wish to claim you?’ the man persisted.
Surely this was impertinence. Apparently impertinence was acceptable behaviour in a gaming house. And perhaps this gentleman did not think her a young lady worthy of respect.
That was why most of the women in the room wore masks, was it not? They would be scorned and their reputations ruined if their identities were known here. The masks protected them.
Ironically her mask merely assured that a gentleman would speak to her. He certainly would not have done if he had seen her face.
She turned back to the faro table. ‘I do believe Mr Campion merely wished to welcome me to the house.’
The man bowed. ‘I do understand.’
He understood? She wished she did. She’d intended to merely avoid his question. There was nothing to be understood.
He walked away.
She shook her head. If that man intended a flirtation, he gave up too easily.
She caught Xavier looking at her and, as she turned away from him, caught a woman glaring at her. Out of jealousy? Now this was a unique experience. A woman shooting daggers of jealousy at her instead of melting with pity.
All this was new. New people. New experiences. If she’d not consumed a little too much wine when with Xavier and if the hour were not so dreadfully late, her heart would be racing with excitement. She found it difficult to keep from yawning, though. Her mask itched and her feet hurt and she yearned to be between the cool linens of her bed.
She should leave.
Phillipa walked out of the room and cashed in her counters with the cashier. She’d lost money, but it hardly signified since the money simply went back to her family. She made her way to the hall to collect her cape and gloves. The same taciturn hall servant stood there.
And so did Xavier.
When the servant walked off to get her things, she faced him. ‘Making sure that I leave, Xavier?’
‘No.’ He did not look pleased. ‘I will walk you home.’
‘That is not necessary, I assure you,’ she responded. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking by myself.’
‘Regardless, I will walk you home.’
The servant brought her cloak and Xavier took it from him. He stepped towards Phillipa and placed it around her shoulders. The touch of his hands on her shoulders caused a frisson of sensation down her back.
She disliked being so affected by Xavier Campion. It made her think of how she’d felt dancing with him. The thrill of coming close to him, of touching him.
The servant opened the door and the cool evening air revived her.
Phillipa crossed over the threshold with Xavier right behind her. ‘I do not need an escort.’
He fell in step with her. ‘Nevertheless, I need to do this.’
She scoffed. ‘Do not be absurd. You can have the company of any woman you like. One of the gentlemen told me so.’
His step slowed for a moment. ‘Phillipa, if any danger should befall you on this walk home, I would never forgive myself for not preventing it.’
He sounded so serious.
‘So dramatic, Xavier. I am not your responsibility.’
His voice turned low. ‘At this moment, you are.’
It was very late. Three in the morning, at least, and she had never walked the streets of Mayfair at such an hour. Certainly not with a man at her side.
A man like Xavier.
But she must not think of him like that.
They crossed Piccadilly and as they headed towards Berkeley Square, their footsteps sounded a rhythm broken only by the echoing of a carriage or hackney coach somewhere in the distance. Other sounds—voices, music—wafted to her ears, only to fade quickly. She concentrated on the sounds, searching for a melody she might recreate on her pianoforte, a melody that would sound like the night felt. Cool, peaceful, empty.
‘Are you talking to yourself, Phillipa?’ Xavier asked.
She’d been lost in her music. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your lips were moving.’
She’d been playing the music to herself. How daft she must appear. ‘I—I hear music in the sounds of the night. I try to remember them.’
‘Music?’ He could not hear the music, obviously.
‘In our footsteps. The carriages.’ She shrugged. ‘The other sounds.’
He paused before responding. ‘I see.’
Her mask irritated her face. She untied it and pulled it off, rubbing her scar before concealing her face with the hood of her cloak.
‘I like music,’ she explained. ‘I have studied music and the pianoforte a great deal over the last few years.’ Since that ball when she’d first danced with him. Of course, she’d never played ‘The Nonesuch’ again, though it had once been a favourite of hers. ‘It is my greatest pleasure.’
‘Is it?’ He acted as if interested. ‘I should like to hear you play.’
Such a polite thing to say. The sort of thing one says when pretending an interest that doesn’t truly exist. Like choosing a dance partner as a favour to one’s mother’s friend.
‘I play the pianoforte alone. It consumes my time.’ She made it seem as if she preferred not to have an audience when she really longed to play for others, to discover if her compositions and her technique had any merit.
He stopped speaking for a half a street.
She regretted snapping at him. ‘I think I spend too much time with my music. I think that is why I did not notice that my family was in distress.’
‘You isolated yourself.’ He sounded as if that would be a sad thing.
‘Too much, perhaps,’ she admitted. ‘That is the main reason I decided to visit the Masquerade Club.’
‘Could you not simply decide to attend balls and routs and musicales instead?’ His tone disapproved.
She was invisible in such places. No one looked at her if they could help it. No one spoke to her if they could avoid it.
When she donned the mask this night all that changed. ‘Perhaps balls and routs and musciales are not exciting enough for me.’
His fingers closed around her arm and he stopped walking. ‘Too much excitement can be dangerous. You must not play with fire, Phillipa.’
‘Fire?’ She laughed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that men will notice you at the gaming house. They will not expect you to be an innocent young girl.’
‘Innocent girl? Young? I am three and twenty. Quite on the shelf.’ But devoid of any experience, of that he was correct.
They walked again. ‘You have had your excitement,’ he went on. ‘Go back to playing your music now.’
She was eager to return to her music room, to write down the notes she’d heard in the sounds of the street at three in the morning, the sounds of a gaming hell, of his voice.
But she could not be done with the Masquerade Club. She wished to see and hear more; she wished to experience more.
Too bad for him. ‘I plan to return.’
‘No!’ he growled.
She lifted her chin. ‘I fully realise you do not wish me around you, Xavier, but it is you who have insinuated yourself into my company, not the reverse.’
‘You wrong me again.’ He sounded angry. ‘We are old friends, Phillipa. I owe you my protection as sure as if you were one of my sisters.’
‘Once, perhaps, you were under an obligation to do me a kindness.’ Her chest ached in memory. ‘Not any more.’
A carriage clattered by and she forced herself to listen to the horses’ hooves clapping against the cobbles, the wheels turning, the springs creaking.
She made it into music inside her head so she would not have to speak more to him, nor think about the thrill of him walking beside her, a sensation distracting in the extreme.
Would her old school friends still envy her as they’d once done when she’d danced with him all those years ago? Her friends were all married now. Some very well. Some very happily. She’d lost touch with most of them, although on the rare occasion her mother convinced her to attend some society event, she often saw some of them. Her most regular correspondence was with Felicia, who moved to Ireland when she married and never returned to England. Felicia’s letters were all about her children, her worries about the poor and her fears of typhus. Felicia would probably not even remember when Phillipa had danced with the most handsome man at the ball. How trivial it would seem to her if she did.
They reached Davies Street and the Westleigh town house.
‘Will someone let you in?’ Xavier asked, walking her directly to the door.
She pulled a key from her reticule. ‘No one will even know I’ve been gone.’
He took the key from her hand and turned it in the lock. As he opened the door, she stepped closer to slip in.
‘Farewell, Phillipa,’ he murmured, handing her back the key, standing so close his breath warmed her face. His voice felt as warm around her.
‘Xavier,’ she whispered back, unable to thank him for doing something she didn’t want, battling a familiar yearning she thought she’d defeated years ago.
She closed the door quietly and set her chin. ‘I will see you when night falls again,’ she said, knowing he could not hear.
