Читать книгу A Marriage of Notoriety - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 13

Chapter Four

Phillipa tossed and turned in her bed. If she drifted into sleep, her attacker returned, jarring her awake. Worse, in her dream, the attacker bore the face of the man she’d seen in her vision.

She must call it a vision. What else could it be? She’d seen something that did not exist. Not only seen, she’d actually been in another place, a place that smelled and sounded like the seaside.

Like Brighton.

Was she going mad?

She closed her eyes and made herself imagine the image of her real attacker. And then she purposely recalled the face of the phantom man. She could remember both, but remembering was not remotely akin to what she had experienced. Seeing the phantom face, feeling as if she were in another place, those were not mere memories.

Even now, safe in her home, in her bed, she trembled in fear. It made no sense to feel afraid now; she’d not been excessively afraid during the attack. Fear had not been a part of fighting off her attacker and refusing to give him her reticule. The terror had come when she fell and that phantom face appeared.

It had seemed so very real.

If it were not enough to worry about going mad, her head also hurt like the dickens. She rose from bed and, by the dawning light from the window, peered at herself in her dressing table mirror. Her forehead bore a nasty scrape.

Phillipa walked back to her bed and pulled off a blanket. She wrapped it around herself and curled up in a chair to watch the light from the window grow brighter.

Her maid entered the room quietly and jumped when Phillipa turned towards her in the chair. ‘My lady!’

‘I could not sleep, Lacey.’ Phillipa stretched. ‘I might as well dress, I suppose.’

Her maid helped her into a morning dress and stood behind her to pin up her hair as she sat at the dressing table.

The girl glanced at her in the mirror. ‘What happened to your forehead?’

‘It is nothing,’ Phillipa answered quickly. ‘I...I bumped into the wall by accident.’

The maid looked sceptical.

Lacey was younger than Phillipa and had been hired as Phillipa’s lady’s maid after the Westleighs arrived in London for the Season. How nice it would be if Phillipa could confide in her about how her injury came about.

‘I’ll just wear a cap today,’ Phillipa said as the maid pinned up her hair. ‘We need not mention my injury to my mother. No need to worry her.’ A cap should hide the scrape well enough. Besides, her mother never looked at her too closely these days.

The girl nodded. ‘Yes, miss.’

Once dressed, Phillipa went straight to her music room. She placed her fingers on the keys of the pianoforte and tried to release the emotions inside her. The keys produced dissonant, unharmonious sounds and her fear returned, as if her world were crumbling around her and she could not stop it, the same feeling she experienced when she fell.

Her music reflected the confusion inside her. No phrase complemented any other.

She became dimly aware of a rapping at the door, but she did not stop playing. Whoever it was would eventually go away.

Suddenly her mother stood before her, shocking her as much as if her mother had been a vision herself.

‘Gracious, Phillipa! At least play a tune. This noise grates upon my nerves.’ Her mother pressed her fingers to her forehead.

Phillipa and her mother had barely spoken since the quarrel that sent Phillipa in search of answers about her family. And led her to Xavier. Now she could not speak of what she’d learned without revealing that she knew of the Masquerade Club.

Phillipa lifted her hands from the keys. ‘As you wish, Mama.’

She softly played ‘The Last Rose of Summer’, reciting the words in her head—Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.

She’d not felt alone since Xavier allowed her to perform at the Masquerade Club.

‘When do Ned and Hugh return from wherever they are?’ She knew her mother would not tell her, but it might make her leave the room before noticing Phillipa’s bruise.

Her mother, still straight-backed and regal though in her fifty-fifth year, pursed her lips before answering, ‘Please do not tease me about their whereabouts. I have no wish to have that discussion with you again.’

Phillipa continued to play pianissimo.

‘Do you come to Lady Danderson’s musical evening with me tonight?’ Her mother’s tone dripped with disapproval. No doubt she expected Phillipa to refuse.

She was correct ‘I think not.’

Her mother swept a dramatic arm encompassing the pianoforte and half the room. ‘Why not? I thought you loved music.’

Phillipa shot her a sharp look, but averted her eyes. No sense revisiting her mother’s displeasure at her retreat from society. ‘It is to be an amateur performance, is it not? Lady Danderson’s daughters and other young ladies and gentlemen of her choosing?’

‘It is,’ her mother admitted.

‘But she has not chosen me.’

Her mother cleared her throat. ‘That is true, but...’

Phillipa stopped playing. ‘I do understand it, Mama. The performers are eligible young people. She wishes them to show off to good advantage.’ Phillipa did not need to explain to her mother that she would never show off to good advantage. Her mother would be first to agree. ‘There is no reason for me to be there.’

‘Well, there is the music,’ her mother added.

Phillipa resumed playing and the final lines of the song came to her—Oh! Who would inhabit this bleak world alone? ‘I would not enjoy it.’

‘I will attend without you, then.’ Her mother turned away and then swung back. ‘Perhaps I will ask Miss Gale if she will come with me. She is at least a sociable sort.’

Miss Gale was the young woman Phillipa’s brother Ned wanted to marry. She was also the stepdaughter of Lady Gale, the woman carrying Rhysdale’s child, the woman who also came masked to the Masquerade Club.

‘Miss Gale will be glad of my company.’ It was her mother’s parting shot. She strode out of the room.

Phillipa’s head suddenly ached, but she moved her fingers over the keys, barely pressing them this time, searching for a melody, any melody to erase this unrest within her.

* * *

Xavier waited for Phillipa that night at their appointed place, at their appointed time. This time, however, he waited with a hackney cab.

He paced the pavement, rather hoping she would not show up, yet yearning to see her, needing to know for certain that her injuries were minor. A blow to the head could be deceiving. What if she had been truly hurt, like that long-ago time in Brighton?

He’d have failed her again, that was what. And this time it would be his fault.

The jarvey leaned down from his perch atop the coach. ‘How much longer, sir? My time is money.’

‘I’ll pay you for your time, do not fear.’ Xavier paced some more.

Her town house door finally opened and a shadowy, cloaked figure emerged.

Phillipa.

She glanced towards where he stood near the coach, pausing briefly to put on her shoes before heading in his direction. She showed no sign that she knew it was he and looked as if she intended to walk past him.

‘Phillipa,’ he called out.

She drew back.

‘It is Xavier.’ He stepped in her path. ‘I have a hackney coach.’

‘Xavier?’

He opened the coach door.

She looked uncertain. ‘You brought a hackney for me?’

‘I feared you might try to walk alone.’ Or be too injured to make the attempt, he added silently as he helped her climb into the coach.

She settled in the seat and pulled her cloak around her. ‘I did not expect this.’

Xavier sat beside her in the close quarters of the coach’s dark interior. He felt her warmth, inhaled the scent of jasmine that clung to her. Her face was shrouded by her mask, but he longed to see her for himself. Was she bruised? Did her injuries again show on her face?

‘Have you suffered any ill-effects from last night?’ he asked.