by Diane Gaston
She peeked in, but did not comment.
As they continued down the stairs, she asked, ‘Why are you here in a gaming house, Xavier?’
He shrugged. ‘I assist Rhys. As a friend.’
He was useful to Rhys. Because of his looks, men dismissed him and women were distracted. Consequently, he saw more than either sex imagined and, for that, Rhys paid him a share of his profits.
‘Do you have the gambling habit, then?’ she asked.
Like her father? ‘Not a habit,’ he responded, although once it had been important to prove himself at the card table. ‘These days I play less and watch more.’
They reached the hall and Xavier walked her to the door. When he turned the latch and opened it for her, she pulled down the netting on her hat, covering her face.
The action made him sad for her.
He opened his mouth to repeat the offer to escort her.
She lifted a hand. ‘I prefer to be alone, Xavier. Please respect that.’
He nodded.
‘Good day,’ she said in a formal voice and stepped away.
Xavier ducked inside and grabbed his hat. He waited until he surmised she would have reached the corner of the street, then stepped outside and followed her, keeping her in sight, just in case she should require assistance of any kind. He followed her all the way to her street and watched until she safely entered her house.
It was a familiar habit, looking out for her, one he’d practised over and over that long-ago summer in Brighton, when his duty towards her first began.
Chapter 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.’
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.’
