by Diane Gaston
Let her stew on that!
A tiny line appeared between the beautiful lady’s eyes.
Phillipa glanced away for a moment and noticed that Mr Everard stood with two plates of food, watching them. Lady Faville nodded to him slightly.
He immediately brought the plates to the table. He served his lady first.
She beamed at him. ‘Oh, you have picked all I could like.’
His expression softened and his hand shook as he placed the second plate in front of Phillipa. ‘My lady thought you would enjoy some delicacies.’
‘Thank you, Mr Everard,’ Phillipa said.
The poor besotted man.
Mr Everard bowed. ‘I will leave you to your conversation.’ He looked pointedly at Lady Faville. ‘I remain at your disposal, ma’am.’
‘You are a treasure, sir,’ the lady said.
Mr Everard backed away.
Lady Faville smiled at Phillipa again. ‘Did he not do a fine job of selecting treats for us?’
Phillipa selected a piece of cheese. ‘He seems quite devoted.’
‘Devoted.’ Lady Faville nodded. ‘That is such a lovely word to describe him.’ She shook her head as if ridding herself of Mr Everard. ‘But we were talking of Mr Campion, were we not?’
‘You were,’ agreed Phillipa.
A determined look came into Lady Faville’s eyes. ‘I assumed that because Xavier—I mean Mr Campion—escorted you here every night that it meant there was a relationship of a personal nature between the two of you.’
‘A friendship of a personal nature,’ she said enigmatically.
Just as she pretended to be worthy of the flirtation the gentlemen of the Masquerade Club sometimes engaged in with her, Phillipa could pretend she and Xavier were lovers, that she could indeed be a rival to this ethereal creature.
Phillipa knew better, though. Xavier was merely an old family friend, now forced by her to act in a protective role.
She should not step in the way of what might make him happy.
But she still could not resist creating these implications. ‘I do not assume that you and Mr Everard have a relationship of a personal nature. He escorts you to and from the Masquerade Club, does he not?’
Lady Faville’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Certainly he does, but—’ She blinked. ‘Oh, I comprehend your meaning. Your connection to Mr Campion is more in the nature of employer and worker!’
No, that was not what she wished to imply at all. Xavier was not her employer. He’d given her a gift—For your pleasure, he had written. He was a friend.
He’d returned her kiss.
Phillipa pretended to attend to her food and to enjoy the sweetmeats and other confections Mr Everard had brought her.
Lady Faville leaned closer. ‘I must confide in someone! I am only here at the Masquerade Club because of Mr Campion. We—we were lovers once, but I was married and nothing could come of it. I needed to be certain that no one stood between us. You are so clever and so lovely that I feared his affections were engaged and I had for ever lost my chance with him.’
Lovers? Lovers?
The word was a new dagger to impale her, but it should not matter to her. It should not.
‘I cannot be your confidante, my lady. It is not my place—’
Lady Faville gripped her wrist. ‘Oh, but you must. I do not care if you are below me—’
Below her? Phillipa was an earl’s daughter.
‘I confide in my maid, as well.’ Lady Faville smiled patronisingly. ‘But you know Mr Campion. You will understand and you may be able to help.’
Phillipa raised her brows. ‘A low person like me? A mere pianiste?’
Her sarcastic tone was lost on the lady. ‘He must talk to you when he brings you here and takes you home. Has he ever mentioned me?’
Phillipa had talked to him more than he’d talked to her. Might he have confided in her about Lady Faville if she had given him the chance?
‘He has not mentioned you to me,’ Phillipa answered honestly.
Lady Faville’s face fell, but she quickly recovered. ‘But you will tell me if he speaks about me? I know you will!’ She clasped Phillipa’s hand. ‘We are friends now.’
Phillipa pulled away. ‘It is time for me to perform.’
‘Of course.’ The lady smiled. ‘And it would be a delight to listen to you. But I should put in an appearance in the gaming room, should I not?’
Phillipa rose and returned to the pianoforte. She began with a tune she’d written herself. It was about a sailor’s return from the sea and into the arms of the woman who waited faithfully.
A happiness she would never know.
* * *
The music, as always, filled her spirit and drove all else away. She abandoned herself to it, so much so that she blinked in surprise when the audience applauded. When the time drew near for the hackney coach to arrive, she announced the last song, one of farewell. It was a composition of hers with which she ended each performance. She had written the first notes of the song not long after that first Season ball when Xavier danced with her.
A few minutes later she waited for Xavier in the hall. She’d already donned her cloak with her new piece of music tucked safely in a pocket.
Xavier came from the gaming room. He strode up to Phillipa, close enough that no one else would hear him. ‘I cannot ride home with you, Phillipa.’
This had never happened before. ‘Is there trouble?’
He glanced up to the gaming-room door. ‘There might be if I leave. Shall I send someone else with you? Or do you trust our hackney coachman? I will pay him extra to see you safe to your door.’
‘I will be entirely comfortable with the coachman,’ she assured him.
He took her arm. ‘I’ll see you to him and explain matters.’
Phillipa glanced up and saw Lady Faville watching them from the landing. Would he end his night with her? she wondered.
Outside the hack awaited and Xavier quickly explained matters to the jarvey before turning back to help Phillipa into the coach.
Phillipa took his offered arm, but did not immediately climb into the coach. ‘Remember I will not be coming tonight.’
He nodded. ‘You’ll be missed.’
She settled in the seat while he closed the door. Before the horses moved, she leaned out the window. ‘I forgot to thank you for the music. I should have it ready to perform when next I come.’
He smiled. ‘I will look forward to hearing it.’
When the coach pulled away, Phillipa sat in darkness, alone, uneasy, but not fearful. She missed Xavier. Their brief rides alone in the dark hackney coach were precious, she realised. And unique. Even without her mask, her face was obscured.
She was not so far removed from that silly girl she’d been in her first Season, when she’d momentarily believed in impossible dreams. Even now she clung to the slimmest straws, spending mere minutes with him, performing and knowing he could hear her play, hear her sing.
How long could she keep this up?
When Rhysdale came back it would be over. He would ask questions about the pianiste Xavier allowed to play and Xavier would tell his friend who it was behind the mask.
She would return to her music room and her reclusive existence, and some day she feared she would read in the Morning Post that Xavier Campion had married Lady Faville.
Perhaps that day she would compose a mournful funeral dirge.
Chapter Six
Xavier kept his appointment with the former soldier who’d attacked him and Phillipa. As he walked to the appointed spot, the soldier already waited. The man looked watchful and wary.
And much too thin.
He shifted nervously from foot to foot as he watched Xavier approach. ‘I am here
, sir. As you wanted.’
Xavier extended his hand to shake. ‘Good day to you. I am pleased you came.’
The man haltingly accepted Xavier’s hand. ‘You said there would be more money. What must I do for it?’
‘Perhaps nothing,’ Xavier responded. He was unsure himself why he asked for the meeting. He had no plan. Xavier clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘I am famished. Let us make our way to Bellamy’s Kitchen. Would you fancy a pork pie?’
The man was the very picture of hunger, but he had pride. ‘I might, if you are buying.’
‘I’m buying.’ Xavier extended his hand again. ‘I am Mr Campion, lately a captain in the East Essex.’
‘Jeffers.’ The man was more willing to shake hands this time. ‘Tom Jeffers, sergeant. From the 42nd.’
‘You lost many men in the battle.’ Almost three hundred if Xavier’s memory served him.
‘It was a bad business.’ Jeffers’s voice turned thick. He rallied. ‘But we had Boney running in the end, eh?’
‘That we did,’ Xavier agreed.
The battlefield of Waterloo gave them common ground. Those who fought there were a select group. Only they could know what a day of death and honour it had been.
They chatted more about the battle until reaching Bellamy’s, a place frequented by members of the House of Commons. Xavier found a table where Jeffers’s battered uniform would not stand out against more elegantly dressed men.
They ordered pork pies and ale and talked more about the war. Jeffers finished his pie very quickly and Xavier ordered him another.
‘What did you do before the war?’ Xavier asked.
‘I’d just finished an apprenticeship as a cabinetmaker. Should have looked for work instead of listening to those tales of adventure the recruiter told us.’
‘A cabinetmaker?’
‘That’s the right of it.’ Jeffers took a big gulp of ale. ‘Was pretty good at it, too, if I don’t say so myself.’
‘Have you looked for work here?’ Surely such a skill would be valuable.
‘No one’s hiring. I’m too old, they say, and not enough experience.’ He stared into his ale. ‘If they’d give me a chance, I’d show them.’
The tavern maid came up to the table and leaned provocatively over Xavier while pouring more ale. ‘Anything else you have a fancy for?’ she asked.
‘Bread and cheese,’ Xavier said without expression.
After she walked away Jeffers’s gaze followed her. ‘I’d say she had a fancy for you.’
Xavier shrugged.
‘I’ll wager that happens a lot to a pretty fellow such as yourself,’ Jeffers said.
Xavier hated being called pretty. ‘Often enough.’
‘Lucky bloke,’ muttered Jeffers.
Other men always considered him lucky. After all, men such as Jeffers endured much worse. He knew that. But his looks did affect his life, much like Phillipa’s scar affected hers. It was all a matter of degree.
‘I have an idea,’ An idea that formed itself as Xavier spoke. ‘Could you run a shop? Make furniture?’ Now here was a new challenge.
Jeffers’s jaw dropped. ‘What is your meaning?’
‘Exactly as I said.’ Xavier took a sip of ale. ‘If you think you can open a shop, I’ll finance you.’
Jeffers turned pale. ‘I do not understand you. By the right of it, you should hand me over to the magistrate. I attacked you and your lady. I should be in Newgate for it.’
‘You should. But I have a whim.’ If Cavendish could create an arcade of shops, perhaps Xavier could open one shop...and make some employment for his fellow soldiers who, like he, came back from war with nothing to do. ‘Do you know other men with your skill? You could take on others.’
‘Others? I dare say I can find others,’ Jeffers rasped.
‘Excellent.’ Xavier dug into his pocket and took out a purse. ‘I’ll pay until the shop is profitable, then you pay me a portion.’ Not unlike how Rhys arranged the gaming house.
They talked on, about what steps to take. First find a shop to let, then purchase wood and tools. The proposition became more expensive as they spoke, but Xavier did not care. The more he thought of this plan, the more certain he became.
Was it a risk? Certainly. But it was also a new way to test himself. Could he turn men like Jeffers away from a life of crime and create a successful business at the same time? He was determined to do it.
* * *
Xavier parted company with Jeffers. As the man walked away, he stood taller, prouder. Xavier smiled.
He almost laughed aloud. The last thing he ever expected to become was a shopkeeper. That was worse in the eyes of the ton than running a gaming hell. Cavendish might have pulled it off under the guise of a whim, but he was the brother of a duke.
Phillipa’s words came back to him. I do not think we should be confined to society’s expectations.
He was certainly taking it to heart.
What she would think of his impulsive offer? He’d made it to one of their attackers, after all. Would she understand why he’d done it? She’d become more subdued since the attack. Although she did not speak of it, he suspected she was not entirely recovered.
He would not mention this to her. At least not right away.
* * *
Xavier missed Phillipa that night. He found himself listening for strains of the pianoforte to rise above the din in the gaming room. When he entered the supper room, his gaze immediately turned to where the pianoforte sat. He expected to see her there, masked and mysterious, charming the patrons with her music and her voice.
Unfortunately, Lady Faville was present and he was convinced she’d not given up her pursuit of him. She was clever enough not to plague him too much, though. Still, she found some opportunity to talk to him each night, some moment when he could not avoid her.
Like the night before when she’d appeared in the hallway the exact moment he made his way to the supper room. Others were in earshot when she asked him to escort her there, so he could not refuse.
She divided her time between the supper room and the gaming room, never wagering much, but always attracting a great deal of attention from the men, each very willing to partner her, to assist her, to teach her how to play.
She basked in the attention, the admiration, as if she could not exist separate from it, as if she were nothing but how she appeared to others, as if her beauty was all she was worth.
That she was a beauty was indisputable. When he’d been eighteen she’d been a young man’s dream, so lovely it hurt to look at her. He’d been smitten.
Until he realised it was his looks that held the most appeal to her. And finer elements of character, like being faithful to her husband, paled in comparison to what a beautiful couple she and Xavier would make.
He’d not bedded her at eighteen. Of that he was grateful, and grateful, too, for a husband wise enough to send temptation away from his obsessed young wife.
Xavier left the gaming room to check on the supper room, and a moment later she appeared by his side, looking as if she merely wished to pick some delicacies from the array of food available.
‘Where is your songstress, Xavier? Have you let her go?’ Daphne’s tone, always sweet, grated on his nerves.
He frowned. He did not wish her to plague Phillipa. ‘She does not play every night.’
‘It is not the same without her, is it?’ She sighed and tossed a glance towards the pianoforte. ‘I confess, I miss her immensely. We’ve become great friends, you know.’
He would not wager on that.
She kept him there chatting for a time longer before he could escape without appearing to the others to deliberately cut her. Someone might remember the trouble she caused him all those years ago. He did not want those rumours resu
rfacing.
He went next to check on MacEvoy in the cashier’s room. Cummings remained always a shout away from MacEvoy, should he need him. For that matter, either of the former soldiers was well able to take care of any nonsense, but if any trouble brewed, Xavier wanted to be aware of it.
When he stepped into the hall a familiar gentleman handed Cummings his hat and gloves.
‘General Henson?’ Henson had been at Waterloo. Xavier met him in Brussels before the battle and, before that, at Salamanca, another ghastly but triumphant battle. Xavier always had the sense he’d met Henson somewhere before that, but he could never place where.
The general swung around. ‘Campion, is it not?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir.’ He nearly stood at attention, but instead extended his hand. ‘A pleasure to see you here.’
Henson shook his hand. ‘Good to see you, Campion. Just returned to town and heard of this place. Honest games, they say.’ The man seemed in an uncommonly good mood. ‘I heard Rhysdale runs it.’
‘Indeed he does, sir,’ Xavier answered.
Henson clapped him on the arm. ‘Friend of yours, I recall. Brave fighter. Done very well for himself. Who would have guessed his fortunes would have turned in this direction?’
Rhys had not been a typical officer like Xavier, a younger son whose choices might include the clergy, the law, or the army. Rhys made his way in life through gambling. Perhaps Henson did not know that Rhys purchased his commissions with his gambling winnings. Rhys’s skill and bravery on the battlefield earned him his promotions.
‘Rhysdale always does well,’ Xavier told him. ‘He is out of town at present and I am running the place for him. I will show you to the cashier.’ He led the way.
They entered the cashier’s room and MacEvoy immediately stood.
Xavier gestured to him. ‘General, MacEvoy here was also in the East Essex. Cummings, too, whom you met in the hall.’
Henson shook MacEvoy’s hand. ‘Good to see soldiers like you, MacEvoy.’
‘Sir!’ MacEvoy responded.
MacEvoy went on to explain how matters worked at the gaming house, how those who came in masks—ladies, mostly—could only receive credit or write vowels if they revealed their identities.
