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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.
Chapter Three
The next day Xavier saw Rhys off to travel north to look into this steam engine venture. That night, as other nights, Xavier walked through the gaming room, watching to see if all ran smoothly. From the beginning of the Masquerade Club he’d assisted Rhys in this task. The croupiers and the regular patrons were now used to him, but he’d needed to earn their respect.
It was not unusual for other men to underestimate him. He knew their thinking—that a man with his looks could not possibly have anything of substance to offer. Soldiers in his regiment had scoffed at his capacity to lead them until he proved himself in battle. Even the enemy on the battlefield took one look at him and dropped their guard. He could still see the surprised faces of those who felt the sharp edge of his sabre.
Xavier always believed he possessed courage, strength, cunning, but battle had tested it and proved it to him once and for all.
But he was done with war and fighting. He’d seen enough blood and suffering and death.
Xavier shook off the memories and made another circuit of the room. He paused at the hazard table, watching the men and women throw away fortunes with the roll of the dice, paying close attention to the dice, making certain they were not weighted.
Hazard, so dependent upon chance, had never interested him. To own the truth, even games of skill had lost their appeal. He’d demonstrated to the sceptics—and to himself—that he could win at cards. He possessed a tidy fortune to show for it.
Running the Masquerade Club was his latest challenge. Making it a success, in terms of popularity and profitability, was a game he intended to win. When Rhys returned, the house would be showing greater profits and more patrons than ever before.
Xavier knew he could be good at this. Hadn’t he been the one to notice the irregularities at the hazard table, the ones that so involved Lady Gale and ultimately Lord Westleigh?
Good riddance to that man. Everyone was better off with him gone. Especially Lord Westleigh’s family.
Especially Phillipa.
Lord Westleigh had been on the brink of ruining Phillipa’s life.
She had changed from that waif-like little girl he’d vowed to protect at Brighton. He’d been nearly five years older than she, but after her injury that summer, he’d made himself her champion, doing his best to distract her from her scar and keep sadness and despair at bay. He’d repeated this charge every summer until his family no longer summered at Brighton.
He’d never forgotten her.
In 1814, when Napoleon had been banished to Elba and peace briefly reigned on the Continent, Xavier found her again and danced with her at one of the Season’s balls. She’d seemed as light-hearted and gay as her many friends. And as pretty—if one ignored her scar. He’d looked forward to a second dance that night and a chance to spend more time with her, but she’d taken ill, her mother said. And he’d left for his regiment the next day.
Phillipa had changed in these last five years, though. She was remote. Guarded. As if she’d built a wall around herself, too deep and high to breach.
At least he’d seen her home safely last night. It had been foolish of her to come to the Masquerade Club alone. Still, he wished he could see her again.
