by Diane Gaston
In the supper room Phillipa played only pieces that were so well practised she need not look at her music. If the patrons recognised that she was not challenging herself to play her best, they showed no indication.
She knew the exact moment Xavier entered the supper room, if not by her senses alone, by the way other women’s heads turned in his direction. She glanced at him, too.
He stood near the door, arms folded across his chest, listening to the simple tune she played. His handsome face was composed—such a contrast to how he’d looked fighting their attackers.
Strong and fierce.
He did not stay long. He never stayed long, but she also sensed the moment he left.
The gentleman who’d met her that first day entered the room, looking gloom-faced. He sat near the pianoforte, drink in hand. He was one of her admirers. There were several men who always listened to her play and spoke pretty words to her.
Imagine. Several men, none of whom would give her a second glance if they first saw her scar.
The idea usually amused her, but not this night when other faces flashed through her memory. The men who attacked her. The man in the vision.
* * *
After performing for an hour and a half, Phillipa’s head ached. She rose from her bench and those in the room, the gentleman included, clapped their appreciation.
She curtsied to them. ‘Thank you. Do go gamble. I will play again after a brief respite.’
The patrons who left the room at that point were unlikely to return once they were deep in their cards or dice, but it did not matter. The more men and women gambled, the more improved her family’s finances would be.
A gentleman she had not seen there before approached her. ‘Excellent performance, ma’am.’
Was this to be another admirer? ‘Thank you, sir.’
He inclined his head in response. ‘I did not expect to hear such excellent music. I confess I did not know of the fine entertainment when learning of the Masquerade Club.’
‘You flatter me.’ The flattery she received here always surprised her.
‘Nonsense. I speak the truth,’ the gentleman said.
Like most of the men who attended the club, he did not wear a mask. His face was pleasant, as was his manner. It put her at ease.
He bowed. ‘Allow me to present myself. I am Mr Everard.’
‘How do you do, Mr Everard,’ she responded. ‘You have not been to the Masquerade Club before?’
‘It is my first time,’ he admitted. ‘I have especially enjoyed the music.’
‘Not the gambling? There are several tables and games to enjoy.’
He shook his head. ‘I never gamble. I am a man of business, you see, and I believe it is not a good thing to risk money on cards or dice.’
Had her father’s man of business possessed the same philosophy? Had the man warned her father against gambling the family fortune away? Perhaps her father simply ignored him. Xavier might know.
‘Surely you did not come here just to hear me.’
‘I confess I did not.’ He smiled. ‘Although I might have done so had I known of your excellent music. I am here in the capacity of escort.’
‘Escort?’
‘I was my lady’s husband’s man of business until his death, but I will say no more, else risk revealing her identity.’ He looked wistful. ‘Suffice to say I try to serve her in whatever way she needs me.’
‘How very generous of you.’ Phillipa glanced towards the servant attending the supper room. ‘If you will excuse me, my throat is very dry. I need to ask the servant for something to drink.’
He raised his hand. ‘Tell me. I will order it for you.’
‘Some sherry would be very nice.’
He crossed the room to speak to the servant.
The gentleman who assisted her the first day rose from his chair and walked over to her still carrying his drink. ‘I see you have another admirer.’
‘One more is always welcome.’ She’d learned to banter with gentlemen.
He lifted a hand and counted on his fingers. ‘Mr Campion is certainly an admirer. This new gentleman...and me, of course. How many more?’
Phillipa sat down at a nearby table. ‘Do not talk nonsense. I think you are peeved for some reason. Perhaps you have lost too much at cards and now you are seeking distraction at my expense.’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘How very astute. You are right, of course.’ He looked genuinely contrite. ‘Forgive me. I have lost a great deal of money and I am very uneasy about it.’ He gestured to one of the chairs. ‘May I join you for a moment?’
Such a request was commonplace to her here. ‘As long as you behave properly.’
‘Agreed.’ He sat.
Mr Everard hurried over, carrying a wine glass. ‘Please forgive me. My lady is here.’
‘Thank you for the sherry, Mr Everard,’ she called to the already retreating figure.
Everard hurried to the doorway where a masked lady stood.
Phillipa’s eyes widened. She’d expected a stooped-over dowager, not this elegant creature in a gossamer confection of a gown that seemed to glow from the candlelight of the chandeliers. Her blonde locks shone equally as brightly as she gracefully stepped into the room, immediately greeted by Mr Everard.
The gentleman seated with Phillipa cocked his head towards the doorway. ‘That is Lady Faville, the great beauty. I recognise her even with the mask.’
She glanced at him in shock. ‘You should not tell me who she is!’
He shrugged. ‘I know. I know. Supposed to be anonymous. But it is quite easy to guess who is under a mask.’ He regarded Phillipa. ‘I have not the least notion who you are, however.’
Of course he had no notion. ‘You have likely never met me before.’
‘Likely not.’ He smiled and extended his hand. ‘I am Mr Edward Anson.’
Anson? Oh, Goodness. She’d once met John Anson, the heir of Earl Wigham. One of her schoolmates had married him. This must be his younger brother.
She accepted his hand.
He released it and glanced back at Lady Faville. ‘What a shame she wears a mask. Her beauty is truly extraordinary.’ His tone turned reverential. ‘She married Viscount Faville for his title and fortune. I believe there was some scandal attached to her shortly after she married. I don’t recall what precisely, but it involved another man. All hushed up very quickly.’ He took a sip of his brandy. ‘The Viscount kept her on a short leash after that. She can take her pick of any man now, though. Faville had the courtesy to die on her. Left her very well off.’
Phillipa watched Mr Everard pull out a chair for Lady Faville. The woman had certainly caught Everard’s affections. The poor man. A beautiful, wealthy widow of a viscount was way above the touch of a man of business.
She sipped her sherry and felt her senses heighten.
Xavier had returned.
‘There is Campion checking on you,’ Anson said.
Xavier stood in the doorway, perusing the room. His gaze did not seek out Phillipa, however, instead riveting on Lady Faville. He quickly backed away and disappeared into the hallway.
Anson finished his drink. ‘I wonder if I discouraged him.’
‘I wish you would not say such things,’ Phillipa snapped. ‘I dislike it very much.’
He sobered. ‘My apologies once more.’
* * *
Phillipa returned to the pianoforte and began ‘Bright Phoebus’, a song much happier than she felt. Her audience had thinned, as she’d expected, with more comings and goings of those left.
The reputedly beautiful Lady Faville departed after a time, but Mr Everard remained. Presumably, the lady returned to gambling. Anson also left, but Phillipa hoped he’d gone home and not stayed to risk losing more.
Xavier appeared briefly. Was he checking on her welfare? Her heart warmed with the idea.
* * *
After she finished she stopped in the ladies’ retiring room. Lady Faville was also there.
‘I wonder if you would help me,’ the lady asked. ‘My dress has come apart on the shoulder seam and I cannot pin it in place.’
‘Certainly,’ Phillipa stepped forwards to do the task.
‘I pulled at a thread and all the stitching came apart. Can you imagine?’ She handed Phillipa some pins. ‘How my lady’s maid overlooked the problem, I cannot say.’
Phillipa worked one pin through the fabric.
‘You are the songstress,’ Lady Faville went on.
Phillipa would have rather been recognised as the pianiste. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘You have a lovely voice,’ she said. ‘And you play beautifully.’
‘Thank you.’ Phillipa held the extra pins in her teeth.
‘This wretched mask is such a bother.’ The lady pulled it off. ‘Don’t you hate wearing a mask?’
‘No. I prefer it, actually.’ Phillipa placed the pins so they would be secure, but not show.
‘I think I will go without a mask.’ The lady paused for a moment. ‘Tell me. Do you know Mr Campion well?’
The question took Phillipa completely off guard. ‘I know him, certainly. I—I play the pianoforte here most nights.’
‘Do you know if he has any attachments? He’s been out of society of late and I have seen or heard nothing about him.’
Phillipa worked on the last pin. ‘I do not know of his personal affairs.’
Lady Faville’s voice turned to a wistful whisper. ‘I knew him long ago.’
Phillipa lifted her hands from the dress and stepped back.
And saw Lady Faville’s face.
She saw an angel. Skin so pale and smooth it appeared other-worldly. Beautiful azure eyes. Full lips the tint of summer roses.
No wonder Mr Everard was smitten and Mr Anson prosed on about the woman’s beauty.
Lady Faville touched her gown’s shoulder. ‘Oh, you have done a marvellous job.’ She glided over to the mirror and smiled. ‘It is perfection! I am so grateful.’
Her smile made her even more beautiful.
Phillipa could hardly speak in the presence of such physical perfection. ‘My pleasure,’ she managed.
The lady looked at herself in the mirror. ‘I wonder if I need the mask.’ She turned to Phillipa. ‘What do you think? I am a widow. Widows are allowed certain licence, are they not?’
Phillipa lowered her gaze. ‘I would not presume to advise you.’
‘I believe I will forgo it!’ she said brightly. She gave Phillipa another dazzling smile. ‘Thank you again. I am indebted to you.’
Phillipa waited a few minutes before following the beauty out of the retiring room. She was shaken. For the second time in two days she could not explain her reaction to a face. The first one was certainly imaginary, but Lady Faville was all too real.
With a glance towards the door, she turned back to the mirror and lifted her mask.
The contrast between her image and Lady Faville’s face caused sheer pain.
She put her mask back in place and shook herself as she walked to the hall. It had been years since she’d so directly compared her appearance with another woman’s. Years since envy had so plagued her. She’d worked very hard to accept what could not be changed and to be grateful for what she did possess. Talent and musical skill.
Ever since the attack—and her vision—her emotions had been in disorder. She’d been in such excellent control of herself before last night.
No longer.
Cummings brought her cloak and Xavier’s hat and gloves.
A moment later Xavier strode into the hall. ‘Forgive me. I was detained.’
‘I only just got here,’ she responded.
Xavier took the cloak from Cummings and placed it around Phillipa’s shoulders. She pulled up the cloak’s hood and waited while he donned his hat and gloves.
Cummings opened the door for them.
‘Goodnight, Cummings,’ she said.
The servant nodded.
As they stepped out into the street to await the hackney coach, Phillipa felt a shiver up her spine. The night strongly resembled the previous one, which had started out so comfortably. She’d not been comfortable since, and now the whole experience repeated itself in her mind’s eye. Including the vision of the man’s face.
She’d seen him before, she was certain, but the only memory she could retrieve was the one of the vision.
The coach pulled up and Xavier helped her inside. When he sat next to her, she felt his warmth, inhaled the scent of bergamot that would forever make her think of him. She removed her mask and, covering her face with her hood, thought of Lady Faville.
‘With the hackney coach you no longer need to come with me,’ she said into their silence. Neither of them had spoken heretofore.
It seemed as if he needed to rouse himself from his thoughts to answer her. ‘I will escort you, hackney coach or no.’
Why inconvenience himself in this way? She could only suppose he felt some obligation to her family. Fancied this was his duty.
Like dancing with her.
* * *
When the coach reached Hay Hill, near where the attack took place, he put his arm around her and held her close. She blinked away tears. He might escort her out of duty now, but he was still her childhood friend, comforting her when she became sad.
And she selfishly thought only of herself. Never mind that she interrupted his duties at the gaming house. Never mind that she’d caused him to be attacked by ruffians. She wanted to perform her music.
She did want to perform her music. She wanted it so badly she would have braved the streets alone and risked another attack, just for this chance.
He held her the rest of the way to the town house and walked her to the door. They’d not spoken a word.
She wanted to wish him goodnight, to thank him for his kindness, but words would not come. She took his hand and he squeezed hers in return. With his other hand, he cupped her cheek—the scarred one—and leaned his forehead on to hers.
The moment was brief, but Phillipa’s heart raced as if she’d run from the Masquerade Club to here.
She hurriedly opened her door and slipped inside.
Chapter Five
Xavier returned to the hackney coach and rode it back to its stand on Piccadilly. He paid the jarvey and walked the rest of the way back to the gaming house.
Phillipa had been very quiet this night. So had he, but taking her in his arms when they passed the scene of the attack had shaken him nearly as much as the attack itself. He wanted to hold her and never let anything hurtful happen to her again.
He hadn’t wanted to leave her this night. When they reached her door, he wanted to follow her up the stairs to her bedchamber. He wanted to show her the delights that sharing a bed offered, delights that would erase the pain in her eyes, the pain that had not been there before the attack.
Instead he must return to the gaming house, which he dreaded.
Daphne would still be there, no doubt, waiting for him, like a spider waits for a fly to become ensnared by its web.
He could not deny her beauty, beauty that had almost seduced him when he’d been eighteen. She had dazzled him. Tempted him.
And ultimately got him sent away to the army. That had been the agreement with Lord Faville—send Xavier away or Faville would drag his family’s name through the mud.
Xavier’s father had purchased a commission for him and the army had made him into the man he was today. Xavier would not have wished it to be any other way.
As soon as he walked into t
he gaming room again, he saw her there. For the rest of the night, Daphne’s eyes followed him wherever he went.
* * *
To Xavier’s dismay, Daphne, no longer wearing a mask, returned to the gaming house again and again. The newspapers quickly reported that the lovely widow, Lady F—, had developed a new passion for gambling at the Masquerade Club.
The gossip brought in more patrons than ever.
Daphne’s man of business, a non-gambler, escorted her each time. As far as Xavier could tell Daphne had several fawning admirers, but she seemed to have no friends. Certainly no women friends. The women who attended the Masquerade Club turned away or shot daggers at her with their eyes.
He felt sorry for her, but only enough to keep him from speaking too sharply to her. Each night Daphne found some opportunity to speak with him. He was cordial, nothing more. She made no more presumptions about him.
Phillipa, too, attended the gaming house. Although she seemed more recovered from their attack, her initial exuberance about performing had disappeared.
Gone, too, was the ease between them. He missed it.
She was still determined to perform and for that he was grateful. At least he could be with her. He would see her tonight. And Daphne, too, he supposed.
But first he must appear for dinner at his parents’ town house.
He’d received the invitation the previous day. He’d neglected them, he had to admit. He trusted that they wanted merely to see he was in one piece, rather than bearing some bad news for him. Bad news did not wait for a dinner invitation.
He was a bit late when he knocked on their town-house door.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The footman grinned widely as he took Xavier’s hat and gloves.
‘How are you, Buckley?’ Buckley was a long-time retainer for the Campions.
‘No complaints, sir. Thank you for asking.’ He bowed.
Xavier gave Buckley a conspiratorial look. ‘And my parents? Anything I should know?’
‘They are in good health, if that is what you mean.’
Xavier touched the man’s arm. ‘Be sure to get word to me if that changes. They are not likely to tell me.’
‘I will, sir.’ He inclined his head towards the drawing room. ‘I dare say they are waiting impatiently for you.’