of a man. A stranger to her, but she’d seen him before, in this exact way—or so it felt.
‘Phillipa, wake up.’ The face changed before her eyes, turning into Xavier’s face.
She gasped.
‘Are you hurt?’ Xavier’s hands were all over her, touching her arms, her legs, her torso. ‘Did he hurt you?’
This was not at the seaside?
No, it was London. She and Xavier had been walking home. This was not Brighton. She was not a little girl. This was Xavier with her.
‘I’m not hurt,’ she managed.
She tried to sit up. His arms embraced her and lifted her to her feet. He held her against him. ‘I thought you were hurt.’ He held her tighter. ‘I thought I had lost you.’
She remembered men jumping out of the darkness at them. She remembered fighting to be free.
But for a moment she’d been back in Brighton. She’d seen a different man lean over her. He appeared as real as Xavier appeared now.
She trembled. She’d seen something that was not really there.
Panic rose inside her, kept at bay only because of the strength of his arms. He comforted her. She was safe. Xavier held her.
He loosened his grip. ‘I must get you home.’
Supporting her weight with one arm, he led her out of the mews, past Berkeley Square to Davies Street.
Her head throbbed as she remembered he’d had to fight off two men. ‘Did they hurt you?’ she asked. ‘Did they get your money?’ Her reticule still dangled from her arm.
His voice turned low and fierce. ‘Not that miserable lot of ruffians.’
They reached her door and he embraced her again. ‘I should have prevented that attack. We should not have been walking at this hour. I was wrong to agree to this.’
If he had not been with her, what would have happened to her? There had been three of them.
Her heart pounded, anticipating what would come next. He intended to forbid her to come to the Masquerade Club. He would stop her performances right when she was learning about how to make the music most entertaining. He would take it all away.
She could not bear it.
‘Do not forbid me this, Xavier.’ Her voice trembled and her head ached.
‘It is not safe, Phillipa,’ he insisted. ‘You simply cannot take the risk.’
The hood of her cloak had fallen away, exposing her disfigurement. She pulled it up again and put the key in the lock, turning it.
He covered her hand with his. ‘Phillipa, do not come to the gaming house. Do not try it alone.’
She opened the door and turned to him. ‘May I have my dagger back?’
He hesitated, but finally handed it to her.
‘Thank you, Xavier.’ Impulsively she threw her arms around him. ‘You saved us both.’
To her surprise, he returned her embrace with one of his own. He held her against him so tightly it seemed as if he would never release her.
‘Phillipa,’ he rasped in her ear, as if wanting something more of her, but she did not know what.
She only knew she felt even more shaken when he finally released her and she hurried inside the house.
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
