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
