but that was of no consequence. If she encountered Xavier, he would not know her.
No one would know her.
* * *
That night Phillipa stepped up to the door to Rhysdale’s town house. No sounds of revelry reached the street and nothing could be seen of the gamblers inside, but, even so, she immediately sensed a different mood to the place than earlier in the day.
She sounded the knocker and the same taciturn manservant who’d attended the hall that morning answered the door.
‘Good evening, sir.’ She entered the hall and slipped off her hooded cape. This time she did not need netting to hide her face; her mask performed that task.
The manservant showed no indication of recognising her and she breathed a sign of relief. The mask must be working.
She handed him her cape. ‘What do I do next? I am new to this place, you see.’
He nodded and actually spoke. ‘Wait here a moment. I will take you to the cashier.’
The knocker sounded the moment he stepped away, but he returned quickly and opened the door to two gentlemen who greeted him exuberantly. ‘Good evening to you, Cummings! Trust you are well.’
Cummings took their hats and gloves and inclined his head towards Phillipa. ‘Follow them, ma’am.’
The gentlemen glanced her way and their brows rose with interest. How novel. Without her mask most men quickly looked away.
‘Is this your first time here, ma’am?’ one asked in a polite tone.
‘It is.’ She made herself smile.
The other gentleman offered an arm. ‘Then it will be our pleasure to show you to the cashier.’
This was how she would be treated if not disfigured. With pleasure, not pity.
How new, as well, to accept the arm of a stranger when she’d been reared to acknowledge gentlemen only after a formal introduction took place. Would he think her fast for doing so? Or did it not matter? The gentleman would never know her.
She’d already defied the conventions of a well-bred lady by walking alone on the streets at night. She’d gathered her cloak and hood around her and made her way briskly, ignoring anyone she passed. Gas lamps lit most of the way and there had been plenty of other pedestrians out and about to make the trek feel safe.
Taking the arm of a stranger for a few seconds seemed tame after that.
He and the other gentleman escorted her to one of the rooms that had been hidden behind closed doors earlier that day. It was at the back of the house and, judging from the bookshelves that lined one of the walls, must have once been the library. Besides a few lonely books on the shelves, the room was as sparsely decorated as the hall. A large desk dominated the room. Behind the desk sat the man who had served her tea.
‘MacEvoy,’ one of her escorts said. ‘We have a new lady for you. This is her first time here.’
MacEvoy looked her straight in the face. ‘Good evening, ma’am. Shall I explain how the Masquerade Club operates?’
‘I would be grateful.’ She searched for signs that this man recognised her. There were none.
He told her the cost of membership and explained that she would purchase counters from him to use in play in the game room. She could purchase as many counters as she liked, but, if she lost more than she possessed, she must reveal her identity.
This was how patrons were protected, he explained. They would know who owed them money, and those who needed their identity protected dared not wager more than they possessed.
Phillipa had little interest in the wagering, but hoped she purchased enough counters to appear as if she did.
‘We will take you to the gaming room, ma’am,’ one of her escorts said.
‘That would be kind of you.’ She knew the way, but did not want the gentlemen to realise it.
When they entered the room, it seemed transformed, a riot of colour and sound. The rhythm of rolling dice, the hum of voices, the trill of shuffling cards melded into a strange symphony. Could such noise be recreated in music? What might be required? Horns? Drums? Castanets?
‘Ma’am, do you wish to join us in cards?’ One of her gentlemen escorts broke her reverie.
She shook her head. ‘You have assisted me enough, sir. I thank you both. Please be about your own entertainment.’
They bowed and she turned away from them and scanned the room as she made her way to the hazard table. To her great relief, she did not see Xavier. A pretty young woman acted as croupier at the hazard table, which surprised Phillipa. She’d not imagined women employed to do such a job. She knew the rules of hazard, but thought it insipid to wager money on the roll of dice. Phillipa watched the play, interested more in the people than the gambling. Several of the croupiers were women. The women players were mostly masked, like she, but some were not. She wondered about them. Who were they and why did they not worry about their reputations? Perhaps she was in the company of actresses. Opera dancers. Women who would not hide from life.
There certainly seemed to be great numbers of counters being passed around in the room. Those who won exclaimed in delight; the losers groaned and despaired. Happy sounds juxtaposed with despairing ones. She’d never heard the like.
She glimpsed Rhysdale. He circulated through the room, watching, stopping to speak to this or that person. He came close to her and her heart raced. He looked directly at her, nodding a greeting before passing on. She smiled. He had not recognised her.
She walked over to the faro table. If hazard was an insipid game, faro was ridiculous. One wagered whether a particular card would be chosen from the deck. If you placed money on the banker’s card you lost, if on the winning card you won double.
Still, she ought to gamble. To merely gape at everything would appear a bit suspicious.
She stifled a giggle. Out in society, people treated her as if she did not exist. Here she feared them noticing her.
She played at faro and became caught up in the spirit of the game. She cried with joy when she won and groaned at her losses, just like the other patrons. She was merely one of the crowd. Even her deep-green gown blended with the tableau as if she were a part of the décor of reds, greens and glinting golds. Her anonymity became like a cloak around her, protecting her so well she forgot that, besides Rhysdale, there might be someone at the club who could recognise her.
* * *
Xavier defused some escalating tempers, interrupted some reckless wagers and otherwise performed the same tasks as always at the Masquerade Club. His mind, however, continued to wander back to that morning.
Ought he have sent Phillipa to Rhys? Should it have been Rhys’s choice of whether to tell her about her father, about the gaming house?
No. Rhys might have some of the same blood flowing through his veins as Phillipa, but she was a stranger to him. Xavier had known her for ever, even before her injury. He’d been close to her once. Her injury bound them together.
Or
