A Marriage of Notoriety

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.

Two men and a woman at the faro table parted and his wish came true.

There Phillipa stood.

She’d come back, even though he’d told her not to.

She glanced at him at that moment, straightening her spine defiantly. He acknowledged her with a nod.

He had a mind to march over, seize her arm and drag her out of this room, out of this gaming house and back to her home. Such a disruption would not be good for the house. And he certainly did not want to cause her undue attention.

He waited.

Finally she walked out of the room. He leaned over to one of the croupiers. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He caught up to her in the hallway. They were alone. ‘Phillipa.’

She turned and held her head high.

‘Are you leaving?’ He would not allow her to walk home alone.

She did not answer right away. ‘I am going to the supper room.’

He took her arm. ‘I will come with you.’

When they entered the room, she strode directly to the buffet and made her own selections.

He asked one of the servants to bring wine to his table, selecting one far enough away that the other diners could not hear their conversation. The wine arrived before she left the buffet.

She turned and paused as if trying to decide whether to join him or not. Tossing her head, she carried her plate to his table and sat down in silence.

He leaned towards her. ‘What possessed you to return here, Phillipa? I told you not to.’

She sipped her wine. ‘You told me I’d had enough excitement, as if you could know.’

‘This is not a fit place for you.’ How could he convince her? ‘Not all who come here are gentlemen and ladies.’

‘Enough, Xavier.’ She glared at him. ‘I will not be treated as if I am still seven years old. My half-brother made this a place ladies could gamble and so I shall gamble here. You cannot and will not stop me.’

She was right. He could not stop her. But he did have an obligation to her. He’d always had an obligation to her. ‘Do you intend to come again?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled smugly. ‘As often as I wish.’

‘Name the nights you will come and the times. I will escort you to and from the place.’ He could at least see she was safe on the streets.

‘No!’ she snapped.

‘Why?’ This was more foolishness. ‘It is to keep you safe.’

She held his gaze with an obstinate look. Finally she said, ‘Very well, but only if you agree not to tell Rhysdale.’

He’d never had any intention to tell Rhys. ‘Very well.’

Their conversation became more companionable after that. She asked about some of the patrons and he told her frankly which men were gentlemen and which were not. She asked questions about the running of the Masquerade Club, about the collection of the money, especially for the card games. She asked about profits and the potential for losses.

She had a quick mind, grasping the workings of the place as quickly as did her brother Hugh.

* * *

After half an hour, she rose to leave. As they walked towards the door and passed the pianoforte, Phillipa ran her fingers over the keyboard. ‘It seems a shame that no one ever plays. This is a pretty instrument.’

‘It has a nice sound, as I recall.’ Under Madame Bisou, the previous owner, music and raucous singing had filled the room for part of the night.

Phillipa looked at him with a careful expression. ‘I will play for you, if you will allow me to.’

He cocked his head, thinking. It would keep her out of the gaming room, at least.

He gestured to the piano bench. ‘Give it a try, Phillipa. Play whatever you like.’

She smiled. ‘Not tonight. Tomorrow night.’

* * *

The next night Xavier met Phillipa outside her town house at the agreed upon hour. He walked with her through Mayfair, crossing Piccadilly to St James’s Street and finally to the gaming hell. She headed straight to the supper room and the pianoforte.

He stayed to listen to her. If she was dreadful, he could stop her. Amateurs were often dreadful. Enough wrong notes, enough singing off-key and people would find another house in which to gamble. That would not happen under his watch.

Her first song he’d heard before—‘I Have A Silent Sorrow Here’, a song of unrequited love. The strings of the pianoforte and her voice resonated with emotion. She sang the song so beautifully it convinced him she had once loved a man who did not love her.

Who the devil was that man? That man who hurt her so? Was that what caused her to isolate herself? Had he made her bitter and unhappy?

The second song had a similar theme, although he’d never heard the tune before. Even more melancholic than the first, she sang of watching her beloved across a room and of being invisible to him.

He forgot about anything but the pain and sadness of her song, the emotion in her voice. He’d failed at his youthful vow to protect her. He’d not been there when this man wounded her. He clenched a fist. He’d like to find that fellow now.

She next played something light-hearted and he woke from his reverie. He glanced at the faces in the supper room. The people seated there abandoned their conversations. With rapt expressions, they all turned toward Phillipa.

The only way Phillipa would be a liability to the gaming house was if patrons abandoned the gaming tables to come hear her perform.

Xavier yearned to abandon his duties to stay to listen to her, but he’d already spent enough time away from the gaming room. He reluctantly left the supper room. In the gaming room the sounds were not melodic. Voices humming, dice rolling, cards shuffling. Although the sound of her voice and of the pianoforte sometimes broke through the din.

* * *

She did not stay long that evening, only a little more than two hours. As she promised to do, she sent word to him when she wished to go home. To escort her home would take little more than a half-hour. For that amount of time he could leave the club in the hands of Rhys’s employees.

They stepped out into the cool night air.

Her spirits were so high, she seemed irrepressible. It reminded him of that long-ago ball.

‘You enjoyed yourself tonight?’ he guessed.

She almost danced down the pavement. ‘I did. No one seemed disappointed in my playing.’

‘You did very well.’

She did more than very well.

‘Did I?’ She skipped ahead of him and faced him while walking backwards. ‘Do you truly think so?’

She pulled off her mask and the gas lamps illuminated her face, making it glow. Her happiness made her beautiful.

His heart swelled for her. ‘I know little of music, but I enjoyed what I heard.’

She grinned and twirled around. ‘That is all I wish!’

She chattered on about the songs she’d sung and played, reviewing her mistakes, assessing what went well. He liked listening to her. It reminded him of when she’d been a little girl and he’d been able to get her to happily chatter on.

In no time at all they reached her door and he put the key in the lock.

She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you so much, Xavier. You have made me very happy tonight.’

Her lips felt soft and warm.

He wrapped his arms around her and brought his lips within a hair’s breadth of hers. He felt her breasts rise and fall against his chest, further tantalising him. Her eyes grew wide as her mouth opened in alarm.

Banking his impulses, he lightly touched his lips to hers.

When he released her, his breath came faster. ‘I want you always to be happy, Phillipa,’ he murmured. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

She blinked up him, her brow puzzled. ‘Same time tomorrow.’

He opened the door and she slipped inside.

It took him a moment to move away.

He’d appointed himself her protector, but perhaps his hardest task would be to protect her from himself.

* * *

For the next four nights Xavier met Phillipa at her town house and returned her home again. They walked side by side through the night with only the occasional gaslight or rush light to break through the darkness. There were few carriages in the streets and fewer still pedestrians sharing the pavement. They talked of her music and the patrons who attended the gaming house, traded stories of what transpired in the supper room and in the game room.

Xavier was careful not to touch her, at least not to touch her in the way he most desired. The old camaraderie from their childhood days might have returned, but what consumed Xavier’s senses was the woman Phillipa had become. So graceful. So quick-witted. So passionate.

So unaffected by him.

How ironic that he should desire a woman who gave no sign at all of desiring him.

It was fortunate, he supposed, because this idyll could not continue indefinitely. When Rhys returned her performances would stop, and, Xavier suspected, Phillipa would have no more use for him. Still, he did not regret his decision to allow her to perform.

It brought her joy.

It even brought increased profits. People came to The Masquerade Club to hear her play and they stayed to gamble.

Could he contrive to see her when it was over? Would she receive him? Did he want to push himself on a woman who did not want him? God knew, he detested being pursued by someone he did not want.

This night she performed for two hours, as had become her custom, and sent word to Xavier that she was ready to leave. As they’d done on previous nights, they stepped out into the night air and began to share the night’s events with each other. This night, though, when they crossed Piccadilly and made their way to the unlit streets of Mayfair, Xavier felt a change in the air. It was nothing more than an odd sound, an unfamiliar shadow, but the soldier in him went on alert.

When he and Phillipa reached Hay Hill, the hairs on the back of his neck rose and he could almost hear the drum beat of the pas de charge.

He stopped her and lowered his voice. ‘Do you still carry your dagger?’

‘Yes.’ She caught his nerves.

‘Pull it and hand it to me now.’

She did as he asked.

As soon as the knife was in his hands, three men burst from the darkness. One, stinking of drink, seized him from behind and dragged him into the Brunton Mews. Xavier twisted his way free and slashed the dagger at the man, slicing in to a tattered uniform. In his ears he heard the sounds of battle. Muskets firing. Cannons booming. Men and horses screaming.

But this was not battle.

Another man grabbed for his wrist and tried to wrest the knife from his grasp. Xavier whirled on him, kicked him in the groin and sent him sprawling.

The third man had Phillipa in his grip. Xavier strained to come to her aid, but the first man set on him again.

‘We need money,’ the man cried. No doubt he was a former soldier now driven to theft and violence.

‘Leave us! Release her!’ Xavier lunged at him, slicing the man’s cheek and neck with his blade.

The man cried out and clapped his hand to his face. Blood dripped through the man’s fingers and on to his uniform. Xavier turned away at the sight and saw the second man regain his feet. Xavier’s thoughts were only on Phillipa.

She struggled to free herself. She gripped her captor’s hair and pulled it hard, before stomping on the man’s foot.

The second man went to aid the man fighting with Phillipa. Xavier launched himself forwards and seized the man’s collar, pulling him away.

That man pulled a knife. ‘Not so brave now, pretty boy.’ He laughed. ‘Give us your money.’

One more man underestimating him.

Xavier lifted his hands as if surrendering. ‘I want no trouble.’

The man sneered in contempt and lowered his hands slightly, the chance Xavier anticipated. He let out a cry, so fierce and wild, the man shrank back. Xavier charged straight for him, his fist connecting to the man’s chin. The man’s knife dropped to the street.

Xavier slammed him against the wall of the building and put the dagger to his throat. ‘Not so brave now, are you?’

‘Don’t cut me! Don’t cut me!’ the man pleaded.

Xavier snarled, ‘Leave now and you leave with your lives.’

The man nodded in fear. ‘We’re leaving. We’re leaving!’ He raised his hands in the air and Xavier stepped away. The man sidled away and grabbed the arm of the man still trying to stop the bleeding of the cut to his face.

The third man now had Phillipa’s reticule in his grip. She would not release it. His eyes widened when his companions ran off and Xavier advanced on him. Phillipa blocked the man’s escape. He picked her up and thrust her aside.

She hit the pavement flat on her face, her forehead bouncing on to its hard surface.

She did not move.

‘Phillipa!’ Xavier ran to her.

* * *

Phillipa heard a man call her name.

She scented sea air and heard waves rolling on to the shore. She felt small and frightened and in pain. Her face hurt and she tasted blood.

She tried to move, but the wind had been knocked out of her. ‘Phillipa!’ the voice called again.

A man’s hands turned her on her back. The darkness had melded into dusk and the air was briny.

‘Wake up, my girl,’ the voice said.

She opened her eyes and her vision filled with the face 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 her as much as if her mother had been a vision herself.

‘Gracious, Phillipa! At least play a tune. This noise grates upon my nerves.’ Her mother pressed her fingers to her forehead.

Phillipa and her mother had barely spoken since the quarrel that sent Phillipa in search of answers about her family. And led her to Xavier. Now she could not speak of what she’d learned without revealing that she knew of the Masquerade Club.

Phillipa lifted her hands from the keys. ‘As you wish, Mama.’

She softly played ‘The Last Rose of Summer’, reciting the words in her head—Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.

She’d not felt alone since Xavier allowed her to perform at the Masquerade Club.

‘When do Ned and Hugh return from wherever they are?’ She knew her mother would not tell her, but it might make her leave the room before noticing Phillipa’s bruise.

Her mother, still straight-backed and regal though in her fifty-fifth year, pursed her lips before answering, ‘Please do not tease me about their whereabouts. I have no wish to have that discussion with you again.’

Phillipa continued to play pianissimo.

‘Do you come to Lady Danderson’s musical evening with me tonight?’ Her mother’s tone dripped with disapproval. No doubt she expected Phillipa to refuse.

She was correct ‘I think not.’

Her mother swept a dramatic arm encompassing the pianoforte and half the room. ‘Why not? I thought you loved music.’

Phillipa shot her a sharp look, but averted her eyes. No sense revisiting her mother’s displeasure at her retreat from society. ‘It is to be an amateur performance, is it not? Lady Danderson’s daughters and other young ladies and gentlemen of her choosing?’