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 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