These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (12 page)

I
WAS ABLE
to return to the Kents’ early enough for dinner. Lady Kent questioned me on my whereabouts the entire day,
but Laura helped corroborate my hasty excuse about visiting my friend Catherine. To repay the favor, I spent far too long giving Laura an exhaustive account of my day with Miss Lodge. She almost
fainted when she heard the drama of Mr. Braddock’s tragic past.

Before I could take my well-deserved rest, though, Tuffins informed me that Mr. Kent had come to speak with me. I groggily shuffled into the drawing room and found him standing
by the fireplace, eyes full of pity.

“How was the search today?” I asked, my voice high and worry pounding in my ears. “Did you find anything?”

“No, and I’m sorry. I almost did not come because I hate the idea of delivering bad news to you, but then I realized that my absence would in itself be the worst news you could
possibly receive.”

“Thank you for sparing me from such despair.”

“But to be positive, the list of druggists grows shorter, and from a broader perspective, we
are
one day closer to finding Miss Rosamund.”

“You don’t always have to bring me good news.”

“That comes as a relief, because try as I might, I cannot see the happy side to my other news.”

I sat down hard in an uncomfortable chair. “What happened?”

“I was just coming out of a druggist’s shop in Bloomsbury at about two thirty in the afternoon when I happened to see Mr. Braddock on the other side of the street. I followed him
for—”

“Why would you waste your time—”

“Professional curiosity at first. I merely wanted to see where his ‘valuable expertise’ led him.”

Curiosity? It sounded more like competitiveness. “And where, pray tell, did he lead you?”

“He went from public house to public house, drinking and carousing with his many drunk acquaintances, and when he was tired of that, he went to a gambling den, where he knocked some poor
fellow unconscious. I’ll admit the man had an abhorrent mustache, but Mr. Braddock went about it all wrong.”

He kept his voice light, but I could see the concern in his eyes. I would have thought he was fabricating the entire story, were it not for the display of Mr. Braddock’s fighting abilities
last night after the magic show. “Is it not possible he was seeking information?”

“He capped off the night with a visit to a, uh, a brothel.” His lips tightened as he mentioned the unmentionable.

“Excuse me?”

His eyes locked on a candle in front of him. “Ask any decent Londoner about the Argyll Rooms and you’ll get a blush in response. They call it a dancing room, but that doesn’t
change what it is on the inside. What could he possibly be investigating there?”

The news should have rendered my legs lame and kept me seated. Instead, it flared through my body, sending me up to my feet and almost out the window.

“There must be some mistake!” If it was true, I would kill, absolutely
murder
, Mr. Braddock.

“I assure you, there is not. Now, he doesn’t deserve a second thought, Miss Wyndham,” Mr. Kent said, seeing my anger. “Nothing will come of his assistance except
distraction.”

“So what do we do, then?” I cried back. My shaky plan had fallen apart, and the others were even flimsier. I felt suffocated, buried under it all.

Mr. Kent’s steps moved closer. “If you wish to continue treating this friend of his, I will continue the search as I have until you’re ready to join me.”

I couldn’t meet his eye, electing for the floor instead. “I don’t know where else to search.”

His head popped into view, looking up at me from a kneeling position. “Fortunately, as the world’s greatest and all that, I have plenty of ideas, I promise you.” He rose back
up and, with the slightest touch, raised my chin along with him. “We should rest. It’s been a long day, and you’ve done some kind and admirable work, regardless of the solicitor.
Don’t regret that. Miss Rosamund will be proud when she hears of it.”

“. . . Thank you.”

He broke away and called for the footman, who brought his coat and cane for the brisk London night. “Call on me when you are ready,” he said, gently taking my hand. It was reassuring
to have someone tell me the truth after such a day. I squeezed it back, not quite wanting him to leave.

The remainder of the restless night was spent composing angry tirades to Mr. Braddock in my head, but when the servants woke early the next morning, I only had a simple message to send: I no
longer required his assistance. Two hours later, Tuffins warily brought me an unexpected rebuttal. A Mr. Sebastian Wyndham, my
cousin
, was waiting for me in the parlor. The nerve.

Fortunately, Lady Kent had left to make her morning rounds, so I didn’t need to explain the incredibly improper visit to her. I asked Tuffins to put him in the garden, bring tea, and make
sure no one disturbed us. I couldn’t keep him inside when I planned on shouting the roof down.

When I came down, Mr. Braddock was already seated at a small table, staring at the mysteries of tea things, and appearing extremely out of place among the bright, flowery surroundings. He looked
up in relief as I entered, greeting my frostiness with an insuppressible smile and a giddiness that could barely be contained in his bow.

“Mr. Wyndham?” I asked caustically.

“There’s always a distant cousin.”

“And distant is how they should remain. Why are you here?”

“Your message. I apologize for calling on you like this, but I want to assure you, I will find your sister. Though I doubt even that would suffice to convey my gratitude for your
help,” he said, striding up to me. I had the oddest thought that he was about to embrace me in a hug. “Thank you, truly.”

I backed away. Was he being satirical? “What do you mean?” I asked, entirely off guard.

“For Miss Lodge . . .” he said. Taking in my confused look, he asked, “Do you not know?”

I shook my head. “No, what’s happened?”

“You restored her to full health, Miss Wyndham,” he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets as though he needed to contain them somehow. “I visited her last night, and she
couldn’t wait to see the sky and grass again.” He practically leaped about the blooming paths, unable to keep to one place, his hands out of his pockets already and balled into fists. I
imagined it’s how Atlas would have looked after a comfortable nap. “I cannot thank you enough. Your powers are truly remarkable.”

Was he serious? Or was he distracting me from his lack of a search yesterday by trying to convince me of these stupid “powers”? He must have made up her recovery—I just served
her tea! “I would like to see her,” I said firmly, testing him.

“This evening, perhaps,” he replied. “She is extremely fond of you. And, of course, she wants to thank you, as well.”

“That is impossible! I did nothing!” I choked.

His eyes seemed lighter, freer as he looked me over. “I don’t think you truly understand the extent of your powers.”

“Apparently not.” I began to roll my eyes, but they caught on a decanter of wine that Tuffins had helpfully added to the tea things on the patio table. Too early? Too early.

“If she is feeling better, it is not due to anything I have done. And if you are hoping to deter me from asking after your progress, you are mistaken. Tell me, was my sister hiding away in
any of the public houses you patronized last night? Was she in the gambling den? Or the brothel?” There was no keeping my voice as steady as I had hoped, and the final word emerged at a
screechy, glass-breaking pitch. Also, loud.

Mr. Braddock’s eyes gratifyingly bulged, though he swiftly composed himself, folded his arms protectively across his chest, and scowled at me as though I were the villain. “You had
me followed. This Mr. Kent, I presume? You don’t have the best taste in suitors, it would seem.”

“So you admit it.”

“I was meeting acquaintances. For information about your sister.”

“And do you usually attack your acquaintances?”

He shook his head. “No, but I help when they are attacked by an angry patron caught cheating. Do you usually yell at the people helping you?”

“When they lie about being helpful, yes. What could you have possibly learned about my sister at a brothel?”

“It is a dancing room, not a brothel.”

“I have it on good authority that it is a brothel.”

“Mr. Kent is a good authority on brothels? How charming.”

I glared at him, tired of the elusive act. Who cared about his stupid past? I stormed up to him, flowers be damned, and landed closer than he probably liked. He flinched back a step.

“Let’s pretend I did as you asked and ‘healed’ your friend, Mr. Braddock. You are deeply in my debt. Now, would you kindly share your discoveries and tell me the truth
for once
?” I clenched my teeth and glared up at the obnoxiously tall man, ignoring the almost imperceptible current that seemed to live between us.

His face was back to a stony mask, all rigid lines and unwavering eyes. But it fell away as he sighed, unfolding a small piece of paper. “I wanted to handle it quietly,” he
explained, revealing its contents. An advertisement for the Argyll Rooms, announcing in red block letters its fifty-performer band, renowned conductor, and, at the bottom, the latest singing
attraction:

EVERY NIGHT AT
8:00,
OUR NEWEST STAR, THE WRITE
“
ROSE
”
OF BRAMHURST
.

“And you believe that’s Rose? My sister, the serious nurse, Rose?” I asked mockingly.

“I could go speak to her,” he gently suggested.

“Did you see her last night?” I snapped, wanting no gentleness from him.

“No, but the staff had, and their descriptions sounded accurate.”

“They were mistaken.” My head ached and my stomach churned. I sat down blindly at the tea table.

Mr. Braddock looked down at me, pity swimming in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he assented softly. “I had intended to speak to her tonight and, if it was Miss Rosamund, bid her to
return. I did not think it proper to involve you in the specifics.”

“That was not your decision to make! You agreed to help find her, and as absurd as it sounds, you seem to think you have. But this is the reason I came to London myself. There are certain
things that only I can do,” I said, more furious than rational.

“Which means?”

“I must go speak to whomever this woman is and sort it out,” I said.

“No,” he said simply. “That is entirely out of the question.”

“You cannot presume to tell me such a thing!” I spluttered. “Besides, you said it wasn’t a brothel. Why should I stay away?”

“It still has its share of . . . unsavory individuals. A woman like you does not belong there.”

“If it truly is my sister, our family will have far greater worries, I can assure you,” I said. “In any case, I will wear a mask, and no one will recognize me.”

“It is not only your reputation I am concerned about.” Mr. Braddock’s civil demeanor was beginning to crack.

“I have no care for your concerns,” I said. “This is the only way I will be convinced it’s her. I came to London against my parents’ wishes, and I am perfectly
capable of doing this alone, as well.”

He crumpled the paper in his hands, registering how futile it was to argue. He returned to pacing the length of the small garden, shaking his head, and fussing with the seams of his cuffs.

“Very well,” he said. “Then I will be here this evening at seven.”

“Unnecessary. I shall be fine myself.”

“You will be eaten alive.” His voice rasped with scorn. “If you are going to be so foolhardy as to go through with this plan, then I will accompany you.”

“I don’t need a chap—” I automatically snapped, but the memory of the drunken men in the alley was too fresh. I stood up, unable to resist the wine any longer. I poured
it into a teacup and ignored the snort behind me.

“Ah, so you know what to do when a man takes you for a doxy?”

Mortified, I felt my face flush, but somehow kept myself from spitting out the wine. “When a man takes me for a . . . doxy? So you see it as an inevitability—why, thank
you.”

He prowled uneasily close to me, and I fumbled and dropped the cup. I only heard it shatter, unable to look away from the advancing oaf.

“Forgive me for sullying your innocent ears, but if you go to a dancing room unaccompanied, you will hear much worse. And you will inevitably be taken for that kind of woman even if
you’re wearing a nun’s habit.”

“Ah, and you know this with all
your
infinite brothel experience.”

“Yes,” he said firmly, not acknowledging the insult. “Now, seven o’clock—I will be here. It’s no longer a question. Be ready and wear a plain, unadorned
mask—the sort you might wear to a masquerade ball.”

Insufferable. I had nothing left to say to the obstinate man.“Fine,” I muttered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have better places to search this morning.”

“Very well. But let me help—” he said, leaning forward to assist with the cup’s sad remains.

I blocked his way. “I will be quite fine.”

He nodded and drew back gracefully. “Do try to stay out of trouble today.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. He buttoned up his coat and opened the door while I knelt to pick up
the shards of porcelain with as much dignity as I could muster.

“You too. Try not to pick a fight with Tuffins as he lets you ou—!” But the final word became a yelp as a sharp ceramic edge drew a ragged cut over my palm, blood pooling up
over the torn flesh.

Mr. Braddock was gone. I stared down at the glassy red coloring my hand, both nauseated and abstractly intrigued by the sight of my own blood. It welled into a small pool and dripped onto the
wine-stained dirt below.

I carefully wrapped a handkerchief around my palm and headed upstairs to wash the cut clean. But when I took it off mere minutes later, only smooth, unbroken skin stared back up at me. I began
to wonder exactly how much wine I had drunk. It could not have been enough for me to hallucinate, could it?

I hastened to my reticule, wildly grabbing a card—Mr. Kent’s, actually—and sliced at my finger, causing a stinging paper cut. Though the graze still smarted, I watched closely
as my skin knit itself back together in a matter of seconds.