These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (14 page)

Once he deemed our angle insufficient, Mr. Braddock took me on a slow lap around the room along the balcony path, checking for his mysterious contact from several vantage points. Eventually, the
exciting odyssey led us back to where we started at the stairs connecting the two floors, and—

An extremely familiar voice floated upstairs, step by step:

“. . . so I told him the reason Paris is cleaner is their minds take up all the filth!”

Hoping I had made a mistake, I peeked my head around the corner for a look. Smart suit, birch cane, sardonic smirk. It was most decidedly Mr. Kent.

I didn’t know whether to feel ashamed for being here, angry about his being here, or guilty for lying to him. None of those feelings seemed particularly pleasant, so instinctively, I
pushed Mr. Braddock into a nook just around the corner of the stairs to hide.

“You are aware that you have a mask?” Mr. Braddock asked in a strangled voice, as his back hit the wall.

“And you’re aware you neglected to bring one?” I snapped back. “It’s my—it’s Mr. Kent. You may not remember him from the ball, but he will certainly
recognize you immediately. Stop being tall. Put your head down.”

At a loss, I burrowed further into the shallow space, mind whirring angrily as I tried to hide him. This was entirely his fault. We were trapped. Even if I was well disguised, once Mr. Kent saw
Mr. Braddock, he’d see me, dressed like this, with Mr. Braddock instead of him, and he would not be happy. All my plans would fall down around our heads.

A warm, ragged breath disturbed the hairs on my forehead, and my blood began pricking as I realized where exactly I had retreated: right into Mr. Braddock, our strange connection humming through
the hairsbreadth of distance between our bodies, our faces. I froze, forcing myself to stop shoving against him further. Before I understood anything, a rough, large hand brushed my chin, my face
tipped upwards, and his mouth caught mine, and suddenly my entire body was on fire. Whatever odd sensation had thrummed between us before was just the stroke of a violin bow to this clash of an
orchestra. I felt the world pass between our lips, tasting champagne, hunger, and something indefinably darker, while his hand ignited sparks down my cheek to the nape of my neck. He wrapped an arm
around my waist, pulling me closer, forcing that elusive essence to run deeper than my skin, deeper than my veins, until my very bones vibrated.

I stumbled back. My lips had never been so alive, and I was absurdly aware that my body both shivered from his touch and burned with embarrassment. My brain refused to work, and all my mouth
could form was, “Mr. Braddock, w-w-why—”

“Why would you do that to avoid your suitor?” His voice was grave, breath broken, and . . . and he could not be serious. I looked up and found his nostrils flaring, brow bent
disapprovingly, shadowing eyes flooded with reproach . . . for
me.
My stomach dropped to the floor, and it was all I could do not to let my entire body follow suit. “What—he is
not my—and you are the one who kissed me—”

“Your masterful plan of leaning in and closing your eyes didn’t present me with much of a choice.”

“There was the choice of
not
kiss
—
”

“There she is,” he interrupted, peering over my head at the lower level. “Wait here. Do not move.”

“What? No. Stop!”

He brushed by, and the thumps of his steps faded down the stairs. Mr. Kent was nowhere to be seen, but I felt not a bit of relief. Damn them both! Mr. Kent here while he was supposed to be
helping me—much like he accused Mr. Braddock of earlier! And Mr. Braddock pretending to be concerned about my reputation, kissing me in a brothel, and then suggesting that I forced him?
Ridiculous. And where did he go? He had slipped around the outskirts and vanished behind the mob of dancers, drinkers, and dandies. Lovely. He had abandoned me. I rushed along the railing, circling
around and searching from other angles to see the hidden spaces in the corners and behind columns.

A large, boisterous laugh erupted above all the other noise, and I traced it to a plump, extravagantly dressed woman who looked to be the center of attention. There was a matronly air about her.
She looked like one of those older women in society who simply must have everyone around them married off at any cost. With a wave of her hand, she introduced a woman to a man, and the couple
disappeared together through a side door. Ah, a brothel owner, conducting her business here. And next in line was Mr. Braddock.

She did not pair him up like the others, though. Instead, he somehow compelled the matron to send the other clients and girls away so they could have a private conversation. I tried futilely to
get a more intimate look when a smooth voice to my left uttered a greeting, and I nearly threw myself over the railing right there.

“All this drinking and dancing and flirting,” Mr. Kent said with a sigh, balancing a glass on the railing for me. “Dreadful business, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I don’t understand it,” I mumbled, accepting the champagne as if it could magically transport me away. No, still here. What on earth was he getting at? Was he toying with
me?

“That’s just it. Perspective is a curious thing. One day, you see everything from one angle and you think you know what’s important,” he continued, looking out at the
dancers. Then he turned to me, smiling wryly. “Then another day, from another angle, you see what’s really important, and everything else just . . . melts away.”

“I see,” I said without meeting his eyes, hoping he’d be dissuaded.

He wasn’t. His hand slid across the railing and caught mine. “I have never seen you here before. Are you one of Mrs. Shine’s girls?” he asked.

Seen you here before?
Downstairs, the tempo of the violins and cellos quickened. As my blood boiled, I could barely hear my own thoughts, and the response left my lips compulsively.
“No.”

“Excellent, then might I ask, who is your—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” I interrupted, hurrying away past the bar and the horrible paintings toward the stairs.

“Please, wait!” he called from behind, chasing after me. “What is your name?”

“Evelyn Wyndham,” I said, giving him a false name.

Dammit. Champagne and Mr. Kent did not mix well.

“M-miss Wyndham!” he exclaimed. For a moment, it was rather strange to see the confident man look so confused, but he quickly regained himself with a smile. “I . . . I was just
having a bit of fun. I knew it was you.”

“Oh, was that before or after you propositioned me?”

“That is a question with no right answer, but keep in mind what I was saying about perspective earlier—”

“I’ve heard quite enough of your perspective,” I said. Mortified, I broke off, ran down the stairs, and plunged into the most crowded part of the room to make my way to Mr.
Braddock. Lost in the stuffy masses, I tore past amorous couples, cringing as I felt the wet stickiness of their drinks splashing onto my shoulders.

When I emerged at the other end of the room, I found Mr. Braddock speaking to the ruddy brothel owner. Hissing his name, I marched over, very aware that Mr. Kent was still at my shoulder.

“Ah, so you already brought a girl,” she said, eyeing me like a slab of beef at the butcher’s shop. I glared back in response, sick of all these hungry looks.

Mr. Braddock slid between the brothel owner and me, his eyes holding mine in reproach. “What is the matter?” he whispered harshly.

“Mr. Kent has joined me. Apparently he is familiar with this place.”

Mr. Braddock glared over my shoulder, taking in Mr. Kent’s slick appearance. He was clearly unimpressed. “Ah, your spy. And what is he doing here?”

“He’s here because he thought it best to retrieve Miss Rosamund without exposing Miss Wyndham to such a place,” Mr. Kent put in darkly.

“Well, this ‘White Rose’ is due to perform now, and we are meeting her after. You’ll have to retrieve her from us.” Mr. Braddock turned to the stage.

“He is certainly bossy,” Mr. Kent grumbled in my ear, glaring at Mr. Braddock on my other side.

I shushed him and closed my eyes to calm myself. With a kissing Mr. Braddock and a propositioning Mr. Kent, I had had enough. Their bickering was the last thing I wanted to listen to when other,
much more urgent questions constantly bubbled up inside me. Did I really want to find Rose here? Could I persuade her to come back? How badly would this affect her reputation? Would she believe me
about the powers? Only a thrumming in my hand drew me back to reality, and I realized I had been clutching Mr. Braddock’s arm. Politely, I let him have it back. Mr. Kent had caught the
exchange and was staring at Mr. Braddock with a renewed, vaguely hostile interest.

The lights dimmed, which fortunately helped hide me for the moment. We remained on the periphery, while the rest of the crowd shifted and squirmed for a better view of the evening’s
entertainment. With a flourish, the orchestra began a new tune, and out of the dark, a half-covered ivory leg peeped out to tease the audience. Licentious men shouted out vulgar comments and
hollered like ravenous wolves.

Another half-bare leg followed, and the girl stepped in front of the band, igniting the cheers and chattering of all her devoted spectators. Her back turned to us, she glided across the space in
a most definitely incomplete gold-and-white dress that matched the colors of the room. Her curled blond hair bounced with her movements as she swayed to each piano note, swung her hips at every
wail of the violin strings, and waved her finger to the whistling of the flute.

The music crescendoed and cut out. Then came the girl’s beautiful voice, ringing out over the silent hall. Her French words hung in the air, the moment lasting an eternity. The music
joined back in as she finally whirled around to face us.

And there was no question about it. Those deep blue eyes, that porcelain face. No one could look quite so angelic. No one could fill you with such warmth in a glance. And no one could inspire so
much hope from a single note of a song.

No one, of course, but Rose.

I
FELT THE TWO
men glance at me, presumably with sympathy, but I could not look at them. Nor at Rose. Nor the audience. Not
even the stained floor. I couldn’t look at anything in this damned place.

“This way, Mr. Braddock,” the matron said with a greasy smile but stopped and frowned at Mr. Kent, who seemed to be hiding his face. “Not you, Mr. Kent.”

He gasped theatrically. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Shine! Why on earth not? I am with these two.”

“These two don’t have debt.” A snort came from Mr. Braddock’s direction, and Mr. Kent looked rightfully embarrassed. I closed my dropped jaw before he could notice it,
and the woman sniffed, turning to weave through the crowd.

Mr. Braddock ushered me ahead of him, while a man, presumably employed by Mrs. Shine, stepped in to keep Mr. Kent from following. Only his protests slipped by: “It’s my
father’s debt, not mine!”

But we were already being led through the discreet side exit, down a dim red corridor, and through one of several black doors. The door opened on a small violet-scented room—golden and
luxurious, matching the Argyll Rooms’ theme. The far wall housed a lavish dresser overflowing with bottles of perfumes and makeup precariously strewn near the edge. In the nearest corner, a
velvet curtain, covering what looked like a private changing area, swayed in the breeze from an open window. Next to it sat a large bed with red satin sheets.

“Just one small matter, Mr. Braddock,” the matron said, holding out a bill. He compensated her with a signature. Satisfied, she slipped out, leaving us alone in the indecent
room.

“Did you just pay for . . . ?” I half asked. I tried hard to not stare at the red sheets and imagine what normally happened between them.

“I apologize, there was no other way to speak to Miss Rosamund privately,” Mr. Braddock explained, lounging against a bare wall.

“It’s quite all right. You appear to be a regular customer already,” I replied.

He flashed me a look of annoyance, then shook his head, refusing to respond as he roamed around the room. A collection of perfume bottles caught his attention. “Do you recognize any of
these?”

I took a quick, cursory glance, but I already knew the answer. “None of this is hers.”

The muffled music peaked and cut out, followed by cheers, whistling, and applause continuing for what seemed like hours. The clack of footsteps echoed down the hallway, the doorknob turned, and
suddenly there she stood. Her wide eyes flinched in surprise and then relaxed when she put on a warm, welcoming smile. I stood paralyzed for a moment, studying her closely. Then, slowly, feeling
returned to my limbs. It was her.

“Rose,” I murmured.

A heavy flutter of relief set my feet in motion, and I lunged at her for a hug. Squeezing my sister’s tiny frame, I expelled every single bit of tension, anxiety, and
nervousness—naturally, it took a long time to get that all out. When I finally released her, Rose gasped a huge breath, and I could not help but laugh and apologize.