These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (19 page)

“It’s not.” I grasped at ephemeral strands of logic, unable to hold what I meant to say. “It’s—”

“You need not say it’s not my fault, Miss Wyndham. I’ve heard that said in excess.”

“Well, no, it
is
your fault. No need to shilly-shally around that.”

He paled and raised his eyebrows. “Have you had no practice in bedside manner?”

“It was an accident, though, and one you could not have thought to prevent—you must accept that. I can relate . . . albeit on a smaller scale. I myself could have—no,
should have
—protected Rose. If I had simply noticed these abilities earlier, we might have taken the proper precautions. But if there is a bright side to any of this, it’s that
guilt can be rather persuasive motivation to fix everything else around you that requires fixing. One becomes a better person for it.”

I peered down at the rumpled damask bedding, unsure what else to say, and followed the chaotic details as they blossomed into a pattern of perfect symmetry. The bedsheets shuffled and Mr.
Braddock sat up straighter, sliding his hand from mine, though it seemed to linger somewhat.

“It appears some things can’t be fixed,” he said, checking his forehead injury.

“No improvement?”

He shook his head. The corners of his mouth struggled to conceal his disappointment. “When I asked you to cure Miss Lodge, I had been hoping our powers were diametrically opposed, and it
seems my wish has inconveniently been granted. You cannot give life to someone who sucks it away, as I cannot hurt someone who gives life. And if that is the case, then it might explain a few other
strange things.”

“Such as?”

“In the last two or three years, did anyone in your household ever fall sick? Family, servants, guests?”

I scrambled through my memories, failing to picture myself by someone’s bedside in our house. “No. The last I remember was my mother. She fell ill during a trip to Paris, and when
she returned home, Rose helped nurse her. That’s when we first took an interest.”

He nodded fervently. “Indeed, perhaps our powers are similar in more than one way. My presence also made many of our servants sick, while your household’s good health suggests that
your presence might help those around you.”

“What would that mean?”

“Not only do our powers fail to work when we make contact, but perhaps also when we are near each other. The two instances when I attempted to use my powers in your presence, they did not
seem to work.”

“The fights?” I asked, cold at the memory.

“I had more difficulty with the drunkards than I should have. And Claude should not have reached the window.”

My stomach felt sick. “So my being there nearly got you killed, and I can’t even heal you . . .”

“I’d say Claude nearly got me killed more than you did.” He tried to smile but just made a miserable mess of the process.

My overwhelmed mind raced through what all this meant. “If my presence cancels your power,” I said, pulling out a card from my reticule. “Then does the opposite hold
true?”

The thin edge sliced my skin open, but when I wiped the blood away, the paper cut remained. It didn’t close within seconds, as it had when I was alone. I rose out of my chair and took slow
steps backward, pausing and watching as the cut stubbornly stayed open, until I nearly reached the wall. In the blink of an eye, the cut vanished like it should have.

I glanced up at Mr. Braddock. “It healed immediately, after that step.”

He looked at the distance between us. “Ten feet?” he suggested.

I sighed, returning to my chair. “This would be far easier if we had a guidebook. How can there be thousands of handbooks on the proper ways to bow or how to arrange forks for every
possible occasion, but not a single one about how far you must be to keep from accidentally killing someone?”

For the first time and for the briefest, tingling moment, I made him laugh. “Perhaps you might write it.”

A voice replied from behind me. “It might prove to be more revelatory if you were to write it, Mr. Braddock.”

I spun up and out of my chair to find the intruder.

“Mr. Kent, what are you doing here—were you just eavesdropping?”

“Of course not. I was waiting for the perfect moment to enter the conversation with a witty rejoinder, but I had to settle for that. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue as
you were.” He ambled in, appearing perfectly at ease. But there was a set tension to his jaw.

“How on earth did you find this place?”

“When you were not at my parents’ home, I checked with the Lodges. They mentioned Mr. Braddock’s address.”

I did not know what to say. I found myself embarrassed, for some reason, as though I had been doing something I shouldn’t. Mr. Braddock also seemed to be at a loss for conversation. Was
Mr. Kent angry? Disappointed? Appalled? It was impossible to tell with the light air he gave his words.

“Very well. Then I’ll take this opportunity to formally introduce myself,” he said, marching up to the bed. “Mr. Braddock, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m
Nicholas Kent, the man who saved your life last night.”

“It seems I am greatly in your debt,” Mr. Braddock replied, not looking particularly thrilled about that.

“Excellent. Then I’d like to call in your first payment now with some questions. Have you known all along who took Miss Rosamund?” Mr. Braddock was visibly disturbed but still
answered the question, as Mr. Kent paced haughtily around his bed, back and forth.

“No, I wasn’t sure.”

“But you had your suspicions?”

“I did.”

I couldn’t hold back. “You already
knew
who Dr. Beck was?”

“I once . . . worked for him,” Mr. Braddock answered.

My breath disappeared, and my stomach slammed into my heels. Mr. Kent broke the silence, his voice grim. “When?”

“A year ago.”

“Are you still in league with him?”

“No. As you can tell, we aren’t on the best of terms.”

“Then why would you
ever
help a man like that?” I asked.

“I thought he could cure me. I’d killed my parents, my best friend, and nearly killed m—Miss Lodge. I spent months searching London for anyone experiencing the same problem,
and it was then I read of Dr. Beck in a newspaper article. He made wild claims and speculations about evolution, the development of abilities, and the future of mankind. It turned him into an
object of ridicule within the scientific community—everyone thought his ideas unbelievable—but if there was a sliver of a chance he could help me, I had to take it. So I offered to pay
him anything for a cure, or at least a proper explanation.”

The floor groaned as I stepped closer to the bed. “What did he say?”

“He was enthusiastic, but he did not want my money—he had plenty of funding. He wanted my assistance. While I worked with him, he shared all his theories and findings with me. He
told me what I told you before, about our abilities being the result of saltation.”

“And what assistance did you provide him in return?” Mr. Kent asked.

“Information about my ability. I answered his questions, gave him blood samples, and allowed him to test and observe the effects.”

“What did you test it on? Animals?” I asked.

“Animals aren’t affected.”

My thoughts had moved ahead and frozen at one question with the sudden realization. How far had they pushed the tests?

Mr. Kent asked the question I could not. “Then you tested it on human subjects, who I assume were less than willing?”

Mr. Braddock fixed his eyes on me, all mirth drained out. “I tested the milder effects on Claude, but . . . I—there was an impossible situation. Dr. Beck asked me to test on others,
and when I refused, he . . . he locked me in a small room with a man who was just looking to earn a sovereign. I tried to sit at the farthest corner, I tried to convince Dr. Beck to let us out, I
tried to control my power, but nothing worked, even as the man wasted away in front of me. I begged him. I begged him, and still he forced me to stay, slowly killing this poor soul.”

“And after, he simply let you go free?” Mr. Kent continued, unaffected by Mr. Braddock’s apparent pain.

“He wanted me to help with his other subjects, to see the value of his experiments,” he said, blanching. “But I wanted no part.”

“And you drew the line at killing an innocent man, but not the men who forced you to do it?”

There was no need to respond, but to his credit, he did anyway. “Yes. I didn’t want to take
any
lives, even his.”

“So you let them continue doing it . . .” I said, my voice coming out thin and high as a reed.

Mr. Braddock said nothing, and I had nothing more to say to him.

My sister’s terrified face from last night swam in my head, and I was backing out the door away from both of them before I knew it, unable to say whether or not they might have called
after me.

Perhaps it had been better when Mr. Braddock was hiding behind the lies and mysteries.

I
FLEW DOWN
the sidewalk, heart hammering in my ears, tears welling without permission. I couldn’t see the road, nor
the people in my way. Instead, my vision was filled with a faceless body falling, drained and withering at Mr. Braddock’s hand while an elated Dr. Beck held up a pocket watch. Over and over I
watched him kill Dr. Beck’s victim till eventually I slowed, exhausted and nauseated.

He didn’t
want
to kill that innocent man. Dr. Beck had forced him. At least that’s what Mr. Braddock claimed. But after that, Dr. Beck simply released him? And Mr. Braddock
left peacefully? How did I know these weren’t more of his half truths? He’d lied about his ability and his connection to Claude, only admitting the truth later, when he could justify it
with some noble explanation. Honesty wasn’t quite honesty when it came reluctantly and piecemeal. It called everything into doubt, made it impossible to fully trust him, and I hated that one
insurmountable fact. Our hopeless situation was almost starting to make sense during that brief moment when it seemed I’d finally found the real Mr. Braddock. But now it felt like he was
further out of reach than ever.

A hand grasped my arm.

“Miss . . . Wyndham . . . wait . . .” Mr. Kent gasped, trying to catch his breath as he caught me. “I brought a carriage . . . and my driver will be . . . quite offended . . .
if we choose to run instead.”

From one confusing man to another. “So what do you suggest we do?”

He tapped his cane on the ground and stood straighter. “We forget this . . . unpleasantness and continue the search. I’ve already checked this Dr. Beck’s location from last
night, but it’s been abandoned. Perhaps Camille or one of the science societies will know more about him or where he’s gone.”

So, he meant to completely skirt the topic of Mr. Braddock and proceed as if he never existed. That sounded better than fixating, to be sure. He offered his arm, and I perhaps leaned a little
too heavily upon it, for he added, “That is, if you’re up for it. How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted,” I said. “And sick. But I want to come.”

“Then we’ll stop at home first,” he said. “Because I’m sure you haven’t allowed yourself a moment to eat in the past day. And whether or not this healing of
yours helps out in that regard, it certainly isn’t a substitute for a good cake.”

Between his soothing voice, easy questions, and optimistic plans, Mr. Kent’s foremost concern for the entire carriage ride seemed to be my comfort. I appreciated the warm gesture as the
cold, indifferent London streets streamed by my window, but the moment he handed me out of the carriage, his touch brought to mind his disconcerting behavior last night. It seemed such a small
matter after all we’d been through, but whether he saw through my disguise and put on an act to have fun with it, or that was simply a hasty excuse to cover his mistake, it planted a
worrisome seed in my mind. Perhaps lying came easier to him than I thought.

As I climbed the stairs to the Kents’, wondering if there was anyone in London entirely trustworthy, Tuffins answered the door—and my question. And as he let us into the entrance
hall, he gave me a bit of news I would not have believed coming from anyone else.

“A Miss Alice Grey is here to see you.”

The name took me a moment to comprehend, and even then I needed confirmation. “Miss
Grey
?”

Tuffins nodded politely at the stupid question. “She arrived looking rather distressed and insisted upon waiting for your return.”

“Who is Miss Grey?” Mr. Kent asked.

“My former governess.”

“Well, Tuffins can send her away—”

“No—” I interrupted. After one year of silence, with no visits or letters, she somehow tracks and finds me here. Not to mention her appearances in those recent vivid dreams of
mine. It was too strange. There had to be some meaning to it. “Mr. Kent, I don’t think I can accompany you on the search today.”

Perplexed, he gaped at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I must speak to her. It’s important.”

He frowned and nodded slowly, seeing my resolve. Or perhaps seeing signs that I truly needed rest. “I—very well. I’ll send word if I learn anything.”