These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (28 page)

“And he’s been sleeping since then?”

“We tried to feed him, but he would not eat a single morsel. And he . . . he purged himself twice.”

“I see. Thank you,” I said, and she gladly left me to him.

I pulled a chair by the bedside and seized the damn fool’s hand. He doesn’t hear from Rose for a few days, and he drinks and cries himself into a stupor? Perhaps I should have told
him everything. But if this ridiculous behavior was his reaction to vague suspicions and anxiety about Rose’s well-being, I shuddered to imagine what the truth would do to his delicate
constitution.

For ten minutes, I sat with him, listening to his snoring, healing his sickness, wondering if I could replenish the Wyndham fortune by restoring drunks to full health the morning after.

The bedroom door creaked open behind me.

“Will he live?” Mr. Kent asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Yes,” I replied. “Very fortunate, saved from the brink of death.”

“Was he awake? Did he explain anything?”

“No, he still seems to need rest,” I said, setting Robert’s hand back on the bed. “Did you speak to him when he arrived?”

“Unless you count his melancholy mutterings about your sister a conversation, no, I have not.”

“I presume he knows something is wrong with Rose. I just don’t know what to tell him when he wakes.”

“It may as well be the truth. It will be better than any rumors he hears.”

“Ah, yes, the truth. The strategy that worked so well on your stepmother.”

“Please forgive me . . . or, well . . . please forgive me twice— no—three times. First because I must be serious for a moment, and I know how unsettling that may be, second,
regarding what happened with the old bat . . . I must apologize—”

“There’s no need,” I interrupted. “I’m surprised you even invited me here after her threat.”

“I don’t care one whit about her threat. We will keep this a secret and deny it. Heaven knows she’s done enough of that.”

A breeze drifted in through an open window, and I shivered. “What do you mean?”

“I find it amusing when the most ardent and vocal defenders of propriety and morality are often the ones who’ve most heinously transgressed those values. Maybe they’re atoning
for their behavior, trying to keep others from making the same mistakes. Or they’re scrutinizing and accusing others simply to divert suspicion from themselves. Do you think one needs to
cross the line to be able to properly understand and defend it?”

“No,” I found myself answering. “That sounds like an excuse.”

“And excuses are nothing more than . . . neatly packaged reports on the messy, unknowable truth. My father had plenty of them. That he and the old bat had suffered and struggled with their
forbidden love for years. That my birth mother was mad, mercurial. That everything was done for the good of the families.

“But the story I saw was of two selfish people carrying on a secret affair, while my sick mother languished in Ireland until she learned the truth and lost the will to live.”

I sat there in disbelief. Mr. Kent had never discussed such personal matters with me before.

“You knew this was happening?” I asked.

“I only found out a few years later. After the funeral, the mourning period, the wedding, and living with them.”

My rage grew as tall as the Tower of London, and I was tempted to start the beheadings. Knowing that this was the real reason for Mr. Kent’s trouble with his parents, I found myself
impressed that he could even stand being in the same room as them. “Why does no one else know of this? Was it not a big scandal?”

“Only my mother’s maid knew. Otherwise, it was kept secret.”

“And you’ve said nothing?”

“Believe me, I wanted to. I don’t think anything would ever give me more pleasure than to make it known to all of London. But I couldn’t say anything for the same reason I
can’t with your unfortunate scandal.”

When I saw the tension in his expression, my brain made the connection. “Laura . . .”

“She’s done nothing, yet she’s the one who’d suffer most.”

He was right. If Mr. Kent defended me and continued to associate with me in society, he wouldn’t be lifting me up so much as I would be pulling his family down. It wasn’t simply
about Lady Kent’s threat to take away his money.

“You’re a good brother,” I finally said.

He held his head up proudly. “It’s been said that I’m actually the best in the world.”

“An honor to match your greatest-detective medal.”

“Yes, well, about that. I have another terrible confession to make. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I’m not actually a detective. It was all a lie.”

“My God, fetch the smelling salts.”

“But I had intended to atone for that lie tonight. It was the only reason I showed up to that dreadful dinner party in the first place, and you weren’t even there. Laura said you had
been gone all day. Did something happen?”

“Something did,” I said, and it was my turn to let everything out. The impatient morning hours, the disguise, the visit to the public house, the encounter on the roof, and the
hospital.

When I had finished, silence settled between us, a rare moment when Mr. Kent found himself at a loss for words. He had a troubled look on his face that very much resembled Sebastian’s at
the hospital.

“I don’t need another lecture,” I warned him.

“I wasn’t going to give you one. You can make your own decisions. I only regret storming off last night and abandoning you when I could have helped.”

“You had good reason to.”

“No, I only had this grand plan of disappearing into the perilous London night, and just as you feared I was dead, I’d dramatically return to you with the case solved.”

A bit of hope rushed through me. “And is it?”

“Not quite anymore. I can’t account for Dr. Beck’s power. He’ll always be expecting us. I’ll have to think on it. And you still must fear I’m dead at some
point.”

I slumped back into my seat. It took a staggering amount of willpower to keep from continuing to the floor and melting through it.

“I’ll send for your trunk,” Mr. Kent said, rising and clasping his hands. “It’s been a long day—you should rest. I’ll have an idea in the
morning.”

My discomfort shocked me to my feet, and I headed for the door. “No, I can’t possibly stay here. I must find another place to sleep.”

“What if I were to put a sign out front that declared you were not staying here?” he asked with a winning smile.

“As convincing as that sounds,” I said, making my way downstairs, “I must decline.”

“You’ll be back here when we meet tomorrow morning. And honestly, this wouldn’t be any more scandalous than the old bat’s accusations.”

“Ah, yes, since my reputation took a hit, I might as well just clobber it to death with a cane.”

He stopped me at the front door. “I would not be a hospitable host if I threw you out on the streets at this hour.”

I stared at him silently.

“You will thank me tomorrow morning—”

More staring.

“My God! Fine. You’ve made your point,” he said, opening the door in defeat.

He walked me outside, helped me fetch a cab, and handed me into the ride. “I highly recommend the Drumswell Inn. It’s close, and you are far less likely to run into someone who knows
you. Its . . . comforts will take some getting used to, but by morning you’ll feel right at home.”

“Anything should feel like home after your stepmother’s welcome.”

Within ten minutes, though, I found myself taking that claim back as I inexpertly asked for an empty room at the inn. I ignored the stares and murmurs, paid for the night, and followed the
innkeeper upstairs with a scruffy young footman in tow. The room boasted many luxurious perks: a narrow bed, a rotted writing table, a stained wall, and a warped looking glass dangling on a rusty
hook. I wondered if Mr. Kent recommended this hellish place so I would hurry back to his home.

To make my decision seem final, I plopped onto the bed, which sank disturbingly low under my weight. The footman placed my trunk at the foot of the bed and waited for a tip. Scrounging around my
reticule for a coin, I came across Sebastian’s crumpled card and remembered how drastically my plans had changed since I last spoke to him or Miss Grey. I had to let them know where I was
staying and that we were to meet at Mr. Kent’s the next morning. I begged the footman to wait, dashed off two quick notes, and dropped them along with two coins into his hands. He scurried
back downstairs.

I leaned back on the bed and suddenly opened my eyes to find the room darker, the candle a mere stub. Must have dozed off. I heaved myself off the sagging mattress and rummaged through my trunk
for a clean nightgown, relieved that sleep was actually coming to me, even if it was in this Godforsaken place.

Just before I blew out the candle, a solid knock sounded on the door, startling me. I didn’t move an inch. Visions of a hulking man who broke doors and bones like twigs clouded my eyes and
better judgment. I dove under the bed. It was dusty, the air rank, and the bed’s horse hair mattress poked into my back.

Another, louder knock rattled the door and rumbled the room. An eternal silence followed as I dared not breathe. Finally, some rustling, and a slip of paper slid under the door. The footsteps
and the orange glow of the lamp slowly faded back down the stairs.

Ashamed, I crept out of my hiding place and snatched up the paper. A note from Miss Lodge? She had been made aware of my situation and was already on her way in a carriage to pick me up. She
somehow knew I was here. My note to Sebastian. Damn him.

I pulled off the nightgown and stepped back into my crumpled day dress. Within a half hour, I received another knock, and the overly excited footman from earlier informed me that Miss Lodge was
waiting downstairs. Besides a sleepy look in her eyes, she appeared to be in good health again and clasped me to her warmly.“Are your things ready, Miss Wyndham?” she asked.

“I am perfectly settled here. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you at so late an hour, but truly, it is not necessary that you host me.”

Miss Lodge turned to the footman who had followed me downstairs and made some kind of sign to him. He nodded furiously, seemingly awed by the pretty young girl, and brushed by me upstairs.

“What’s going on?” I asked, rushing to follow him.

She sedately climbed the stairs behind us. “This is no place for you to stay overnight and unaccompanied. Considering you have restored my health on two separate occasions, I refuse to
take no for an answer. If you do not wish this obliging footman to pack your trunk, I suggest you run ahead and do it yourself.”

For someone I was so used to seeing sickly, she had a resolve to be reckoned with. She waited on the bed while I managed to snatch an underthing back from the footman and inform him that his
assistance would be most unnecessary. After he finally retreated and I squeezed in the few items that had spilled out of the trunk, we were ready to leave. Tom (Miss Lodge had sweetly asked the
footman his name and received his entire life story) struggled back down the stairs with my trunk. He assured me he would inform the sleeping innkeeper that I had departed, and happily, if
clumsily, handed Miss Lodge and me into the waiting carriage.

She hardly spoke the entire trip, except to make sure I was well. No intrusive questions, demanded explanations, or conditional promises. Given the scrutiny I’d endured from Lady Kent, it
was oddly unbearable, and I was forced to break the silence.

“Miss Lodge, are you not curious about the reasons for my strange situation?”

“Only if you wish to share them,” she responded politely.

“It’s just—I’m not exactly the company anyone would like to keep now.”

Her expression was rather calm and businesslike. “No matter how catastrophic the rumor, people always adjust and find it dull in hindsight. Or they forget about it altogether.”

“I highly doubt society will forget. There’s always someone to keep reminding everyone else. God, I’m so foolish. I brought it all on myself because I didn’t care. All
society did was irritate me. Now I can’t help but wonder, what else is out there?”

“There is plenty out there. You need not worry about London society.”

“Do you not care for it?”

“I have neither a low nor high opinion. It seems ideal for those who love doing nothing and keeping things that way. But I think it’s best to treat it as one of those disposable
matters of life where you learn something and move on.”

“Learn what?”

“Who you are, who to marry, who to remain friends with, where to live. But I’ve had all that settled. When we marry, we shall go back to the country, and it will all be
peaceful.”

The world went sharp, all colors and sounds heightened, and my tongue dried. “Marry?”

She looked cautiously at me. “You didn’t know?”

“I, do you mean, you, you mean Se—Mr. Braddock?” His name came out more breath than sound.

“Yes, we have had an understanding for years.”

“And you love him?”

She stared at me with those large gray eyes, seeing everything. “Don’t you?”

A whipcord of tension ran between us as I stared into her composed face. “Of course not! Where did you ever get such an idea?”

“Do you have any idea what you were like the night you brought him to me, unconscious?” she asked. “I thought you would go mad with worry.”

I could only stare as her words poured out. My head was swimming, sinking, drowning.

“The truth is, I do love him, and he loves me. We’ve known each other so long, and I’m the last part of home he has. That’s a powerful tie for a man who has lost so much
family. But there’s much more to him that I can’t see. I know that he will never fully belong to me—part of him will always be lost in a different world.

“It’s the same way I felt when I first saw you,” she continued, her eyes huge and shining in streaks of passing streetlights. “The other doctors who came to treat my
incurable condition, no matter whether they hopelessly went through the motions or ambitiously failed at a radical approach, all looked at me the same way. My disease was a means of keeping their
livelihood or making a new discovery. They looked at me without really seeing me.