These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (5 page)

I stared around the room blankly. I had told Rose that she was the only one who
could
persuade Mother—quite the opposite of what she’d written. And the names! Never had we
used
Evie
or
Rosie
as nicknames or even as jokes. Rose would never have written a good-bye letter like that.

My hand flew to my mouth as I struggled not to heave.

“
Do not trust him—protect Rose.
”

I failed her. Somehow I dreamed of the danger last night but remained asleep like a useless lump. It was entirely my fault.

Our maid Lucy cleared her throat by the door. “Miss Wyndham, your mother asked me to help dress you for church.”

My guilt shifted very quickly to anger. Rose was kidnapped, and they wanted to go to church? Mechanically, I marched to my room and dressed, not knowing where Lucy put my nightgown or how she
laced me into my corset with shaking fingers. My mind thought of nothing but Rose. Mother would not listen until I found some kind of evidence, and with two men showing entirely too much interest
in my sister last night, I had my suspicions about which of them might be able to provide it. And he would be attending church with his uncle.

“For the time being, we will tell anyone who asks that Rosamund is visiting my sister in London,” my mother informed me as the carriage took us into town for church.

Father nodded along in approval. “We will have to wait for her next letter. Then we’ll send someone to retrieve her.”

I refrained from saying anything and seethed silently, raging at both Mr. Cheval and Mr. Braddock. The carriage groaned to a stop outside the church, and as the small crowd of our neighbors
meandered inside, I saw a solitary dark head lingering in the shadows. Of course he was in the shadows.

“Oh look, Mother, there’s Mr. Braddock. I would so like to speak to him again!” I said as I climbed out.

Mother looked at me suspiciously. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“Oh no, I simply didn’t wish to give myself away!” Was a modest look down doing it up too brown? Yes, probably.

“Is it really the time for this, Evelyn?”

“It can’t hurt to just speak to him, could it?”

My parents were too tired to argue any further and led the way to the church. I pretended to find the sky deeply fascinating until they were safely inside. When the last person shut the door, I
marched directly toward Mr. Braddock, and the expression on his face turned stormy when he realized my target.

“Miss Wyndham, are you also angling for a seat in the back?” Dark green eyes judged mine for a brief moment before he bowed slightly.

Without preamble or forethought, the words spilled out. “What is your relationship to the giant?”

He stared at me as though I had grown a few extra heads, and in reviewing the phrasing, perhaps he had reason. “What are you speaking of?” he replied carefully. “What’s
happened?”

Straightening my back, I pierced him with a cold glare.

“Last evening at the ball—you obviously knew that giant French man, Mr. Cheval. What is the nature of your relationship with him?”

He glared back hard before answering. “I gather you are referring to the man I asked to leave, yes?”

“Of course I’m referring to him. It’s rather difficult to confuse him with another.”

He bristled and broadened his already considerable shoulders. “I have not been acquainted with him.”

“If you were not acquainted, how did you know he was not invited?”

“I did not see my uncle greet him at the door,” he said, his voice strung tight and low. “It was obvious he snuck inside.”

No. The rage in his face had been deeper than that. I knew in my bones that he wasn’t telling me everything.

“I apologize if you mistakenly received the wrong impression,” he said curtly, moving away from the stone church wall. “But that was our first meeting.”

Liar.

“Is he an acquaintance of your sister?” Mr. Braddock asked, attempting a guileless innocence and failing. “Is she here today?”

I ignored his question and latched onto his mention of my sister. “What is your interest in Rose? Why were you so intent on speaking to her with all that nonsense about her
gift?”

Frowning, he spoke slowly to me as though I were a child. “I wished to thank her for helping save my uncle’s life last week.”

Ha! “You could have easily given her all the thanks and gratitude in one sentence. But you demanded a private word with her. You, sir, wanted to talk to her about her
‘
powers.
’ What could you mean by that?”

His eyes narrowed in annoyance, and his lips twisted into a sardonic smile, a lazy, roguish attitude altering his features in a way intended to make a girl swoon. “Miss Wyndham, I think
your problem is one that is common amongst bored country dwellers—you’re scrutinizing meaningless details when there’s nothing to be found. I simply wished to speak to your
lovely, demure sister. Now, I’m sorry, but if there’s no other problem, I believe a higher power is calling.”

I gaped at the sweeping generalizations and mouthed inarticulately as he passed me with a smirk and a tip of his hat.

Finally, I found my tongue and my feet to follow him to the church steps. “My problem, Oh Lord Byron, is this secretive, mercurial behavior! First you make all sorts of strange, veiled
suggestions, then you hide information and lie to me! I
know
you know Mr. Cheval, and you will tell me where he is!”

Confronting him directly on the issue was remarkably refreshing, like puncturing the skin of an orange. Still, he simply ignored me and stormed up the steps, taut as a bent bow. I flew after him
like an arrow.

“Why can’t you answer a straight question with the truth? Do you believe this brooding masquerade is somehow attractive? Just tell me what you know and stop wasting my time.”
His back tensed visibly under his jacket as he spoke without turning to me.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure. Except, of course, if you stopped wasting mine.”

I felt all shreds of rationality flee my head. “Mr. Braddock!” I half yelled. “Stop at once!” He gave no sign of acknowledgment.

How dare he! Fuming, I flew up the steps behind him, hissing his name to no avail. As his hand closed on the church door, I reached and grabbed his wrist, catching the bare skin between his
glove and shirt. At once, a rush of hot blood and some unfamiliar, sublime essence worked itself into my veins. Frissons of stimulation swirled up my arms—peaks and depths, vacuums and
floods, compressions and explosions, endless contradictions fitting together like jigsaw-puzzle pieces. I was aware of every distinct, tiny part of my body. A gasp climbed out of my throat as I
glowed brighter than the sun had ever shone. And then he wrested his wrist away, our connection severed. I was again normal and alive and existing here on earth, and he was gazing at me with
horrified concern, his own breath coming in shallow pants.

“What on earth did you do?” The words left my still-trembling lips without permission.

His expression changed to wonder as he took me in, and his eyes darted to our hands, as though they had suddenly appeared at the ends of our wrists. Indecipherable emotions swam in the depths of
those eyes, and his hand hovered up to my face, but with a snap, he pulled it back, afraid to cross some unspoken boundary.

“You . . . you’re well?” The words fell softly, reverently from lips that curled into a soft smile. I stood transfixed for a moment before pulling away from him, away from the
confusing sensations that warmed my skin.

“Wh-what?” I stuttered, stumbling away.

He followed eagerly, face utterly transformed by a strange zeal. “It must be something—my God!” He cut himself off with a deep, relieved laugh. “Miss Wyndham, you
needn’t hide it from me. It must have to do with your power.”

Just then, the church door opened, and for the first time in my life, I thanked God for the unexpected appearance of my vexed mother.

“Darling,” she said, “I am sure you and Mr. Braddock would like to attend church today, yes?”

“I—Mother, I am terribly ill, and I must go home at once,” I said. Mr. Braddock drew a few steps back. Mother pinned me with a dark stare but gave a sympathetic sigh for Mr.
Braddock’s sake.

“How unfortunate. I will see you to the carriage. But please be sure to send it back for your father and myself.”

She pulled me away, chastising me for my peasantlike arguing that she could hear from inside the church. Just because Rose was missing, she reminded me, did not give me cause to act like a
hoyden. I bit my tongue and agreed, thankful to be left alone. Nestled in the moving carriage, I tried to keep my eyes on the church, my mother, anything, but Mr. Braddock’s gaze held mine
like a vise until he disappeared behind a rising hill.

I rapped on the roof. “James, we will stay in town. I must stop by the inn.” The only way I could remain composed was to concentrate on one problem at a time. If Mr. Braddock
wouldn’t tell me anything about Mr. Cheval, I would just have to find him myself.

But the trip into town only supported the information in Rose’s letter. At the inn, the owner explained that Mr. Cheval had left late the previous night with all his luggage. At the train
station, an attendant recalled selling two early-morning London tickets to a large foreigner and his tired female companion.

As we headed back to my parents at church, I fretted, desperately trying to sort it all out. The obvious pieces of evidence supported the letter’s veracity, but the little details said
otherwise. Rose had planned to speak to Robert and Mother today and sort out all our problems. She did not have cause to lie to me about that and disappear. She would not have packed so strangely,
nor written such a confounding good-bye letter. I knew how unlikely and ridiculous an abduction would be, especially in Bramhurst. I knew I sounded like a pliable reader of too many sensational
mystery novels. I knew this outlandish conclusion went against everything I normally thought. But I absolutely believed she was taken against her will. I could feel it in my bones.

The problem, however, was no longer convincing myself that she was kidnapped. The problem was convincing my parents to do something about it.

“A
ND THAT IS
why we must travel to London to retrieve Rose.”

The parlor fell dead silent. Mother and Father gaped down at me over a wooden table cluttered with tea things. In my short chair, I felt like I was on trial.

I had explained everything to them: the clues in the letter, Rose’s strange packing, my inquiries at the inn, the sighting at the train station, and my general conclusions from all the
evidence. Too much was amiss for there to be a simple explanation. Surely it would be impossible for them to ignore the signs.

Yet Mother managed to exceed all my expectations. “Your sister has acted somewhat rashly, yes, but she has always shown uncommonly good sense, and we are sure she will do so now by
remaining discreet. We have already decided to wait until Rosamund sends word from London.”

A spectacularly awful plan. “Mother, I don’t believe she is there by choice. We may never get a letter from her.”

Both of them gave tight, condescending nods, as if I had concocted my own fantastic adventures in wonderland. My mother took a dreadful tone of authority. “It is entirely possible that in
her hurry, your sister packed the wrong clothing and miswrote a few words in her note, is it not?”

“No! Of course not. And she wouldn’t forget her medicine bag or leave such blatant hints! Don’t be daft, Mother.”

“I am not the one proposing this wild theory,” she said, folding her arms. “What do you even mean for us to do in London?”

“Start a search for her.”

She raised her eyebrows skeptically. “And if it turns out she really is helping this man, as she said in the letter, everyone will know she went to work as a doctor. Or worse yet, people
will gossip and exaggerate and come to believe it an even bigger scandal. In any case, we cannot walk through the streets shouting her name, telling the police and publicizing this information. I
have sent word to your aunt and uncle to give out that Rosamund is with them. If anyone asks to see her, she will be ill or in Bath. That is the way to handle this and preserve her
reputation.”

“Perhaps we should worry about preserving her safety. Or her life.”

She leaned back in her chair. “I’m quite aware how bored you are of Bramhurst, but there’s no need to be so melodramatic.”

“This is not melodrama! You might trust me for once!”

“Evelyn, I know you. You’ve gone and gotten this idea stuck in your head, and now you’re too stubborn to give it up. But you must consider the whole situation.”

“And then do what? Just accept the most pleasing explanation with an utter disregard for any other possibilities?” I gripped the wooden arm of my chair, wishing I could crush it.
They were ignoring everything!

My mother rubbed her forehead and glanced at my father, who was busy pouring himself another cup of tea. She changed tactics and spoke in a slow, soothing voice. “We have no other
recourse. We’re in debt.”