These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (6 page)

What was she doing? Trying to distract me with poor jokes?

But the look of pity did not leave her face. “I hadn’t wanted that sort of pressure dictating your marriage, so we decided not to tell you, and I apologize for that.”

My mind was a blur. “What—how is that relevant?” I asked.

“There’s no money for your dowries. All we have to offer is our reputation, and if word about Rosamund gets out, we’ll have nothing.”

I took in their grave faces. “How . . . did this even . . . happen?”

My father struggled to look me in the eye. He took a sip of tea and spoke into the cup. “I’m—I’m sorry, Evelyn.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“Please,” my mother cut in. “You’ve been through much today. Perhaps you need some rest.”

“
You want me to take a nap?
” I yelled. Hang it all, she was infuriating! I looked to my father, whose eyes were now aimed downward at a Turkish rug. “Father, you
actually agree with this?”

“About the nap or—?” He cleared his throat and caught my mother’s eye before responding. “Yes, your mother is right. It would be wise to be prudent,” he
said.

“Ha! Like you were prudent in handling our money?” I asked, rising from my seat. I tried to be respectful, but it had come to this. “Thank you for all the help. I will see you
both when I find Rose.”

I stormed out of the parlor and bounded up the staircase. My mother’s footsteps followed. “You are not going to London!” she called from the foot of the stairs.

“I believe I am.”

“No. I won’t have you running around there and jeopardizing everything for us.”

“Then I won’t run around. I’ll walk.”

She was silent. I never stopped. There was no need to look at her. I knew the expression of suppressed ire well. Just before I slammed my bedroom door shut, her voice rang out once more.

“If you leave this house, do not plan to return!”

Very well. If bearing the Wyndham name meant caring more for the name than the actual people who bore it, I’d rather not be associated with it.

Furious, I rummaged through my closet, unearthed a trunk, and started packing it. I had not planned to leave so abruptly. Now I had to determine everything about my trip in a matter of
minutes.

The first issue was lodgings. I would have to try to beat my mother’s letter to my aunt and uncle. They would surely take me in, even if I appeared on their doorstep without warning. Once
they heard that I had left home without permission . . . well, that was a problem to be dealt with later. After finding Rose.

Within ten minutes, my trunk was packed with an assortment of clothing, some jewelry to sell, and Rose’s medicine bag. All that was left to do was ride to the train station. But when I
called for our butler, Pretton, to have my trunk sent down and the carriage readied, he met my request with a stony face. “I apologize, Miss Wyndham, but your mother has halted all carriage
use.”

“Is there a messenger available? I’ll hire one from town, then.”

His lips tightened. “No messages are to come in or leave without her knowledge.”

So she was truly making matters difficult. Well, then. It was close to noon and a three-mile walk to town. I could make it by the afternoon, hire a carriage to take me to the station, and reach
London by evening.

Already regretting the amount I’d packed, I slid my trunk down the stairs myself and heaved it out the front door. Slowly but surely, I trudged out of our estate, dragging the great wooden
burden and crushing assorted plant life along my path, with no stops to wish good-bye to anyone.

As I passed through meadows and over hills, the house gradually receded into the distance. I took a moment for one last look back, wondering if this would truly be my final glimpse of the place.
Had Mother watched me leave? Did she even expect me to go this far? A twinge of guilt for disobeying sparked in my stomach, but I knew it was nothing compared with what I would have felt staying
trapped in that prison. Really, I was better off.

Onward I trekked, and my home shrank to a distant speck before disappearing behind the hill. After the first awful hour of the exodus, I stopped to catch my breath on a grassy field and consider
how much farther I could realistically walk. It would only get more difficult, and my blind rage was turning into a frustrated self-doubt, which was not as great a source of energy.

While I rested, a low trotting sound slowly rumbled in from the west, and a rider emerged over a distant ridge. The gallops grew louder and closer, and a jolt of dread wriggled through me. It
was either someone calling on my family, or the only other nearby estate, Feydon Hall. Oh, please, not Mr. Braddock. I couldn’t deal with him now. Anyone but him.

And my wish was granted, but my anxiety was not much abated by the sight of Mr. Kent riding toward me. I had picked possibly the worst spot in England to stop for a rest. Nowhere to hide in this
open field. I debated the effectiveness of squeezing inside my trunk, but before I knew it, he was dismounting his horse before me.

“Miss Wyndham, I was just coming to call on you because I did not like the way our last conversation ended, or the fact that it ended at all. How do you do?”

“Very poorly,” I spit out.

“I can see that. I almost mistook you for a packhorse. Why exactly are you doing poorly?”

“Because my sister is missing, in all likelihood kidnapped, and my parents refuse to believe me.” Fine. Let’s see what the man thinks of the truth.

Mr. Kent’s face turned darkly serious. “When did you last see her?”

I am quite sure my eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Last night. You believe me?”

“I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t.”

I sat down hard on my trunk. He smiled slightly before frowning again. “I gather there was nothing strange about the last time you saw her. . . .”

“We said good night and she went to bed. I—well, I had an odd nightmare. And then her room was in shambles this morning, plenty of clothes missing, and—I know this sounds
odd—but there’s a very strange man in town whom Mr. Braddock seems to know named Mr. Cheval who had snuck into the ball to get Rose’s help in London, which is what this good-bye
letter Rose wrote also says, but I know it’s false—”

Fortunately, Mr. Kent cut me off before I babbled myself into the highest register man had yet to know. “I’m sorry . . . which man is this?”

I took a moment, trying to coherently arrange my thoughts.

“My sister was seen boarding a train to London with a strange man. And I know he forced her. So I am going to bring her back.”

“I see. I imagine that trunk has become burdensome. It is still a mile or two away.”

“My mother all but threw me out of the house and refused me a carriage. I have no other choice.”

Mr. Kent furrowed his brow and tapped his riding crop meditatively against his leg. “And what do you plan to do when you arrive in London?”

“Explain my presence to my aunt and uncle before my mother’s letter arrives. Though they will never stand up to her and let me stay if they know that my parents do not wish
it.”

He paced back and forth in contemplation, the grass swishing against his leather boots. “You believe your sister is in harm’s way?”

“Yes.”

“And she left a false letter?”

“Yes.”

“And your family will not believe you or help you?”

“No, they refuse to bring more attention to it. You know, you are beginning to sound rather like a detective, Mr. Kent.”

He turned sharply and exhaled. His eyes were wide as he carefully took my hand. “Not just any detective, my dear Miss Wyndham. I am the greatest detective the world has ever seen. And I
will be escorting you to London to find your sister.”

T
HE TRAIN SQUEALED
into Victoria Station with a deafening, bouncing finality, an excess of steam hissing out as the bells
signaled our arrival. Coughing our way through the smog, we descended the train, found porters to retrieve our luggage, and shoved past the hordes to the exit.

Outside, the greasy London afternoon activity was even more overwhelming. A tall man bumped my shoulder as he rushed by, talking to himself like a madman without diverting his gaze from his
gilded pocket watch. A young flower girl wove through the heavy traffic on the sidewalk, singing about the violets for sale in her basket. A fruit seller, looking like a shipwrecked sailor, growled
at passing pedestrians. With three and a half million people in London, I could never just happen upon an acquaintance as I did in Bramhurst. That would help me avoid detection, to be sure, but
what did it do for my chances of finding Rose?

Ignoring the crowds, Mr. Kent led the way down the sidewalk to fetch a cab. The driver loaded up our trunks, and Mr. Kent provided him the address of his parents’ home, while squeezing
next to me into the cramped two-seater. It wasn’t the most appealing prospect for lodgings, as his stepmother had disliked me from the moment we met and his more amiable merchant father had
set sail on one of his vessels, but it was a much simpler solution than my aunt and uncle’s. All it took was one message to Mr. Kent’s adoring little stepsister, Laura, telling her to
pretend that my visit had been long planned, and everything was arranged without arousing suspicion.

Our cab set off down the crowded Victoria Street toward the heart of the city, trundling past drab buildings and gray street corners at an agonizingly slow speed rivaling that of a dying cow. To
make the trip even more enjoyable, pungent city scents seeped through the hansom doors—strangely enough also reminding me of a dying cow. Nothing could be done but to put all bovine thoughts
out of my mind, ignore the immodestly close proximity of my travel companion, and pray the house was not far.

Fortunately, Mr. Kent, as always, set about distracting me. “So, as the world’s greatest detective, I prefer to give my solution last and put all the other proposed ideas to shame.
Did you have a plan before I got myself tangled up in this?”

“I did—I mean, I do. You know, you don’t have to continue this detective act for my sake. I appreciate your help all the same.”

Mr. Kent cocked an eyebrow. “It’s not an act. The only reason I’ve never called myself one before is I didn’t want to put the other detectives to shame by
association.”

“Oh, I see. It all makes sense now,” I said, dropping the matter. “I’ll keep my inferior idea short, then. Mr. Cheval wants Rose’s nursing expertise to help his
sick sister. If her illness was tricky enough to make him search for Rose, I’m sure many other London doctors and medical societies were consulted for the case. One of them may know where to
find Rose.”

He made a noncommittal
hmm
.

“And failing that, I suppose we might inquire at some chemist and druggist shops. Rose will need to replace the medical supplies she left behind, and we’ve always had a little joke
about how linseed oil seems to cure most of our patients. We can start there and compare the contents of her bag with recent purchases at these stores.”

Mr. Kent nodded and clicked his tongue, thinking hard before he finally spoke. “You show promise, but allow me to demonstrate what my very real and true detective expertise can
achieve.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I had this wild idea that we might ask some doctors about recent tricky illnesses, or alternatively, we might check the sales records at chemist and druggist shops.”

“Two brilliant ideas. Wherever would I be without you?” I said, trying my best to restrain my smile. Laughing should have been a relief, but it felt wrong, unearned. The warmth
shared between us was both confusing and consoling.

After we sailed down another smooth thoroughfare and bumped over a few cobblestone streets, Mr. Kent rapped the roof, and the cab jolted to a stop by a corner.

“I will take a short jaunt around the block. Wouldn’t want to give them the idea we traveled together.” He paid the driver with a few coins, gave me a parting wink, and hopped
out.

A little ways down the road, the cab found an open curb outside the Kents’ small but pleasing redbrick townhouse. The horse halted and let out a huff, as if he could barely withstand the
city smells himself. The driver handed me out and waited by the cab while I climbed the stairs to the entrance.

The front door opened to reveal the Kents’ steward, Tuffins, who greeted me with a pleasant, formal air. “Miss Wyndham, welcome. Shall I send for your luggage?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Tuffins. How have you been? I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”

“There is never a bad time for your visits,” he replied.

As welcoming as I remember. I suspected his fondness for me stemmed from the fact that I was one of the few people who never made a request for “muffins” and snickered at the
horrendous rhyme.

A footman dragged my trunk from the cab while Tuffins led me into the main entrance hall. The Kents’ home was richly decorated with fine, full carpets, silk drapery, and the typical
furnishings, but my attention was seized by the countless family portraits lining the wall as if they were the wallpaper. Images of magnanimous men looking into the distance and stately women
folding their hands in their laps repeated endlessly, only with slight changes for fashion over the years. If I ever had any burning questions of whether the Kent family had reputable ancestors,
this hallway would hit me over the head with answers. No wonder Mr. Kent had established bachelor’s quarters elsewhere in London as soon as he could.