These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel Read online

  “I discovered something,” I replied. “I have the power to heal. Myself, at least.”

  He gave me a withering stare. “Very funny.”

  Did I really have to convince him that he had convinced me? “Mr. Braddock, I—well, I am quite sure. Though there wasn’t much grandeur for such a momentous occasion. No dramatic moment where I finally believed in myself and healed someone who was on the brink of death. I just cut my hand on that stupid teacup this morning, and it healed. So did the other cuts.”

  Mr. Braddock studied me, daring to hope that I was not teasing him. “What other cuts?”

  “I gave myself paper cuts—which still stung and bled, mind you—but after a few seconds, the wound would close and the mark would disappear.”

  “That’s . . . remarkable,” Mr. Braddock said faintly, eyes wide with wonder.

  “As the one who told me of this, you have no right to be shocked.”

  “It’s just—still—hearing you describe it . . . it’s impressive. I had inklings, but I did not know exactly how it worked.”

  “I was rather hoping you would be the one to tell me.”

  “I’m still learning about these powers. The little I know has only come from others.”

  “How many others are there?”

  He shifted toward me, ensconcing me in the corner of the cab. I felt like it was just the two of us in all of London. “I couldn’t say. As far as I know, it’s rather rare—otherwise the public would have noticed it. I’ve met several others, and that is only because I knew a man who was studying this phenomenon.”

  “Who is he?”

  The carriage rumbled and creaked over a rocky road, and he steadied himself. “The originator of the saltation theory. And from the others, I learned that everyone who develops the power does so between the ages of fourteen and sixteen.”

  “We started nursing when Rose was fourteen and I was fifteen. . . .”

  “And when they do start to appear, it is a weaker, more haphazard form of the ability. I would guess it took longer for your patients to be healed when you first started.”

  “We thought it was because Rose was still learning.”

  “That is the period when the ability is still developing. It does not appear consistently, and when it does, it is weaker— not quite as noticeable. From that moment on, one develops their power consciously or, in your case, unconsciously until it levels off.”

  I couldn’t help but stare at my hands. Two years. Two long years of treating nearly every person in Bramhurst, and neither of us realized it. “What about you?” I asked.

  “It took me some time to realize it, as well,” he said vaguely and seemed to retreat into the corner of his seat.

  “But what exactly is it? The power to locate missing sisters?” I asked with a smile.

  He didn’t find the joke amusing. Or perhaps he didn’t find it at all. He blinked as if he were coming out of a dream. “No . . . it’s a sort of physical protection. I can take a person’s energy, put them to sleep.”

  “Ah, from your scintillating conversation?”

  He shook his head uncomfortably. “Direct contact. My presence, to some degree.”

  “So that . . . sensation, it comes from you?”

  “I had thought it was you,” he replied, looking at the ceiling. “Maybe it is both of us.”

  “Who else is out there?” I asked. “What other sorts of powers have you seen?”

  “Many of them are talents you might have even seen and not realized. It’s sometimes hard to tell. There’s Claude with his strength. Another who could not feel pain. One with an astonishingly quick mind for calculations. And two men, acquaintances, with gifted sight and hearing. They are the ones I spoke of before, who run the gambling den and make a living off the information they collect. They pointed me to the Argyll.”

  “Then you’re convinced Rose is here,” I said.

  His hand raked through his dark hair. “We should be prepared.”

  “At this point, I might even be hoping it is her, just to be rid of this uncertainty. But if it is, I don’t know what I will even do.”

  “If you’d like to wait outside while I speak with her—”

  I interrupted. “I don’t need you to play hero and protect me.”

  The corner of his mouth flicked up. “If I recall correctly, I have already saved your life once. Please let me know if the assistance is needed again.”

  My mouth let out an annoying squawk, so I shut it and settled for glowering at the man. Before I could say anything intelligent, the cab groaned to a stop at a crowded corner.

  “Closest I can take you, sir!” the driver shouted.

  Outside, droves of men and women alighted from their rides and converged on the establishment at the end of the street. We would have to walk half a block in public to get there. Splendid.

  One deep breath later, Mr. Braddock was leading me down the sidewalk. It was a struggle to keep up in my dress, the tight bosom designed to treat breathing as an afterthought. Most of the women around me wore dresses in the fashions I’d seen during the season. The colors weren’t as garish as I had expected, the cuts were more modest, and the trimmings tasteful, which only made me feel more naked as cool breezes nipped at my bare shoulders. Men leered at every woman who passed, and their eyes greedily lapped up any flash of skin. My skin crawled as the memory of the drunkards chilled through me again, and I stared stiffly ahead, blocking out everyone.

  Finally, signs for THE ARGYLL ROOMS and THE WHITE ROSE welcomed us at the elaborately draped and gilded entrance. A few shillings gained us entry inside, down the marble stairs into a striking, airy hall furnished with lush red carpeting, polished gas chandeliers on high ceilings, and purple velvet sofas scattered about the room. More stares greeted me every step of the way. Mr. Braddock turned to me with a self-righteous look. “Still pleased you came?”

  “Quite. I may just start coming here regularly,” I said, hoping he missed the quiver in my voice.

  He paused at the edge of the vivid crowd. A large band played on an elevated stage while couples waltzed scandalously close on the open dance space in front. The scents of perfumes and fresh flowers mingled in the air with the waft of liquor. Still, for all the supposed debauchery, the entire scene seemed oddly similar to Sir Winston’s ball.

  Rather than join the chaos, we found our way around and upstairs to a balcony area, where unaccompanied women scanned the dance floor with bored looks on their painted faces, sipped their champagne, and tapped their fans to the music. Behind them were a number of poorly painted scenes from Greek and Roman mythology, and I nearly gagged in disgust at one atrocious rendering of a disproportionate Hades (with a head as big as the rest of his body) and a one-legged Persephone. This was more offensive than anything else we had seen this night.

  At an upstairs bar, Mr. Braddock abruptly stopped and ordered two glasses of champagne. When the pretty barmaid delivered the drinks, Mr. Braddock shouted something to her, inaudible to me over the din.

  “Downstairs near the floor!” she said with a lascivious grin, leaning in intently.

  Mr. Braddock shied away and nodded in thanks, maintaining a gentlemanly distance. He turned around and found a place at the chipped gold railing overlooking the dazzling display on the dance floor.

  “Rose?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Who are you looking for, then?”

  “A person.”

  He was infuriating. “Can we please go back to the full, honest answers?” I asked.

  “They can wait till we have the time.”

  Knowing I would learn nothing further, I gulped the champagne, the delicious fizzle traveling down my throat, warming my chest, settling in my stomach, and hopefully steadying my nerves for the night.

  Leaning on the railing, I glanced up at Mr. Braddock. He stood perfectly still while his eyes swiveled left and right, inspecting the crowd and inspecting them again. Between the tightness of his set, determined jaw and
the hint of dark stubble under his chin, he looked like an intense gambler with too many cards to watch. The veins in his neck seemed to be under constant duress, and I had the childish impulse to poke at them.

  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 meeti
ng 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.