These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel Read online

  “Lucky one that was,” one of them said, wiping his bloody face.

  The other pointed his knife at Mr. Braddock and smirked.“We’ll be the lucky ones. I get his coat.”

  “Long as I get the bitch first.”

  And the one in front charged with his knife, thrusting at Mr. Braddock’s head to avoid bloodying the coat. Mr. Braddock gracefully sidestepped the lunge and grabbed the unbalanced drunkard’s wrist. Impossibly fast and forceful, he contorted the wailing man’s arm and twisted him around. I heard the snap of bones. With a yell, the second attacker launched a hard, clumsy kick at Mr. Braddock’s side but found his foot lodged in his friend’s stomach. Mr. Braddock’s human shield crumpled to the floor. As the second drunkard realized his mistake, his eyes widened, and his crooked jaw would have dropped, had a skyward fist not collided with it first and sent him sailing backward onto the hard pavement.

  That should have ended it, but the first attacker clambered back into the fray, broken arm held in tightly, and tackled Mr. Braddock from behind before I could shout a word of warning. Surprised but still upright, Mr. Braddock hurriedly spun around, attempting to dislodge the desperate attacker, who was futilely trying to drag him to the ground. After a few punches from Mr. Braddock, the drunkard’s tight hold with his good hand finally loosened, and he collapsed to the ground between us, while Mr. Braddock stood over him watching, his brow furrowed.

  I could do nothing but gape at the sight. My knees buckled, and I sat down hard on the street, my skirts fanning out along the dirty pavement. My thoughts would not stop. They seemed to weigh down on me, every single awful thing that had almost happened. I did my best to push them away, to think on what really had happened. My heavy breath, held for entirely too long, escaped in a loud gasp and turned Mr. Braddock’s attention to me.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, slipping a pair of kid gloves over his blood-speckled hands.

  I wasn’t. I wasn’t hurt.

  Somehow, I managed to stand, and he scanned me for injuries until his eyes reached my torn neckline and his blinking grew excessive. He stared at the ground as I groaned, my hands flying up reflexively, doing little to cover the damage. Looking pointedly away from my bare skin, he slipped off his jacket and handed it to me without a word. The wool itched, and the sleeves awkwardly hung too long past my arms, but it sufficed. Something earthy and spicily familiar drifted from the fabric. Much better than the stink of smoke and alcohol, at least. I stopped myself before I took another long inhalation, realizing what I was doing.

  “Miss Wyndham, are you all right?” His words came condescendingly slow and overly enunciated, as if he thought I no longer understood English.

  I blinked. Anger, fear, astonishment, helplessness—a maelstrom of emotions still coursed through me. I grasped at one of the many questions flashing through my head. “How did you find me?”

  “I was on my way to call on you at the Kents’ when I saw you leave the Egyptian, clearly lost and frightened.”

  “I was chilled,” I snapped. Strange, my hands continued to shake, no matter how I told them not to. “And so you followed me but decided to wait until my life was in danger, so you could jump in heroically, yes? No normal ‘Hello, Miss Wyndham, perhaps I might escort you home?’ A marvelous plan, Mr. Braddock. You’re quite ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ congratulations.”

  Mr. Braddock prowled around me in half circles as if a trap lay hidden in the space between us. Then he stopped and gestured down the street. “Fine. Perhaps I might escort you home now. If you can stop the rudely unsubtle Lord Byron comments.”

  “As long as you don’t walk with his limp.”

  “Do you do this to every man who helps you?”

  “I—well—do you behave like this for every woman you help?” was my intelligent reply.

  “No, you alone seem to inspire it,” he said, leading the way. “I thought you might still be in shock, but this sounds like your usual incivility.”

  “Well, I thought I was abundantly clear in our last conversation that it would be our last conversation. But here you are.”

  He opened his mouth but stopped after an angry “You,” clenching furiously at air, arms stuck at his sides. He looked like he was mentally counting to ten. I think I even heard a soft “Nine.”

  “I apologize for the other morning,” he finally said, guiding us around a corner. “You caught me by surprise, and I went about everything the wrong way. It was not my intention to cause the distress I did.”

  The apology caught me off guard. It took me a few moments to break the habit of thinking up retorts. “And, and I . . . well, thank you, for coming to my aid. I was—I was overwhelmed . . . and not quite expecting you here. Why did you follow me?”

  Broken shadows crept across his profile, bending around his Greek nose. “To tell you what I was trying to say when you ran off before. I should have been clearer, but . . . I thought you were already aware. Have you been able to accept it yet?”

  “Accept what?”

  “Your gift. The powerful healing ability.”

  “You are confused. That would be Rose. She studies for hours every day—”

  “As knowledgeable as your sister may be about medicine, her success comes from the extraordinary power she was born with. When we first met, I had assumed it was her power alone and that she understood it. But until our meeting yesterday, I had not considered the possibility that both of you had the power and both of you were completely unaware of it.”

  He took a deep breath, pulling in my gaze with his own. “It is your touch that heals people, Miss Wyndham.”

  “Ha! Half of Bramhurst insists that Rose has some miraculous gift of God, no matter how much I try to explain that it’s science, but I must admit, it’s amusing you would fall for such an idea, too.”

  “What I’m telling you is science. There is a process called saltation that some scientists argue is a more precise theory of evolution. It finds that speciation occurs when select members of a particular species undergo sudden drastic changes in their development that suit them better for survival. This jump randomly occurs from one generation to another, and the new, advanced species are the ones to live on, while their predecessors gradually go extinct. That is how you and your sister acquired such rare gifts of healing. You are part of that jump. As am I. I have my own power. . . . I have lived with it for three years now—”

  “Mr. Braddock,” I interrupted, finally prodded into speaking. “I told you to stop this dark act. I’ll admit, this is far more inventive than those moody men who knock over trays of appetizers to attract attention or loudly mumble bits of their poetry, but do you really think I haven’t the faintest idea of how evolution works and that I’m willing to believe myself in some fantastic gothic novel?”

  “No, of course not—”

  “Good. Then thank you very much for your assistance, and please, let me go home in peace.”

  He stepped in front of me, crowding me back in an alley. “I cannot let you do that. I know this is unbelievable—it took me time to come to terms with it, as well—but do not simply ignore me.”

  His intensity and vehemence sent a chill down my spine, and my amusement vanished entirely. He really believed this. Was he completely unaware of what he was doing? If this was not an act, how crazy did that make him?

  “You’ve told me your amusing story, now let’s—”

  “It’s not a story.”

  “It is, unless you have any shred of evidence.” I tried to move past him, but a tight grip on my hand twisted me back around. I drew in a sharp breath as a searing essence surged through my arm, prickling my veins from where his hand met mine, until a second later, his hand and the feeling were gone.

  “Was that evidence enough?” he asked, voice hard as stone.

  “You . . . did that?” I gasped, almost unable to speak.

  “Did you think it was the flutterings of your heart?” He sneered, but I could see his lips tighten as he trie
d to control his own reaction. He resumed our course down the street.

  I followed, maintaining my distance. “I think it’s another magic trick. A hidden device.”

  “There’s no trick. I told you, I have a power—”

  “The power of vexation?”

  Stepping up another crumbling curb, he rubbed his neck and his jaw tightened. (I was surprised it could tighten any further.) “Believe what you wish. But either way, I need your help. I have a very sick friend—”

  “No,” I replied with a sinking sensation. “Not another incurable condition.”

  “Why? Is that what the large man at the ball told your sister?”

  “It was. And you want me to cure this friend, I’m sure, but I cannot do that,” I said.

  “Perhaps your sister, then?”

  “She is unavailable.”

  “I can help you find her,” he added with a steady sidelong glance.

  Bloody hell. “Why would she possibly need finding? She is staying with my aunt and uncle.” I attempted a carefree laugh. Judging by his startled look, it came out more as a madwoman’s cackle.

  “I see, yes, of course she’s safe with them,” he replied smugly. “Which is why her fiercely protective older sister came to me like a Fury yesterday, demanding to know what I had done after I showed an interest in Miss Rosamund at the ball. It also explains why the helpful attendant at the train station witnessed Miss Rosamund traveling to London with a distinctive man, and, oh yes, this older sister following with a ‘Mr. Kent’ by the day’s end. You might guard yourself better if you wish to keep this a secret. If I could unravel this so easily, anyone else may be able to, as well.”

  He paused, savoring my defeat, before adding, “I gather it was not the right Mr. Cheval headlining the show?” A smile quirked on his lips.

  I clutched my right hand at my skirts to keep it from flying at his cheek. “How do you know him?”

  “I know him not as Felix Cheval but instead as Claude. And I know him because he is gifted with extraordinary strength. I am sorry for lying before. I needed to understand what was happening before I gave you even more cause to distrust me. Your absurd opinion that I fancy myself a gothic hero did not help.”

  “My absurd opinion?” My appalled voice echoed through the streets. “And how exactly do you know Claude? Does everyone with a special little power gather at a club for weekly meetings?”

  “That would make matters much easier, but no. I don’t know what Claude wants from your sister, but it must have something to do with these powers. There’s no other reason he would have sought her out. Believe what you will, Miss Wyndham, but if you agree to try and help my friend, I will find Miss Rosamund.”

  “No. I cannot afford the time.”

  “The police are not an option, I’m sure. How else do you expect to find her?”

  “I—I have many plans. And my friend, Mr. Kent—”

  “Trust me. I know this city far better than most, and I know whom to ask about gentlemen with secret powers.”

  I did not know what to say. Against my best wishes, Mr. Braddock, in all his arrogance, had an answer for everything. But this insistence on those ridiculous powers . . . it bothered me that I could not guess his intentions for creating such a wild story.

  He sighed at my silence. “Fine, ignore all I said about these powers. You were right. It was a jest, another false tale to make you fall madly in love with me.” He walked slowly ahead of me.

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I’m making this simpler for you. You can trust that I know Claude and he knows me—you figured that out easily enough at the ball. And you know how quickly I found you, so you cannot doubt that skill. And at the very least, I know this city better than you. Those facts do not change, regardless of whether I believe in these powers, or if I believe the lost city of Atlantis is easily accessible via a magical octopus just south of the Royal Docks.”

  “That sounds much more believable.”

  “We can be of help to each other.”

  “And when I am unable to help heal your friend with these nonexistent powers? What then?”

  “You can try your medicines the way you usually do, and you’ll either succeed or fail. No matter what, I’ll help you. All I ask is that you give it one day.”

  One day. One vital day. Was it worth it?

  “I’ll even start the search tomorrow,” he offered, eyes gleaming. “This way, you won’t lose a day of searching—I’ll just be taking your place.”

  The urge to refuse him was overwhelming, just aching to leave the tip of my tongue, but when I considered my plans for the search tomorrow and the hopeless questioning of more druggists and chemists, I found myself at an impasse. Rose. All that mattered was finding Rose. No matter how crazy, misguided, or deceptive Mr. Braddock was with this theory, if he truly had a sick friend, it was in his best interest to find my sister, so one of us would help find a cure.

  After an eternity, I nodded and muttered, “Fine,” as we rounded onto a familiar street. He had led me back to the Kents’, and I had barely realized we moved.

  “Good. Then I will have a carriage sent for you at noon tomorrow—”

  “No, you will provide me the name and address of your friend, and I will come on my own,” I insisted, watching his face closely for a reaction.

  Not even the slightest twitch. “Very well,” he said and paused, looking at me expectantly.

  “What is it?”

  “I will need my coat.”

  I hastily pulled it off, carefully rearranging my arms over the mess of my gown. He coughed, pulled out a pen and a card holder, scrawled an address on the back of a card, and handed it to me.

  “I still think you’re mad,” I said.

  “I’m sure you do.” He stopped at the intersection of street and alley, on the edge of the greasy streetlamp light. “I trust you can find your way from here?”

  “I’m not sure I can get inside. It’s ever so difficult.”

  A spark of humor altered his features in a rather pleasing way. “I’m sure you can pry a door open with your quips,” he said, gliding back into the dark street, blending into shadows. Typical.

  I crept toward the window I left ajar ages ago and, standing on my toes, shoved it open. A figure flickered by an adjacent window, and my heart jumped along with the rest of my body. Desperately, I pulled myself up and over the sill, tangling my skirts, falling into the room with a thud, and nearly wrecking an expensive-looking Japanese vase. The noise brought rapid footsteps down the hallway to the door, and I frantically scrambled over to a nearby couch. With a final burst of effort, I climbed up and splayed out dramatically, only just remembering to cover my ripped bodice with a nearby blanket.

  The doorknob squeaked, and Laura slinked inside, shutting the door behind her. “Evelyn! What in heaven’s name have you been doing?” she whispered as loudly as her voice would allow.

  “I barely even know myself,” I groaned.

  “What?”

  “Never—never mind. I—I’m sorry. Did anyone else notice I was missing?”

  “No, Mama is busy with company. Why aren’t you in bed? I thought you were sick!” she exclaimed. I sensed a fit of theatrics ready to erupt.

  “Shh, please, be quiet. I’m not sick. I went to find Rose—I believed the man who took her was a magician, and I went to his show.”

  “So . . . you lied about being ill?”

  What could I say? “I had to. It was the only night for the performance.”

  “And you went alone?”

  I nodded reluctantly.

  “Oooh, Evelyn! That sounds so exciting!” she squealed, clutching her head as if to keep it from exploding. “I do so wish I could have accompanied you! You must include me in the future— investigating a dark magician who abducts sisters. It’s utterly delicious! Almost as delicious as Mr. Edwards tonight. He was so handsome, and his conversation so witty and interesting . . .”

  Well. Not the reaction I
was expecting. “It was not the same man,” I added, but Laura did not even listen as she continued to chatter and daydream her way out of the room. I followed her out into the hall, casually wrapping the blanket over the ruined dress like a shawl.

  “Ah! Miss Wyndham, I heard you were unwell.”

  Like some eternal mosquito that never goes away, Miss Verinder sauntered up to us, perfectly coiffed. “I do hope you are feeling better?” Her voice was thick, syrupy.

  “I was,” I replied icily.

  “The Verinders came to pick up music from my mother,” Laura informed me.

  “Something soothing, I hope,” Miss Verinder put in. “There seemed to be enough excitement for everyone tonight.”

  “Indeed. Good night, Miss Verinder,” I said curtly, nudging Laura up the stairs in front of me.

  “Oh, and Miss Wyndham?” she called. “I know you’re the expert on health, but I would recommend staying indoors. The cold must have been quite hard on you.”

  Rigid as a board, I glanced back, hoping no distress showed on my face. Pale eyebrows raised, and a faint, cruel smile played on Miss Verinder’s lips. Refusing to let her bother me, I simply nodded before I pulled Laura up and around the banister toward the bedrooms.

  MY HAND CLUTCHED the cold railing, my feet tested every stair, and my breath refused to come as I climbed up and up through the black void. Like a beacon, the strange, dim second-floor landing called to me. In the darkness, even the faintest light was better than nothing.

  The moonlight brought me up to a dusty hallway and into an open laboratory furnished with tables, chairs, cupboards, and bookshelves. The walls displayed intricate illustrations of human anatomy and chalkboards filled with indecipherable notes. Grotesque shadows of containers, equipment, and book stacks twisted and stretched across the floor like ink spills.

  Where was I?

  The rattling and whistling of glass panes seemed to respond to my question. A large window looked out over London’s foggy gray skyline, speckled with the orange glow of life and activity. I drew nearer, feeling the chilly draft seeping in as I peered out, but somehow the closer angle rendered it even harder to make sense of the view. The sights blurred, like indistinct smudges of paint. Colorful blobs took the vague shapes of buildings and streets below, but it was impossible to tell where I was in the city.