These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel

by Zekas, Kelly

  No one, of course, but Rose.

  I FELT THE TWO men glance at me, presumably with sympathy, but I could not look at them. Nor at Rose. Nor the audience. Not even the stained floor. I couldn’t look at anything in this damned place.

  “This way, Mr. Braddock,” the matron said with a greasy smile but stopped and frowned at Mr. Kent, who seemed to be hiding his face. “Not you, Mr. Kent.”

  He gasped theatrically. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Shine! Why on earth not? I am with these two.”

  “These two don’t have debt.” A snort came from Mr. Braddock’s direction, and Mr. Kent looked rightfully embarrassed. I closed my dropped jaw before he could notice it, and the woman sniffed, turning to weave through the crowd.

  Mr. Braddock ushered me ahead of him, while a man, presumably employed by Mrs. Shine, stepped in to keep Mr. Kent from following. Only his protests slipped by: “It’s my father’s debt, not mine!”

  But we were already being led through the discreet side exit, down a dim red corridor, and through one of several black doors. The door opened on a small violet-scented room—golden and luxurious, matching the Argyll Rooms’ theme. The far wall housed a lavish dresser overflowing with bottles of perfumes and makeup precariously strewn near the edge. In the nearest corner, a velvet curtain, covering what looked like a private changing area, swayed in the breeze from an open window. Next to it sat a large bed with red satin sheets.

  “Just one small matter, Mr. Braddock,” the matron said, holding out a bill. He compensated her with a signature. Satisfied, she slipped out, leaving us alone in the indecent room.

  “Did you just pay for . . . ?” I half asked. I tried hard to not stare at the red sheets and imagine what normally happened between them.

  “I apologize, there was no other way to speak to Miss Rosamund privately,” Mr. Braddock explained, lounging against a bare wall.

  “It’s quite all right. You appear to be a regular customer already,” I replied.

  He flashed me a look of annoyance, then shook his head, refusing to respond as he roamed around the room. A collection of perfume bottles caught his attention. “Do you recognize any of these?”

  I took a quick, cursory glance, but I already knew the answer. “None of this is hers.”

  The muffled music peaked and cut out, followed by cheers, whistling, and applause continuing for what seemed like hours. The clack of footsteps echoed down the hallway, the doorknob turned, and suddenly there she stood. Her wide eyes flinched in surprise and then relaxed when she put on a warm, welcoming smile. I stood paralyzed for a moment, studying her closely. Then, slowly, feeling returned to my limbs. It was her.

  “Rose,” I murmured.

  A heavy flutter of relief set my feet in motion, and I lunged at her for a hug. Squeezing my sister’s tiny frame, I expelled every single bit of tension, anxiety, and nervousness—naturally, it took a long time to get that all out. When I finally released her, Rose gasped a huge breath, and I could not help but laugh and apologize.

  As my euphoria began to settle, Rose greeted Mr. Braddock with a pleasant smile. “And how are you?”

  “Fine,” he answered, his eyebrows curved in confusion.

  She glided over to a stool in front of her looking glass and started to wipe off her makeup. “What brings you two here?”

  Dumbfounded, I stared at her. “I should ask you the very same question.”

  She hesitated for the slightest moment before patting her eyes with a towel. “I like it here,” she explained as if it settled everything.

  “You ran away to London in the dead of night to sing at a brothel?”

  “Please, it is a dancing room. I’ve always wanted to live in London, and I do enjoy singing. Let’s not quarrel. This is only temporary, anyway.”

  I shot Mr. Braddock a quizzical glance. He returned the gesture. Something was not right. Out of the thousands of iterations in my head, I had not imagined my conversation with Rose taking this path. “Temporary until what?” I asked.

  “Until I earn enough money for school.”

  “You didn’t even ask Mother. She might have said yes.”

  “Oh, please. You don’t actually believe that, do you, Evelyn?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just—I don’t understand. Do you know how worried I was? Your note was so strange, and I—I thought you were kidnapped or—” I refused to tear up. Not for this. I had to convince her or, if need be, demand she come back.

  She stood up and interrupted me with another hug. “I’m sorry for the mess. I did not mean for you to go through all of that. But there’s no need to worry anymore. I’m perfectly well now, see, Evie?” She flashed me a smile to ease my tension.

  My breath knocked out of me, I stared at Rose, not knowing how to react. Had I gone mad?

  “What did you just call me?” I asked, regaining my power of speech.

  Rose finished cleaning her face and threw her towel over the back of a chair. “What?” she asked back.

  “You just called me Evie, did you not?”

  She shrugged, pulling the window open wider with a screech. I turned to confirm the word (along with my sanity) with Mr. Braddock. “Did she not say Evie?”

  Perplexed, he slowly nodded. “I believe she did.”

  “Are you well, Evelyn? I don’t understand what you’re going on about.” Rose fidgeted with the edges of the velvet curtain, ready to cover herself up. Her gaze turned to Mr. Braddock. “Perhaps I could have a moment to change?”

  He nodded and headed toward the door, but my hand popped out to block him. I marched closer to the curtain and found myself staring deep into Rose’s pupils, hoping that would help extract all her secrets. There was something strange about all of this. Though it went against every bit of logic, I had felt it somewhere deep in my bones from the moment I walked in here.

  “Who are you?” I asked her.

  She cocked her head in disbelief. “What has gotten into you? It’s me, Rose.”

  “Fine, Rose, then who am I? Just a simple question,” I persisted.

  “My darling sister. Now, I don’t understand what’s gotten into you, but please stop. You’re worrying me.” She shook her head and ducked behind the curtain to change her clothing.

  “And who is he?” I asked, pointing to Mr. Braddock.

  Rose peeked out. “I think it’s best that you two leave now.”

  Mr. Braddock stepped up by my side and held his ground. “Answer the question,” he demanded.

  “Your husband, of course.”

  A thick silence dangled in the air. Unsure how to act, Mr. Braddock and I exchanged baffled looks when suddenly, the curtain flew back in a blur and not-Rose leaped out of the window and out of the room. Quick as a wolf, Mr. Braddock rushed to follow and hurdled through the gap. Blast it! My skirts would not fit through there. I regained control of my legs and went for the door, hurried down the dim hallway, and burst out the back exit into another dreary alleyway.

  The cold air hit me hard, prickling patterns of awareness onto my bare skin. I drew a sharp breath, held up my skirts, and awkwardly pursued them in my unwieldy outfit as rats squeaked and skittered at my feet. Mr. Braddock flew down the passage, and it seemed a hopeless struggle to catch him. His shrinking figure led me across the empty stone street into another connecting alleyway, through a cracked wooden fence, and to a sharp right turn at the end of the passage. As I emerged onto the main road, Mr. Braddock escaped my vision, vanishing around a distant, gaslit corner. His long shadow chaotically bounced across the streets and buildings, serving as my only guide.

  Hastily crossing the road to follow, I barely dodged a whinnying horse and its carriage and splashed through a puddle of what I hoped was water. The icy jolt shot a rush of energy up my burning legs, and I pushed forward, panting and stumbling up and down high sidewalk curbs and around piles of sharp gravel by a half-constructed building.

  After the next block, I stopped at the intersection, lost and gasping, the chase out of sight. A c
ough echoed down the vacant street, leading me to the entrance of another concealed back alley, where a collapsed woman wheezed and coughed as she climbed to her knees. Next to her, a blushing, bearded man bent down to inquire about her health.

  As I approached, Mr. Braddock stepped out and raised his eyebrows at me before centering his attention back on the woman. She still wore Rose’s dress, hidden under a dark cloak from her dressing room, but her skin was now a caramel color, her hair charcoal black, and her blue eyes narrowed.

  “How did—you catch her?” I asked Mr. Braddock through my staggered breath.

  “She believed kissing a man on the street would hide her from her pursuers,” he replied with an accusatory glare.

  “Little did she know her pursuer was such an expert,” I shot back.

  “Miss, are you all right? W-what have these two done?” the bearded man asked meekly, as if he really didn’t want to get involved.

  “They are advising you to continue on your way, sir,” Mr. Braddock growled.

  The man flinched, but he still shook his head and stood his ground, unconvinced.

  “We are from the . . . London health department,” I added. “This woman has a highly contagious fever. I suggest you see a doctor immediately and rest.”

  The woman tried to say something, but she coughed again, punctuating my suggestion. It was enough for the man. Wide-eyed and wordless, he hurried away.

  “We will return to the Argyll Rooms to talk,” Mr. Braddock told the woman as he led the way. “Are you hurt?”

  She was well on her way to recovery—no injuries, just tired out from the chase. Not that it mattered: Either way, I lacked the patience to let this go on any longer.

  “No, we’re not waiting!” I exclaimed, grabbing her arm and stopping in front of her. “What is—why did you do all of . . . this?” I gestured to the remains of her disguise.

  “I was hired,” she replied in a nasally French accent.

  “By whom?”

  She scoffed. “I am a professional, and I enjoy getting paid large sums of money for my secrecy.”

  I looked to Mr. Braddock, unsure what to do as she sauntered past me. Perhaps he could be more threatening.

  “The only thing I enjoy more is getting paid a larger sum for my betrayal,” she added coyly over her shoulder.

  Without a second thought, Mr. Braddock reached into his pocket and handed her a small bag of coins. I was beginning to owe this man quite a bit of money that my family didn’t have. Her eyes glittered as she turned, snatched the money, and smiled sweetly at us—her new clients. “How can I be of assistance?” she purred.

  “Who are you?”

  “Camille. I do not give out my last name for any amount of money.”

  “Do you know where my sister is?” I demanded.

  “Yes,” she said with a wink. “She is quite lovely, you know. Easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever been.”

  That sent a chill down my back. “Where did you see her?”

  “No need to be so threatening. I will explain. You’ll get your money’s worth.” She looked at her dim reflection in a storefront window and adjusted her hair as we walked. “I don’t work for the men you are seeking or whatever their organization is. I work for myself.”

  “Organization?”

  “There were three men, but they appeared quite well funded, so I presumed there was a source for the equipment.”

  “Three men—” I started.

  Camille interrupted. “Try to be patient.” I was ready to hit her.

  “I have always had a talent of sorts for disguising myself. Some people are naturally fast or strong. I am naturally skilled at studying and imitating others. My makeup, costume, and acting abilities are flawless.”

  “You have a power?”

  Camille looked at us skeptically. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “She does,” Mr. Braddock jumped in. “I’ve heard stories about her.”

  “I have a natural skill, yes, but it was nothing without training. I’ve done this for the last twenty years and developed a reputation for my services as London’s specialist.”

  “There are people who hire you to impersonate another?” I prodded.

  “That is only half my work. I can also disguise clients however they wish,” she replied, delicately tapping her forehead. Had those wrinkles been there before? “Three days ago, a man arrived at my home. He asked for a week of my services.”

  “Was his name Claude? Or Mr. Cheval?”

  “He was a very large, swarthy, singular-looking man. He spoke with a quiet voice en français.”

  Good—we had the right one this time. Mr. Braddock’s attention was fixed on Camille as we turned a dark corner under a broken gas lamp, and she continued: “He briefly explained the job, the payment, and asked whether I had the appropriate resources and abilities, to which I said yes.”

  “Who was the employer?” Mr. Braddock eagerly questioned.

  Camille shot him a glare. “He did not give his name. Now, please stop interrupting the job you paid me to do.”

  He narrowed his eyes and stopped in front of her as a threat. “We are in a hurry,” he said. “She may be in danger.”

  She brushed by him, unperturbed, and continued down the street. “She is safe. It is in their best interests to keep her well, it seems.”

  Mr. Braddock turned and followed, confusion lining his brow.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “The large man brought me to a house to meet the two others in a laboratory room. The first man was pale, thin, and did not speak much. The other—a short man who appeared to be in charge—he told me to play the part of your sister for a week and build up a public reputation for her. When I agreed, they led me up one floor to your sister’s room and gave me some time to speak with her so I could study her face, voice, and mannerisms.”

  “Was she—was she well?” I asked.

  “Well enough to trick me. When I spoke with her, I pretended to be a servant trying to help her escape. I asked about her nearest relations and who to contact first for help.”

  I felt a surge of anger. It was both a horrible lie and a clever trick. “So you would be prepared with enough details to fool anyone who came looking for Rose,” I said.

  Camille nodded. “But it seems she did not entirely trust me. She told me she calls you Evie sometimes, and that you are married. I gather that isn’t true.”

  I shook my head, unable to withhold a proud smile. Imprisoned in that room, Rose still outwitted them.

  Mr. Braddock rejoined with a renewed charge of urgency. “What were you to do after the week was over?” he asked Camille.

  “After I made a reputation for your sister, they would supply me with a body to be disguised as her and discovered, so any search by the police or the family would be ended.” For such a horrible topic, she was rather nonchalant about the matter.

  “You—you must be joking,” I said.

  “Not at all. I gathered he did not want to be bothered by a wealthy family’s search,” Camille replied, sashaying down the street.

  “If I can provide you sufficient compensation, will you abandon your next few days of work?” Mr. Braddock asked.

  Camille nodded greedily. “That can be arranged.”

  He handed her another set of notes. “Very good,” he replied.

  The elaborate kidnapping plan left me further unnerved. Whoever had taken Rose planned for and anticipated everything. Why was she so important to a man with a laboratory? What were they planning to do with her? If there were scientists who knew about powers, did that mean Rose could be someone’s research experiment? My anxiety gave way to anger, and stamping on a discarded newspaper provided little relief.

  “We’re going now,” I said firmly to Mr. Braddock.

  “Were they settled in this house?” he asked Camille.

  “I believe so. I was to receive half my payment there next week.”

  With those hopeful
words, we found ourselves back in front of the Argyll Rooms. Hundreds of cabs waited along the street for the night to end so they could take passengers home or to a hotel. Drunken couples occasionally sauntered out, oblivious to their surroundings. One gentleman somehow procured his lady’s shoe and vomited in it.

  Mr. Braddock found a pencil and a card in his pocket. He handed them to Camille. “The address, please.”

  She wrote down the information. When she finished, she handed me her own card and, as a good-bye, made me one last offer: “If you have the money, I can disguise you much more convincingly!”

  I resisted the temptation to tell her it wasn’t bloody likely as she disappeared back into the building.

  We made our way back to the street, where Mr. Braddock found an open cab and helped me inside. “This will take you back to your lodgings, and I will call on you when I retrieve your sister.”

  “What?” I yelped, jumping back out. “No, I am going with you. I need to see her for myself.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Then we will alert the police first.”

  He scoffed at the suggestion. “The police will not believe anything about these powers, and I do not trust them to handle it while we wait elsewhere.”

  “Then let me at least fetch Mr. Kent from inside. If it’s dangerous, he will help make it less so.”

  Mr. Braddock seemed to be searching for an argument, but he found none. “Very well, fetch him.”

  As I spun around to head back to the Argyll Rooms, I felt Mr. Braddock climbing into the cab behind me and realized his trick. I refused to let him leave me behind.

  “I don’t trust you to wait,” I said, climbing inside.

  He admitted defeat and tapped the roof, the hansom rushing forward with the clatter and clinking of wood, stone, and horseshoes. We traveled westward in silence, past Hyde Park, through Knightsbridge, and into Chelsea, where I lost all sense of direction as the cab careened through narrow streets and pulled to a sharp stop in front of an ugly, small building.

  “So this is your plan?” I asked as Mr. Braddock paid the driver. “The two of us will walk in and forcefully retrieve Rose from three men?”