These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(28)

“Mr. Wyndham?” I asked caustically.

“There’s always a distant cousin.”

“And distant is how they should remain. Why are you here?”

“Your message. I apologize for calling on you like this, but I want to assure you, I will find your sister. Though I doubt even that would suffice to convey my gratitude for your help,” he said, striding up to me. I had the oddest thought that he was about to embrace me in a hug. “Thank you, truly.”

I backed away. Was he being satirical? “What do you mean?” I asked, entirely off guard.

“For Miss Lodge . . .” he said. Taking in my confused look, he asked, “Do you not know?”

I shook my head. “No, what’s happened?”

“You restored her to full health, Miss Wyndham,” he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets as though he needed to contain them somehow. “I visited her last night, and she couldn’t wait to see the sky and grass again.” He practically leaped about the blooming paths, unable to keep to one place, his hands out of his pockets already and balled into fists. I imagined it’s how Atlas would have looked after a comfortable nap. “I cannot thank you enough. Your powers are truly remarkable.”

Was he serious? Or was he distracting me from his lack of a search yesterday by trying to convince me of these stupid “powers”? He must have made up her recovery—I just served her tea! “I would like to see her,” I said firmly, testing him.

“This evening, perhaps,” he replied. “She is extremely fond of you. And, of course, she wants to thank you, as well.”

“That is impossible! I did nothing!” I choked.

His eyes seemed lighter, freer as he looked me over. “I don’t think you truly understand the extent of your powers.”

“Apparently not.” I began to roll my eyes, but they caught on a decanter of wine that Tuffins had helpfully added to the tea things on the patio table. Too early? Too early.

“If she is feeling better, it is not due to anything I have done. And if you are hoping to deter me from asking after your progress, you are mistaken. Tell me, was my sister hiding away in any of the public houses you patronized last night? Was she in the gambling den? Or the brothel?” There was no keeping my voice as steady as I had hoped, and the final word emerged at a screechy, glass-breaking pitch. Also, loud.

Mr. Braddock’s eyes gratifyingly bulged, though he swiftly composed himself, folded his arms protectively across his chest, and scowled at me as though I were the villain. “You had me followed. This Mr. Kent, I presume? You don’t have the best taste in suitors, it would seem.”

“So you admit it.”

“I was meeting acquaintances. For information about your sister.”

“And do you usually attack your acquaintances?”

He shook his head. “No, but I help when they are attacked by an angry patron caught cheating. Do you usually yell at the people helping you?”

“When they lie about being helpful, yes. What could you have possibly learned about my sister at a brothel?”

“It is a dancing room, not a brothel.”

“I have it on good authority that it is a brothel.”

“Mr. Kent is a good authority on brothels? How charming.”

I glared at him, tired of the elusive act. Who cared about his stupid past? I stormed up to him, flowers be damned, and landed closer than he probably liked. He flinched back a step.

“Let’s pretend I did as you asked and ‘healed’ your friend, Mr. Braddock. You are deeply in my debt. Now, would you kindly share your discoveries and tell me the truth for once?” I clenched my teeth and glared up at the obnoxiously tall man, ignoring the almost imperceptible current that seemed to live between us.

His face was back to a stony mask, all rigid lines and unwavering eyes. But it fell away as he sighed, unfolding a small piece of paper. “I wanted to handle it quietly,” he explained, revealing its contents. An advertisement for the Argyll Rooms, announcing in red block letters its fifty-performer band, renowned conductor, and, at the bottom, the latest singing attraction:

EVERY NIGHT AT 8:00, OUR NEWEST STAR, THE WRITE “ROSE” OF BRAMHURST.

“And you believe that’s Rose? My sister, the serious nurse, Rose?” I asked mockingly.

“I could go speak to her,” he gently suggested.

“Did you see her last night?” I snapped, wanting no gentleness from him.

“No, but the staff had, and their descriptions sounded accurate.”

“They were mistaken.” My head ached and my stomach churned. I sat down blindly at the tea table.

Mr. Braddock looked down at me, pity swimming in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he assented softly. “I had intended to speak to her tonight and, if it was Miss Rosamund, bid her to return. I did not think it proper to involve you in the specifics.”

“That was not your decision to make! You agreed to help find her, and as absurd as it sounds, you seem to think you have. But this is the reason I came to London myself. There are certain things that only I can do,” I said, more furious than rational.

“Which means?”

“I must go speak to whomever this woman is and sort it out,” I said.

“No,” he said simply. “That is entirely out of the question.”