These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(31)

“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.”