These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(33)

“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 meeting 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.

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.