These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(45)

My overwhelmed mind raced through what all this meant. “If my presence cancels your power,” I said, pulling out a card from my reticule. “Then does the opposite hold true?”

The thin edge sliced my skin open, but when I wiped the blood away, the paper cut remained. It didn’t close within seconds, as it had when I was alone. I rose out of my chair and took slow steps backward, pausing and watching as the cut stubbornly stayed open, until I nearly reached the wall. In the blink of an eye, the cut vanished like it should have.

I glanced up at Mr. Braddock. “It healed immediately, after that step.”

He looked at the distance between us. “Ten feet?” he suggested.

I sighed, returning to my chair. “This would be far easier if we had a guidebook. How can there be thousands of handbooks on the proper ways to bow or how to arrange forks for every possible occasion, but not a single one about how far you must be to keep from accidentally killing someone?”

For the first time and for the briefest, tingling moment, I made him laugh. “Perhaps you might write it.”

A voice replied from behind me. “It might prove to be more revelatory if you were to write it, Mr. Braddock.”

I spun up and out of my chair to find the intruder.

“Mr. Kent, what are you doing here—were you just eavesdropping?”

“Of course not. I was waiting for the perfect moment to enter the conversation with a witty rejoinder, but I had to settle for that. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue as you were.” He ambled in, appearing perfectly at ease. But there was a set tension to his jaw.

“How on earth did you find this place?”

“When you were not at my parents’ home, I checked with the Lodges. They mentioned Mr. Braddock’s address.”

I did not know what to say. I found myself embarrassed, for some reason, as though I had been doing something I shouldn’t. Mr. Braddock also seemed to be at a loss for conversation. Was Mr. Kent angry? Disappointed? Appalled? It was impossible to tell with the light air he gave his words.

“Very well. Then I’ll take this opportunity to formally introduce myself,” he said, marching up to the bed. “Mr. Braddock, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Nicholas Kent, the man who saved your life last night.”

“It seems I am greatly in your debt,” Mr. Braddock replied, not looking particularly thrilled about that.

“Excellent. Then I’d like to call in your first payment now with some questions. Have you known all along who took Miss Rosamund?” Mr. Braddock was visibly disturbed but still answered the question, as Mr. Kent paced haughtily around his bed, back and forth.

“No, I wasn’t sure.”

“But you had your suspicions?”

“I did.”

I couldn’t hold back. “You already knew who Dr. Beck was?”

“I once . . . worked for him,” Mr. Braddock answered.

My breath disappeared, and my stomach slammed into my heels. Mr. Kent broke the silence, his voice grim. “When?”

“A year ago.”

“Are you still in league with him?”

“No. As you can tell, we aren’t on the best of terms.”

“Then why would you ever help a man like that?” I asked.

“I thought he could cure me. I’d killed my parents, my best friend, and nearly killed m—Miss Lodge. I spent months searching London for anyone experiencing the same problem, and it was then I read of Dr. Beck in a newspaper article. He made wild claims and speculations about evolution, the development of abilities, and the future of mankind. It turned him into an object of ridicule within the scientific community—everyone thought his ideas unbelievable—but if there was a sliver of a chance he could help me, I had to take it. So I offered to pay him anything for a cure, or at least a proper explanation.”

The floor groaned as I stepped closer to the bed. “What did he say?”

“He was enthusiastic, but he did not want my money—he had plenty of funding. He wanted my assistance. While I worked with him, he shared all his theories and findings with me. He told me what I told you before, about our abilities being the result of saltation.”

“And what assistance did you provide him in return?” Mr. Kent asked.

“Information about my ability. I answered his questions, gave him blood samples, and allowed him to test and observe the effects.”

“What did you test it on? Animals?” I asked.

“Animals aren’t affected.”

My thoughts had moved ahead and frozen at one question with the sudden realization. How far had they pushed the tests?

Mr. Kent asked the question I could not. “Then you tested it on human subjects, who I assume were less than willing?”

Mr. Braddock fixed his eyes on me, all mirth drained out. “I tested the milder effects on Claude, but . . . I—there was an impossible situation. Dr. Beck asked me to test on others, and when I refused, he . . . he locked me in a small room with a man who was just looking to earn a sovereign. I tried to sit at the farthest corner, I tried to convince Dr. Beck to let us out, I tried to control my power, but nothing worked, even as the man wasted away in front of me. I begged him. I begged him, and still he forced me to stay, slowly killing this poor soul.”

“And after, he simply let you go free?” Mr. Kent continued, unaffected by Mr. Braddock’s apparent pain.