These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(57)

Inside, a pervading stench of alcohol and smoke filled the air, but it was not nearly as revolting as I expected a public house to be. Everything was just a plain, unadorned brown: the stools, the tables, the bar, the walls. Even the various paintings—portraits of famous London men or landmarks—had lost all their luster. No attempts had been made to dress up the establishment in any way.

Cautiously, I glanced around, fearing every eye was upon me as I approached the bar without an inkling of what to do next. Some faces were lively in conversation, and others were lifelessly sipping their drinks and smoking. There was no sign of Dr. Beck or Claude. Lord Ridgewood’s face was a mystery to me, and I knew not how to identify any other members of this secret society. If only there was a butler to announce the arrival of every distinguished guest.

The clinking of glass diverted my attention. The bartender. I caught his eye and made my debut as Unremarkable Public-House Patron Number Eighteen with a couple of grumbled words. “Ale, please.”

A dripping-wet glass slammed down in front of me. “Sir,” I added before he could run off. “Question, sir.”

“Whaddya want?” he grunted. His shirt soiled, he reeked of some sour scent that made me never want to breathe again. I maintained my distance.

“Would you happen to know a Lord Ridgewood? Or Dr. Calvin Beck? Do either of them frequent this place?”

“No sir, but if ya want an introduction to the Queen, I’m your man!” Cackling to himself, he left to serve another customer.

How amusing.

No choice but to wait patiently and watch the door, it seemed. The early afternoon did not attract much of a crowd, which left plenty of empty seats scattered around the room for me. But as I searched for a table in a dark and solitary place, my eyes landed on a man who had fallen into that sorry state instead. “Oh, Rose!” he cried.

What in heaven’s name had brought Robert here?

Without realizing it, I had risen from my seat and snatched up my glass, ready to ask him. He rambled to an old man sitting next to him at the bar, who took long swigs of his beer and nodded sympathetically. My feet brought me closer and closer, but restraint or sense prevailed and I continued onward without a word, taking a table along the wall. This was neither the time nor the place to comfort Robert.

“This is a picture of my Rose,” he said, holding up a monstrosity he had drawn a couple of years ago.

“A . . . uh, fine-looking girl, sir,” his drinking partner replied.

“There’s something wrong, I know it,” he said, shaking his head. “I just wish I could see for myself that she was well!”

He drained the remains of his beer and was in the process of calling over the bartender for another when my view was entirely blocked.

“Yer sittin’ at our table,” a rough voice told me.

Peering down at me was a large, bearded man and his stout, short companion not far behind.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, leaping up from my seat.

“That ain’t our table,” the short one corrected. “Ours is outside.”

“My ’umblest apologies,” the bearded one said. “But seein’ as yer up, ’ow’d you like a drink wif us?”

I shook my head. “That’s quite all right—”

“We insist,” the short one said, giving me a false smile. “Any ’quaintance of Dr. Beck is a ’quaintance of ours.”

I picked up my glass, silently cursing to myself. The big one led the way to a wooden back door, and his companion prodded me from behind to follow. It scraped open to a secluded alleyway behind the bar. Sickening smells and foreboding reddish stains assaulted my senses, and my heart went off thumping again. The two men seemed to be quite at home here. What was their connection to Dr. Beck? And where did that short one acquire the long scar along his face?

The tall man rolled up his sleeves and took a swaggering step forward. The false politeness disappeared from his face. “Who are ya?” he growled.

“I—I’m sorry? Ah—uh, James . . . Brick?” I squeaked, backing against the wall.

“No ya ain’t—now tell us.” He scowled menacingly.

“An’ what’re ya ’ere for, girl?” the shorter one growled as he reached into his pocket. Another squeak loosed itself from my throat. How did they know?

“I—I was, um—I am looking for my sister, Rose, and—” I started to say.

The two exchanged the same curious glance. Smiles passed across both their faces, and they turned to me with synchronized bows.

“Ah! As we suspected. Yer the gal.”

“The one Braddock’s been tryin’ very, very ’ard to ’elp.”

“You aren’t with Dr. Beck?” I managed.

The two men whispered between each other.

“Course we can trust ’er,” the bearded one said encouragingly. “She dunnit sound like she’s lying.”

“Dunnit look like it, either,” the other finished.

“Settled, then.” The bearded one turned to me. “Muh name’s Arthur, this ’ere’s William, and we’re with yer friend Braddock. We provide ’im with information on ’ccasion—call us merchants, yeah?”

William sniffed the alley air and wrinkled his nose. “Arthur, we best be back, this ain’t no place for a lady.”