These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (32 page)

His eyebrow twisted upwards. “
Constantly
is a bit of an exaggeration—”

“It doesn’t matter! You—I thought we were friends, and I was comfortable being candid with you, but now I don’t even know if it was all against my
will—and—and if you were . . . taking liberties.”

He set his hand over his heart, wounded by the accusation. “I don’t know when I could have told you. Whether I did it on the day we first met, after a few months of hiding it, or
yesterday, it wouldn’t have mattered—you would have had as little trust for me then as you seem to have now. You would have put your guard up or simply never spoken to me, out of fear
for what I could ask. And I never would have gotten to know you.”

He stepped closer and tried to catch my gaze while I fixated on a muddy coil of rope. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted the truth from, Miss Wyndham. But I wanted you
to want
to tell me everything. There was just no way I could accomplish that if I told you about this stupid mouth of mine. The best I could do was take the utmost care to ask you only of
inconsequential matters, and, besides that unforeseeable accident at Sir Winston’s ball, it worked flawlessly.

“Beyond that, I never asked you any significant question: no deep inquiries about your life, your fears, your secrets, or your affections.” He tilted his head and continued to stare
at me, waiting for approval.

I met his brown eyes, strangely still and direct. “That is . . . true, I guess,” I admitted. “Thank you.”

“But seeing that there’s no other way of getting around it, I must ask you, do you love Mr. Braddock?”

“I—I don’t know,” I sputtered out, even as rage overtook my entire body. “You complete ass!”

“You don’t know? What sort of answer is—”

I was raising my hand to slap him across the face when he looked over my shoulder and shouted, “Look!”

Up on the
Aurora
, Mr. Greene was frantically waving and pointing down into the massive crowd on the dock. He mimed the gesture of putting on a hat, and we spotted our target. The boy,
wearing a scruffy gray cap and loose, tattered clothing, squeezed through the crowds and constantly checked in every possible direction where danger might lurk. He clearly understood the secrecy
needed for his pickups. Unfortunately, this meant he easily saw Mr. Greene’s crazed jumping and waving and then just as easily noticed us. He started in a panic and bolted back whence he
came.

“We will continue this later,” Mr. Kent spit out, racing to catch up to Robert.

In a flash, the boy wove through the hordes, hopped atop crates, and slipped under railings. He made fast progress and reached the streets while Mr. Kent and Robert, both lacking the boy’s
agility, trailed by several yards.

Meanwhile, Miss Grey, Sebastian, and I were blocked by the crowd and pushed too far away to keep pace. I desperately tried to keep hold of my breath as I dodged wagons and squeezed between
massive displays of barrels. By the time I raced out past the dock gates and stopped onto the street, the crowds had folded back in, eliminating all evidence of the chase. There seemed to be no way
to follow until Sebastian shouted from an alleyway entrance, holding Mr. Kent’s hat.

“Get to a hackney! Perhaps we might overtake them!”

Within a minute, our carriage was careening down the vacant street parallel to the alleyway, buildings streaming by and debris flying up from under our wheels. I almost believed we would cut the
boy off, at least until the driver swerved around a corner and abruptly brought the vehicle to a stop. Stalled traffic filled the street. From behind, more horses and carriages boxed us in before
we even had a chance to react.

“Sorry, sir!” the driver yelled down an apology. “Can’t turn the horses ’round here!”

So we lost him. Our one link—a little boy—outran five of us, beating two grown men on foot and a two-horse carriage. I curled my hand around the metal railing, experiencing a
frustration nearly strong enough to bend the iron. Now the boy knew we were waiting. Dr. Beck would soon be told. The plans would change, and the trail to Rose would be gone yet again.

“Keep watch for Mr. Kent and Mr. Elliot,” Sebastian said, breaking the dismal silence.

Miss Grey and I peered around the curtains, searching the sidewalks for a miracle. The miles of congested carriages slowly lurched forward, and Sebastian guided our driver toward an emptier side
street. We took a complicated route, turn after turn hoping to happen upon Robert, Mr. Kent, or the boy, but it was all for naught.

“We should return to the docks,” Miss Grey suggested. “Perhaps they will be waiting there.”

Sure enough, she was correct—or at least, half correct. Mr. Kent was leaning on a splintery post by the
Aurora,
shaking his head as we approached. “It took you three far too
long to return here,” he said. “Did you not learn that universal tenet as a child? If you ever lose track of your mother, go back to the last place you shared, no other. It’s not
terribly complicated.”

“No, I never read the rule book,” I replied.

“Perhaps you should get started on that. And on finding Dr. Beck,” he said, checking his pocket watch. “The race started a half hour ago.”

“Excuse me?”

“We caught the boy and got the address. And because you took your time, Robert—in his infinite wisdom—went on ahead.”

“He did
what
?”

“He wanted to enlist the police’s assistance and go immediately to arrest Dr. Beck.”

“And you let the fool go?”

Mr. Kent gave an exhausted sigh. “I’ve never met anyone so impossible to persuade. And it’s not as if I can knock him unconscious with my touch.”

“He just thinks he’s playing hero,” I said.

“I thought that’s what every girl wants from a gentleman,” he said, wedging his cane into gaps in the planks and giving Sebastian a pointed look.

Surprise and confusion momentarily crossed Sebastian’s face. He regained himself and turned to make his way out of the docks. “We must go now,” he said. “If Mr. Elliot
went to the police first, we can still catch up.”

“There’s no chance,” Mr. Kent said. “We need to go to the police, as well.”

“They’re in league with Dr. Beck,” I reminded him. “It’ll only make matters more difficult.”

“I doubt he’s spoken to every single policeman. All I need to do is ask each of them whether they plan to betray us, and we’ll have fifty trustworthy men at Dr. Beck’s
door in two hours.”

“In two hours, Robert will be dead and Dr. Beck will be gone,” I corrected and whirled around to follow Sebastian.

“Please remind me why we’re friends with Robert again,” Mr. Kent said, following me past the busy ships, the salty odors, the endless warehouses, and the rusty front gates.
Once we reached the muddy street, he bowed and tipped his hat. “Well, good luck to you, then.”

“What? You aren’t coming?” I asked, appalled.

“If you’re truly going through with this foolhardy plan. And I don’t think you need my help for it anyway,” he said, glancing at Sebastian crossing the road to find a
hackney.

“I can’t tell if you are joking, Mr. Kent.”

“I’m not. In fact, I’ve been so sincere lately that I wouldn’t be surprised if my name has magically changed to Frank.”

“Excuse me, Evelyn.” Miss Grey tapped my shoulder from the side. “May I come along?”

“Yes, of course. I just worry it might be dangerous,” I said, glaring at Mr. Kent as I spoke. He pretended to be enthralled by some seagull settling on a warehouse roof.

“I know, but I must help in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” I said, my heart thawing a bit.

Mr. Kent seized my hand. “Excuse us a moment, my dearest, selfless Miss Grey,” he said and pulled me aside, next to a shoe-shining stand, to speak privately.

“Miss Wyndham, I know you’re not pleased with the shocking things you’ve discovered lately, and I know you’ll think even worse of me when I tell you of the things I did
before we met. But everything I—”

“Sir, you are a liar and a cheat!” a customer bellowed at the shiner behind us.

Mr. Kent glanced over his shoulder and attempted to ignore the yells. “Everything I do is to—”

“These shoes are still soiled! The mud is right there! Return my money, sir!” the customer yelled again.

Mr. Kent bristled and spun around to the shoe shiner. “Sir, are you wrong in this matter?”

“N-no,” the shoe shiner stammered. “I’m trying to be fair.”

Mr. Kent turned to the customer. “Are you wrong?”

“Yes, of course I am,” he said, his face flushing.

“Then avoid stepping in the mud, shut up, and be on your way! I am trying to convince a girl to love me!”

Stunned into silence, the customer grumbled and stormed off. The shoe shiner profusely thanked Mr. Kent, who waved him off and turned his attention back to me.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes, as I so perfectly proved right there, everything I do is to be the good man that you deserve, and I want you to understand the effect you have had on
me.”

I gave him a sharp look. “Is this
really
the appropriate time to be discussing this?”

“It’s essential we do this now, with all the heroics that’ll be going on and the emotions running wild and the hasty decisions being made. I want you to know that you are the
perspective I was talking about at the Argyll. You are what makes everything else melt away.”

“Yet you won’t help me right now.”

“Must I really die to prove it to you? I know my limitations, and I’m wise enough to accept them. Miss Rosamund may need a hero, and she has plenty of qualified individuals to handle
the matter. But you . . . you don’t need one. You need me, just as I need you.”

He stepped closer and put out a hand to my cheek, forcing me to look right at him. “Miss Wyndham, when I first met you in London, I thought you the most intelligent and the strongest girl
I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She would never moon after some mopey, dark boy. She would look for the man that challenged her, amused her, and made her sparkle and enjoy life.”

I sucked in air, trying to understand and sort out all the stirrings, the pressure, the knowledge, the trust I felt. But could I? Could I ever love this man, who’d only care for comfort,
who’d skate on the surface with wit alone, who’d refuse to let us confront anything deeper, who’d ask me this question at a time like this?

Miss Grey rolled up with the carriage, Sebastian jogging behind. If Mr. Kent would not join me, I could waste no more time.

“You are right about one thing, Mr. Kent. I don’t need a hero,” I said in a firm, even voice. “But I could never love a man who would not be my ally.”

His confident smile faltered. I took Sebastian’s outstretched hand, and he helped me into the carriage, following right after. I refused to look back. But just as Sebastian pulled the door
shut, Mr. Kent’s figure appeared on the other side of the carriage with a reluctant smile.

“Then if that’s what it takes, by all means, let’s get ourselves killed.”

T
HE CARRIAGE FLEW
north at breakneck speed. Pedestrians dove onto sidewalks, and the occasional constable would blow his
whistle, chase us on foot, and finally abandon the futile task in exhaustion.

Soon, we reached the outskirts of London, where the smog, bustle, and gray of the city opened up to the verdant, hilly scenery and quiet of Hampstead. The driver slowed his pace, bending around
corners and rolling past languid Heath Street lamplighters making their evening rounds. Despite the tranquil setting, I still felt bilious, in part from the turns, but mostly from our impending
task. Mr. Kent had kept up a stream of babble, presumably to keep our minds off the upcoming fight, but I don’t think anyone had listened to a word. We were all busy trying to form plans
without knowing what to expect upon our arrival. There was only one matter of which I was certain: Sebastian and I could not go together to get Rose, unless I wanted things to end as badly as last
time.

Once the driver veered onto the right road, Dr. Beck’s large corner house was not hard to find among the scattered buildings; the two unconscious policemen on the side lawn served as a
rather helpful signpost. Several yards away stood Robert, the last man standing, cornered by Claude against the side of the house. My stomach flipped furiously at the sight. We were too far, and
Claude only needed a few seconds to do his worst. Frantically, I banged at the carriage roof and turned to the men and Miss Grey. Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Kent’s mouth,
with its vast experience, proved quicker.

“Allow me.”

He leaped out of the slowing carriage and reached into his coat, brandishing his silver pistol, which glinted impressively in the late sun. My body flinched as he fired a shot into the air to
draw Claude’s attention away from Robert, then hurdled a fence, and ripped across the vast lawn with unexpected speed. Looking taller and fully the hero, he took aim directly at a charging
Claude, sending my heart into my throat, and fired.

And then somehow Claude had taken the bullet in his arm and taken the pistol away. We heard the distinct snapping of bone, and Mr. Kent was on the ground, cradling a broken arm, while the other
man in my carriage was already racing to stop Claude from breaking anything more. I dithered between the awful uncertainty of the fight and the certainty I’d weaken Sebastian by going any
closer. My heavy knock at the roof sent our carriage forward with a start.