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.”
He was infuriating. “Can we please go back to the full, honest answers?” I asked.
“They can wait till we have the time.”
Knowing I would learn nothing further, I gulped the champagne, the delicious fizzle traveling down my throat, warming my chest, settling in my stomach, and hopefully steadying my nerves for the night.
Leaning on the railing, I glanced up at Mr. Braddock. He stood perfectly still while his eyes swiveled left and right, inspecting the crowd and inspecting them again. Between the tightness of his set, determined jaw and the hint of dark stubble under his chin, he looked like an intense gambler with too many cards to watch. The veins in his neck seemed to be under constant duress, and I had the childish impulse to poke at them.
Once he deemed our angle insufficient, Mr. Braddock took me on a slow lap around the room along the balcony path, checking for his mysterious contact from several vantage points. Eventually, the exciting odyssey led us back to where we started at the stairs connecting the two floors, and—
An extremely familiar voice floated upstairs, step by step:
“. . . so I told him the reason Paris is cleaner is their minds take up all the filth!”
Hoping I had made a mistake, I peeked my head around the corner for a look. Smart suit, birch cane, sardonic smirk. It was most decidedly Mr. Kent.
I didn’t know whether to feel ashamed for being here, angry about his being here, or guilty for lying to him. None of those feelings seemed particularly pleasant, so instinctively, I pushed Mr. Braddock into a nook just around the corner of the stairs to hide.
“You are aware that you have a mask?” Mr. Braddock asked in a strangled voice, as his back hit the wall.