Things Half in Shadow (33 page)

“Why, Mr. Clark,” Barnum said, “you look like you're about to faint.”

I nodded weakly, for that's exactly how I felt.

“It must be the heat,” Lucy said, surely knowing that it wasn't. “It's hot as hellfire in here.”

“Let's rejoin the festivities then,” Mr. Barnum said. “Shall we?”

The two of them escorted me back to the main room, which was still a flurry of dancing even without Mr. Barnum's presence. After assuring him that I would be fine once I got some fresh air, I took my leave. Lucy followed me out.

“That must have been terrifying for you,” she said as we reached the lobby. “Him bringing up your father's name like that.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” I murmured.

“Do you think he suspects who you truly are? He did notice the resemblance.”

“I said I don't want to talk about it!” My reply was much louder that time, echoing through the lobby. “I need to go home.”

At that moment, all I wanted was to flee the ball, lest someone else notice my resemblance to Magellan Holmes. I began to irrationally suspect that others had recognized me as well, and that my
true name was now being whispered throughout the Continental Hotel.

Hurrying through the lobby, I unhooked the diamond pin at my throat and loosened the cape. It slipped from my shoulders and onto the floor, forcing Lucy to hop out of the way to avoid stepping on it.

“Edward, your cape!”

I continued walking. “I don't want it anymore.”

“But it looks expensive,” Lucy said.

“Leave it!” I barked. “Someone else can take it, for all I care.”

By then we had reached the hotel's front doors. Several guests in costume were arriving fashionably late to the ball, and each swing of the doors sent in a rush of cool air that perked me up considerably.

Just as I was starting to feel better, I noticed a streak of black on the edge of my vision. It was a man in a dark suit and cape, his footsteps echoing urgently off the marble floor as he moved from the ballroom into the lobby. At first, I thought it was Mr. Barnum, who had either suddenly remembered something he meant to tell us or else pieced together that I was really Magellan Holmes's son.

Instead, it was a man in a mask.

A white mask that covered his entire face.

And it was clear from his gait that he intended to catch up to me and Lucy before we could make our escape.

With the masked man fast approaching, I stepped behind Lucy and pushed her through the door. “Go quickly! We're being followed.”

Lucy tried to look behind us. “By whom?”

“I don't know, nor do I care to find out.”

We were outside by then, stumbling into a mass of carriages both arriving and departing. People streamed all around us—masked couples from the ball, coachmen running to and fro, hotel workers scurrying about.

As we sought out Thomas and our own coach, I glanced over my shoulder, seeing that the masked man had come outside as well. He
paused in front of the hotel doors, urgently looking for us. Thanks to Lucy's expansive green gown, he caught sight of us easily enough and headed our way.

“Hurry!” I hissed to Lucy. “We must find Thomas.”

“Maybe we should confront this man and ask him what he wants,” Lucy suggested.

“Absolutely not.”

It was a terrible idea, especially if I was correct about it being the noseless man behind that mask. And, yes, I feared he was up to no good, especially now that I knew he didn't work for Mr. Barnum.

Yet it was beginning to look as if Lucy and I would have no choice in the matter. With no Thomas in sight and the man fast approaching, it seemed a confrontation was inevitable. Frantically, I examined all the coaches in front of the hotel. None of them looked familiar nor did any have a top-hatted boy sitting at the reins.

“Thomas!” I called out. “Where are you? We're ready to leave!”

I looked behind us again. The man was closer still, his stride not slowing. As he walked, he took off his hat and began to remove his mask.

I braced myself for the inevitable sight of the noseless man's ghostlike face. But when the mask was fully off, I saw not flesh the same shade as chalk, but skin rosy from exertion. This face boasted a prominent nose, a creased brow, and a pair of curious eyes.

It was, quite shockingly, the face of Bertram Johnson.

“E
dward?” Bertie called out to me. “Edward, is that you?”

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

“Is it the noseless man?” Lucy asked, too busy searching the street for her brother and her coach to look behind her.

“No,” I said. “It's far worse.”

Bertie continued moving in our direction, waving his mask frantically and saying, “It
is
you, isn't it?”

Faced with explaining to him why I was attending a masquerade ball with someone other than my fiancée, I did the most logical thing I could—I ran as if all the devils in hell were after me.

Grabbing Lucy by the hand, I set off into the street, our shoes sinking into the muck created by too many carriage wheels pulled by too many horses. We wound around coaches and dodged rearing steeds, the mud sticking to the cuffs of my trousers and splattering the red birds adorning Lucy's skirt.

“Edward, my dress!” she cried. “What are you doing? Are we in danger?”

“Not you,” I said. “But I certainly could be.”

I glanced back at the hotel, worried that Bertie had been foolish enough to follow us into the muddy street. But he had apparently returned indoors, because he—and his mask—were nowhere to be seen. Not that it mattered at that point. Thomas, either hearing my call or simply through provident timing, pulled the coach to a stop in front of me.

“Why in hell are you in the damn street?” he yelled down to us.

Lucy shook mud from her ruined dress while shooting me a look so cold it seemed capable of freezing fire. “I'd like to know the very same thing.”

Although I scrambled into the coach, Lucy took her time, collecting her skirt before climbing inside. When I slammed the door shut, a good portion of her dress got caught in it. Thomas then lashed at the horses and we were off, departing the Continental Hotel at a breakneck pace. This time, I didn't mind the roughness of the ride. The faster I could get away, the better.

“Would you mind telling me what that was all about?” Lucy said as she tugged her skirt free of the door. “Who was that man?”

“It was a very good friend of Violet's.”

“So?”

“So,” I said, “he has now seen me in public with
you
. As has her brother.”

Now it would be only a matter of time before one of them told Violet. There was no doubt in my mind that she was a patient person who trusted me completely. Mr. Thornton Willoughby, on the other hand, was a different story. Prior to my current troubles, the barest hint of impropriety would no doubt have made him force Violet to break off our engagement. But with my reputation now in jeopardy, I knew this would be the last straw.

“Perhaps instead of dragging me through a mud pit, you could have simply explained to him why we were there,” Lucy said.

But it didn't work that way with Bertram Johnson. He wasn't known for discretion or silence when the situation called for it. He acted on emotion alone. And since I suspected he harbored romantic feelings for my beloved Violet, I envisioned him rushing to the Willoughby residence at that very moment.

Bouncing about inside the carriage, I regretted not heeding the advice of Barclay—yet another person who had seen me out and about with Mrs. Collins. None of this would have happened if I had kept my distance.

But now it was too late. Mr. Barnum suspected I was the spitting image of Magellan Holmes and Bertram Johnson saw me fleeing a masked ball with a beautiful woman. My whole world had the potential to be upended.

I was certain the night couldn't get any worse.

How wrong I was.

Thomas had just turned us down an empty side street and was in the process of slowing the horses. Inside the coach, all was quiet. Outside, however, the sound of horses rose in the distance. It was light at first—like a rumble of distant thunder minutes before a summer storm. But it grew alarmingly loud. Soon all we could hear was the pounding of hooves in the mud as the horses drew near.

“What the devil is that?” Lucy asked.

As if in answer to her question, a massive brougham roared past us. Looking out the window, I was only able to catch a glimpse of two black steeds galloping by, nostrils flaring and foam flinging from their open mouths. The brougham they pulled was also black—a hulking one that rocked unsteadily. Guiding the horses was a beast of a man, all belly and beard, who couldn't even be bothered to glance our way as he passed.

“Well, they're in a hurry,” Lucy said.

“I only hope Thomas doesn't try to keep pace with them.”

“He might,” Lucy replied. “Tell him to pull back on the reins a bit more.”

I pushed open the door and poked my head out as far as I could without tumbling from the coach.

“Everything all right up there, Thomas?”

“Did you see that thing?” the boy said in awe. “It was like a bullet, it was so fast.”

“About that,” I replied. “Your sister doesn't want you to give chase.”

I gazed up the street at the retreating brougham ahead of us. Unlike the coach we traveled in, there was no lantern hanging from the back to give any indication it was there. Instead, it almost blended into the distant darkness, as if disappearing into thin air. But just when it was about to vanish from view completely, it slowed down and—to my fearful astonishment—began to turn around.

“I . . . I don't like the looks of this,” Thomas said.

“Neither do I.”

Inside the coach, Lucy asked, “Like the looks of what?”

Up ahead, the black brougham had turned around fully and was now heading in our direction. The thunderous sound of hooves rose once again as the vehicle picked up speed. It appeared to be heading straight for us.

“Get the hell inside!” Thomas yelled down to me.

I ducked back into the coach, slamming the door shut and tightly gripping my seat.

“Brace yourself,” I warned Lucy.

She said something in response, but it was impossible to hear her. Not with the pounding of hooves heading our way. Lucy's own pair of Cleveland Bays whinnied out their fear as the brougham continued to bear down on us. Our coach jerked to the right, Thomas managing to get us out of the way just as the black behemoth thundered past.

Out the window, I saw the horses again, as agitated as ever, then the bulk of the brougham itself. Peering out its window was a man's face. I glimpsed it for only a second—a streak of white standing in stark contrast with the darkness all around it—but it was enough for me to recognize who it was.

“It's the noseless man,” I said, gasping.

“It can't be.” Lucy rushed to the window, but it was too late. The brougham was now beyond us. “How is that possible?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Unless he followed us from the hotel.”

If that was the case, then I assumed it meant he would continue to follow us. I opened the door again and looked behind us. Just as I thought, the brougham had slowed and was once again turning around.

“He's coming back for us!” I shouted to Thomas. “Go! Go as fast as you can!”

Thomas lashed at the horses, setting them off at a breakneck pace. Checking behind us, I saw that the brougham was again heading toward us, equally as fast.

“Damn,” I muttered. “Damn, shit, damn.”

Our coach crashed through a puddle, the muddy water splashing into my face. I tried to wipe it away, briefly letting go of the open door. It was, unfortunately, the exact same time Thomas
decided to turn down another street, the sudden lurch of the coach sending me tumbling out the door.

Falling sideways, I managed to grasp the top of the door with one hand and its side with the other. My legs, however, dangled helplessly, the toes of my shoes sliding like a plow through the muck in the street.

Lucy lunged forward fast enough to grab me, her fingers curling around my shirt collar. Behind me, all I heard was the beating of hooves getting closer.

“Don't look behind you,” Lucy warned as she tried to pull me back into the coach.

That was, thankfully, impossible. Yet I could still feel the rush of warm air from the horses' hooves as they approached.

“Just get me inside!” I yelped.

“I'm trying! Give me your arm!”

I loosened my grip on the top of the door and reached into the coach. Lucy grabbed my arm and gave a mighty tug. But Thomas took that moment to swerve the coach around another corner, and the motion propelled Lucy backward. I saw only a tumbling mass of satin and petticoats as her grip on me loosened.

I dropped away from the coach again, my left arm flailing, my right one clinging to the door for dear life. My feet continued to slide through the street, muck collecting on the top of my shoes.

During my struggle to keep hold of the door, my torso twisted, giving me a brief but terrifying glimpse of what was behind me.

The horses were practically on top of me, their necks outstretched, muscles straining to pull their burden faster, faster, faster. Their front hooves pounded against the ground mere inches from my dragging feet. One bit of slowness on Thomas's part—or one last push of speed from the other horses—meant I would be trampled to death. And if that didn't kill me, then the brougham's waist-high wheels would certainly finish me off.

Frantic, I twisted back into my original position as Lucy again reached out for me. I desperately swung my free arm, blindly trying to connect with her. It took a few tries, but Lucy finally latched onto my hand with both of hers and pulled once more. Feeling myself being jerked inside, I let go of the door, providing enough momentum for me to clutch at the seat and pull myself into the coach.