A Proper Scandal

by Paula, Rebecca

  The man, Bly, didn’t seem to care. “Where is she?” he asked again.

  Alex struggled to sit up, but was shoved back onto the floor.

  “Look familiar?” the stranger asked, thrusting a faded photograph into his face. The knife against his throat was familiar, too. That’s how they had met those many months ago. “I was told you’re her husband. So tell me. Where is my niece, Minnie Ravensdale?”

  Clever girl. Alex at least had been right about one thing.

  “I don’t know.” Sunlight from above streamed in and hit the man’s face, revealing the same hazel eyes that had become familiar to Alex, even if she had a different name than he thought. The same ones that he had fallen for last evening. No, before that. Earlier. The day he had spotted her lost in the crowd and she was too prideful to admit it. “She wasn’t here when I returned just now.”

  “Maybe we could continue without weapons?” the other man suggested.

  “Shut up, Barnes,” Bly growled, not giving up his mission to crush Alex’s ribs one by one. “I want my niece back. You’re going to tell me where she is, then I’m going to see you shot for what you did to her.”

  He hadn’t done anything to Anne except fail her. “We were never married,” he wheezed out. As soon as he said it, Alex realized the truth was worse. He had ruined her without ever meaning to do so.

  The man eased off of his chest, pulling the knife back, and then her picture. It was hard to ignore the tired look that washed over her uncle’s face or the impressive string of cursing. Alex was going to explain everything until he was hauled up onto his feet by the other man and Bly sent a steel-like fist into his stomach. There was no point in trying to wrestle free. It would be easier if they believed him. He wanted to know where she was, too. He wanted to say goodbye. Except that was a lie. He wanted Anne—no, Minnie now—for his own.

  “Perhaps it’s time for an introduction,” the man said from behind. “I think we’re all on friendly terms.” Her uncle looked anything but friendly as he stood snarling in front of Alex—a wall of sun-scorched brawn and savage-looking tattoos. “Allow me to introduce you to Bly Ravensdale. You may call me Barnes. So,” he said, spinning Alex around and grabbing him by the shirt, “now that the niceties are out of the way, tell us what you know.”

  Alex stared the man in the eye and kept his mouth shut.

  Bly barreled forward and punched Alex until he collapsed to his knees. If she was gone, he hoped to hell she was safe and on her way to someplace new. He didn’t fancy being beaten to death just for her to marry some titled bore.

  “You’re wasting time and perfectly good bones,” Barnes said. “You see, Minnie is like a daughter to the both of us. If you don’t answer him, then I’ll try. Don’t let my appearance fool you. I might not be as rugged, but my methods don’t require brawn. Why, this one time in—”

  Pain ricocheted through his skull as a fist collided into his temple, then Alex fell into darkness for the second time in as many days.

  §

  There was a time for dying, and Alex wasn’t ready. If he had survived that damned asylum, he wasn’t going to let another beating be the end of his story. Minnie had run off; Mrs. Bowen and the like hadn’t heard a word from her. He reckoned she was gone, those hazel eyes he had let into his life lost to another adventure, another grand lie. Her uncle and Barnes threatened him for information when he had finally come to, took him to a tavern and fed him a proper meal, gave him some money when they heard he had looked after the girl, then told him to never see her again.

  So what was a boy perched on the edge of life or death meant to do?

  He flipped the knife in his hand, crossing his ankles as he stared down a bloody Mr. Davoren tied to a chair on the stage of the theater.

  “I’m young yet,” Alex said, “and I’ve a lot to learn. But what I do know of the world, Mr. Davoren, is that it’s a cruel bitch, ready to tramp down a man who tries to live honestly. And since I’ve been in Whitechapel, you’ve done the same. You’re a slumlord, robbing the poor when they’ve nothing left. You turn families out to the street, condemn them to the poor house, orphan children, and make whores out of mothers. And then you take the profit you reap from the blood and sweat of honest men and women, and gamble it away at Millay’s Club.”

  Mr. Davoren, red-faced and sweaty, tried to respond, but the rags Alex had tied around his mouth to silence him did their job. He didn’t want to hear what he had to say, anyway.

  “You’ve frightened a lot of men, but I’m through with fearing this life. Maybe that’s the true sign of a man, instead of being the scum you are.” Alex signaled to the rest of the boys and Mr. Davoren was picked up and hauled out of the theater, and deposited roughly into a hackney. Boyd climbed in, then Alex, as Mr. Davoren thrashed in the corner.

  Alex bolted across the small space, grabbing Mr. Davoren by the throat and squeezing, as Boyd signaled for the driver to go ahead. He squeezed again, anger nearly blinding him. “You’ve ruined a lot of lives. It’s time to pay.”

  The hackney came to a stop a short while later. Alex and Boyd dragged Mr. Davoren out, hauling him up to front stairs to Millay’s.

  The door opened, a large man blocking the entrance.

  “Tell Mr. Ainsworth that Alex Marwick needs to speak with him.” Alex straightened, reaching around to shove Mr. Davoren toward the larger man. “And that he wants a job.”

  If Alex wasn’t going to discover who is father was, he was going to make a name for himself. One others would remember.

  Part II

  Paris, 1897

  “She was a wild, wicked slip of a girl. She burned too brightly for this world.”

  — Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

  Chapter 9

  She had the carriage stop early, jumping out to enjoy the fresh spring air after a rainstorm in Paris. The Linden trees were beginning to bud, ready to blossom, and the few early magnolias were a welcome sight against the dirtier streets of Montmartre. She clutched the box to her chest, her eyes focused on the scaffolding in the distance surrounding the new church—Sacré-Coeur. A white building so magnificent it made her miss the East every time she set eyes upon it.

  Minnie bounded up the crooked stairs, her steps thundering in the musty passage, momentarily quieting the hungry wail of the baby downstairs. “Chantal! Chantal,” she cried. “This is going to be an excellent day.”

  She skidded to a stop in front of their door, throwing a haughty glare to the drunk slumped in front of Beatrix’s room. Minnie scrunched up her nose at the smell of him. Filthy. Then again, their building smelled of morbier cheese and sewage. It was hard to tell the difference. She pointed her finger at him and whispered, “Cochon.” The drunk laughed and slid further down the wall.

  Minnie banged against her door before sweeping in with the box clutched under her arm. She stopped short to find Chantal and Vivien asleep on the pallet on the floor. “Wake up!”

  Chantal’s blonde head peeked out from beneath the ratty quilt cover. “Be quiet, Evie,” she yawned. “It’s early yet.”

  “Early?” Minnie dropped the box onto the floor, a cloud of dust rising around her feet. “It’s not early at all.” She threw back the one curtain, the dim light from the alleyway casting a soft glow into the room. “You will want to get out of bed when you hear my news.”

  Vivien groaned and pulled the covers tighter over her head. “The Queen’s decided to take you back?” she asked from beneath the covers in French.

  Minnie stuck out her tongue. Vivien would regret those words soon enough. The cat had brought back a very large mouse to feast on this lovely morning.

  “Well?” Chantal asked, rubbing at her eyes. Last evening’s rouge was smeared across her square-set face, her red lip paint ringed around her pert mouth.

  “Oh, you want to know now?” Minnie clasped hands tightly, swinging back and forth in an effort to keep her excitement at bay, but honestly, she felt like scaling the Eiffel tower.

  “Yo
u try the patience of a saint, Evie.”

  “Are you implying that you’re a saint, mon chou?”

  “Mr. Babineaux thought so last evening,” Vivien laughed, sitting up in bed.

  Chantel crashed her elbow into Vivien’s side, her pout melting to a smug smile before the two erupted into giggles.

  “Is that so?” Minnie said, unable to hide her own smile. She reached for the neckline of her dress, the fabric much too scratchy. Tonight she would pay extra for a bath and polish herself up, scrubbing away her dirty sins. Tonight she would wear silk.

  “I received a package and—” she fished her fingers lower and extracted a slip of paper, “this letter.” Minnie waved it into the air, twirling into the lone beam of sun filtering into the window.

  “And?” the girls chorused.

  “And Monsieur Peprin has asked me to entertain at his house this evening for a dinner party.”

  “No!” Chantal gasped, slapping her hand down on the mattress. “His house will be full of wealthy—”

  “Oh, yes,” Minnie continued knowingly. “And the best—”

  She stopped and grabbed a glass off the table to chuck at a rat scurrying across the floor. “I’ll be happy when I don’t have to share my room with dirty, filthy,” she switched to English, “bloody rats the size of dogs.”

  The rat was dazed, its feet clawing at the air as Minnie marched upon him. She was tired of this life. She was tired of nights filled with the promise of money, only to return to the boarding house hungry and a few francs richer. It had been four years since she’d left London, and she had nothing to show for her time working at the rundown dance hall in Montmartre as a lowly chorus girl and waitress.

  With a grip on its tail, she opened the window and chucked the rat into the alleyway. “Adieu,” she said, addressing the rat with a wave of her hand. Her farewell carried more weight as she turned and brushed her hands over her skirts, watching as Chantal and Vivien exchanged shocked looks.

  “Tonight, I finally have my chance to dance.”

  §

  The suit was borrowed, but no one else need know, especially as the fit was near perfect.

  Alex pulled at the end of his sleeve, brushing off a speck of lint. Of all nights, this was the one where he needed to make the best of impressions.

  Monsieur Peprin could give him the world tonight, and it couldn’t come at a better time. Alex had next to nothing that wasn’t meant for the theater. The dream that once seemed impossible beckoned like the prostitutes that lined the alleyway of the East End—it was a certainty if your pockets were lined enough. All Alex had to do was have Peprin pay his debts to Ainsworth, and in return, Ainsworth would help Alex purchase the theater.

  The footman announced his entrance, but that’s where the formalities ended. It wasn’t the sort of party that required one to follow rules. Alex never had been good at that, but he had struggled to learn since the fiasco in London four years prior.

  Dinner was a slow affair; course after rich course, and wine flowed as surely as the Seine. Conversation, which started out respectful, had turned rowdy and lewd. Alex managed it all without slipping into his accented English. It took concentration, but he followed along and spoke in French as if he actually were an English gentleman abroad on business. The other guests found him entertaining and he found the woman seated at the corner of the table by Peprin remarkably entertaining as well.

  Not just entertaining. Fascinating. Stunning.

  Alex wasn’t the only one who believed her an entertaining creature either. Not only was she the picture of perfection, she had others perched at the edge of their seats as she regaled the latest social gossip. He didn’t care much for the topic, but she could recite the dictionary and he wouldn’t mind.

  When dinner was finished, she threw her napkin to the table wearing a large smile. Alex could not make out her face, shielded by a black lace mask, but there was no mistaking she was beautiful. She met his stare, watching him over her empty champagne glass with interest. He turned to his neighbor to ask the dullest question he could think of to calm his racing pulse.

  The high-pitched strike of a knife against crystal drew his attention back to Peprin and the mysterious woman a few minutes later.

  “Our lovely Evangeline has agreed to entertain us this evening.”

  “If you will assist me, gentlemen,” the masked woman said, speaking over the hushed excitement of the guests. She stood and pulled out her chair, studying the eager group surrounding her. Whoever the lovely creature was, she was sure of herself and her place in the world.

  She raised her skirts and stepped onto the chair, offering Alex a peek at her long legs wrapped in black silk stockings. He choked on his champagne when he spotted the lacy frill of a scarlet garter.

  Two men assisted her onto the tabletop. With a graceful pull of her shoulders, she moved her body forward, one slow step at a time, commanding the attention of the party.

  “Oh, please sing,” clapped one woman sitting in a man’s lap.

  “Yes, sing, Evie!” The others raised their glasses, with no care to the spilling of expensive spirits onto the host’s rug.

  She twirled a lock of chestnut hair around her finger, playing to the group with practiced flirtation. “If you insist.”

  Alex wasn’t sure why this caused his blood to boil with lust, but it did. Somehow she read it on his face, because she bent forward in front of him, offering a view down her dress as she did so. “May I?” It made no difference that she was wearing black lace gloves. Her touch was like the shovel full of coal he used to feed to the boilers until they glowed red with fire. And she knew, the blasted woman. She winked at him before draining the last of his champagne.

  She snapped her fingers as if to draw him out of a trance and backed away to the center of the table. He was left holding an empty glass of champagne with the print of her red lips at its brim.

  Alex was still staring at the tempting mark when she started singing in a low voice, rich and deep, like the chocolate torte served for dessert.

  She bent her body down to those seated below, pulling at the men’s ties, swatting at the feathers stuffed in the women’s hair. The song wasn’t an aria from an opera or a dainty love song, but rather a bawdy dance hall song. The way she moved seemed as if she was stripping bare before them, yet she never touched her clothes. Step by slow step, the long blue silk skirts followed her down the table until she stood before an empty chair that magically appeared before her. With another playful glance over her bare shoulder, Evangeline lifted her skirts, stood on the chair, then leaned forward and rode its fall to the floor.

  The guests jumped to their feet, clapping and laughing as she spun back around. “Was that entertainment enough, Monsieur Peprin?”

  Alex didn’t pay attention to the older man giving her an appraising look. He recognized the look and realized the man was most likely thinking what he was, envisioning her naked in his bed. It wasn’t far of a stretch, as her dress was held up by very little and her breasts were so clearly on display for anyone willing to open their eyes.

  She was intoxicating. She was allur—

  He froze as she dipped into an exaggerated curtsey, clumsy.

  Suddenly he wanted to knock Peprin to the ground for eying the woman, because that lovely temptress, that skillful seductress, was none other than the runaway who robbed Alex blind four years ago—Anne Gibbons. No, Anne was just another role. The thief, the lovely temptress now commanding the room’s attention, was none other than Minnie Ravensdale. To hell with their lovely Evangeline.

  Merriment spread like a social disease running rampant in the darkened rooms of the house. The scandalous party took a turn to fiendish debauchery that only Paris could offer to pent-up, conservative Englishmen.

  Through the commotion, Alex noted a bottle of champagne and nicked it as he quickly followed her retreating figure into the darkened hallway. He didn’t need to be offered the opportunity for trouble when he could easily follow
the biggest piece of trouble ever known.

  §

  It was wrong of her to taunt Alex. But after setting eyes on him at dinner, he was impossible to ignore.

  In four years, his boyish cheeks had chiseled into the sharp cheekbones of a man. His lips were the same she found herself dreaming of from to time to time. When he smiled, she noted that time had not changed its effect on her. That was damned unfortunate. He was no longer that tall and lanky boy who pretended to be her husband, no—he was tall and lithe, his arms and chest filling out the fine suit. Such a transformation was a work of God. She prayed she would have an opportunity to admire it closer, to feel him beneath her hands, however wicked a wish that may be.

  Minnie caught one last glance of Alex as he stood frozen, clearly transfixed by her performance. She slipped out of the crowded room and lost herself in the maze of hallways, her hand fixed over the fluttering beat of her heart. There was no reason to feel so out of sorts.

  A long leg stretched across the darkened doorway and brought her to an abrupt halt.

  “Excuse me,” she said, a bit ruffled.

  The foot remained pinned across the doorway, even as she reached to remove the appendage from her path. Through the dark, the man leaned forward, his breath caressing her ear as he whispered, “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes.” Her face warmed. She tried to skirt around him, but he stood in front of her, advancing on her until she was pinned between him and the wall. She had just managed to charm a whole room with her singing. Minnie was certain she could charm one man into letting her pass, especially when the man was no stranger. She’d know Alex anywhere.

  He held a bottle of champagne by her left ear, his other hand hovered by her right ear. “That was a lovely performance.” His face remained a few inches from hers, still covered by the hallway’s shadows.