A PROPER SCANDAL
by Rebecca Paula
A PROPER SCANDAL
Copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Paula. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher, Rebecca Paula.
Cover design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer.
ISBN: 9780990739562
EPUB Edition
A Proper Scandal is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For information about the author, visit www.RebeccaPaula.com.
To the girls who set the world on fire with their brilliance, regardless of what others say. And to the boys who love them unconditionally.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part I: London, 1893
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part II: Paris, 1897
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part III: Paris 1900
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Note to my Readers
About Social Graces
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
Off the coast of Donegal, Ireland—1883
Madness brewed here, in the darkness, at the end of the earth. Screams echoed throughout the house to the same rough cadence as the surf that beat against the rocky shore; ravenous, unsatisfied. It was a house set on the edge of existence—a tangible reminder that all who dwelled inside were good as ghosts; damned and forgotten.
Especially for the little boy who had been buried alive below stairs for nearly one hundred and twenty-three days.
He had been banished from the little light the orderlies allowed in from the outside world above stairs, tossed from that small room where his mother had clawed at the walls until her fingernails broke and blood ran down her arms like the streams of rain that beat against the windows.
The boy yanked his small hand forward into the dark, his limb heavy and trembling. The cold metal of the shackle dug further into the raw flesh of his wrist, the chain unforgiving in its hold of the stone basement wall. The others banished to the dark along with him were eerily silent, save for a few mad whisperings. Silence meant death. There was a lot of death down in the dark, buried beneath the earth, hidden for the sins they all were.
He had learned that in only ten days of being forgotten here.
The air was thick with damp and filth. The little boy huddled closer to the wall, unable to beat the siege of shivers that racked his body as the fever raged on. He had been able to see once; now the world was fading around him. Now everything was nearly dark, except for the shadows. Everything bad moved there.
He would be good. He wasn’t mad like his mother. He wasn’t like the others locked away. But for a boy born into the house perched on the edge of the earth, silence was his only companion since they took Danny away. His mother told him once of a world beyond the house and darkened windows. She spoke of a color called green. She said it answered her soul.
The boy knew only of the tiny room above stairs with cold floors and a straw mattress reduced to stained scraps of ticking. There he spent his hours listening to her quiet murmurings, and on the good days, happier stories about the sea and selkies. But those stopped. Then he listened to her mad cries until one morning, she was cold and quiet for good. The orderlies pried him from her body, hauled the little boy away, and then exiled him to the dark.
And here he was, forgotten and certain he would be quiet soon, too, if the house had any say.
PART I
LONDON, 1893
“That crazed girl improvising her music, her poetry, dancing upon the shore…that girl I declare a beautiful lofty thing, or a thing heroically lost, heroically found.”
— William Butler Yeats
CHAPTER ONE
As far as lies went, this was more in line with the hushed, traitorous currencies that collapsed empires, not the mere fib of a schoolgirl. But when faced with Mrs. Robards, there were no half-measures. If Minnie had learned anything during her short stay at the horrible school, it was how to hold her own against the old crow.
“Your uncle writes that you’re to leave at once.” The school matron drew her spectacles down her thin nose, training her beady eyes on Minnie.
“I see, I—”
“Sit up. Posture, Miss Ravensdale. Have we taught you nothing?” Early morning sun poured in through the stained window, framing the matron as if she were God, judging at the pearly gates.
Minnie straightened, crossing her ankles as she should. Her palms were sweaty. She considered wiping them across her lap just to madden Mrs. Robards, but remained still. She had traveled to England as a child with a tiger, after all. There was little that unsettled her spirit absolutely.
All except for the threat of being thrown into the French convent by her uncle when she was expelled from another finishing school less than a year ago. He was a smart man, smarter than his brutish appearance gave him credit. She had thought he would have had the foresight of her rebellion. Then again, he had a family of his own now. And if he wasn’t away on diplomatic duties in Baghdad, she bet he’d be at Burton Hall with the rest of the children, loving them, raising them as a good guardian and father should.
She was of an age now, as Clara, her former governess and now aunt reminded her. She was English aristocracy, her brother an earl. With that came duty. So Minnie, along with her brother James, had been shipped off to be polished so they could take their proper place in society after the family returned from their travels East three years ago. Clara had had twins, one of whom was very ill and needed constant care.
Sweet James was eager as earl to take part in such ceremony. He was always the dutiful son, the honorable nephew. Minnie, however…
“Am I to leave today?” She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from beaming at Mrs. Robards. The dark study smelled of furniture polish and the paperwhites crowding the windowsill, hungry for spring light. The room filled Minnie with the memory of death.
Ladies didn’t heave exasperated sighs, nor did they strive to be any less than cordial. Mrs. Robards was terrible at following her own advice. With age came a certain permission, perhaps. And since the matron was already so well on in her years—
“Your things are being packed now.” Mrs. Robards picked up her cup of tea from the desk, eying Minnie as though she might puncture straight through to the truth. It wouldn’t be hard. If the woman had had a discerning eye, she might have been aware that the writing didn’t belong to one Bly Ravensdale, now Baron of Westchester, nor of his secretary. Minnie had paid the clerk at her favorite hat shop to pen the letter. “As you were already on probation at this school, I f
eel it is my duty to remind you, Miss Ravensdale, that reputation is all a woman has in society. And yours, well, yours is everything less than that belonging to a sister of an earl.”
“I blame being orphaned in India.” If the old woman wanted to wage a war of words against her, then heaven above, let her say so now. Besides, Minnie had suffered enough strikes of a ruler against her palms not to care much. She was a small girl of five when she arrived from India the first time. In the twelve years since, she’d faced worse than Mrs. Robards. “There is little to be done with a girl raised among adventurers.”
“No, nor girls with smart mouths.” Mrs. Robards took a sip of tea, then set it aside. “If you’re not careful, Miss Ravensdale, you will end up in some soppy romantic tragedy like those operas you so love to entertain the rest of the girls with. Men don’t wish for a wife who talks back.”
“Or ones with a mind of their own, I’m told.”
Mrs. Robards’s posture slackened as if Minnie’s response made the matron of the finishing school give up on domesticating a girl raised among wolves. “Youth and stupidity are exclusive. You will need a husband or you will be that woman. That is just the truth of our world, Miss Ravensdale. You will discover you cannot afford to believe in such frivolous luxury in time.”
As far as Minnie was concerned, husbands were entirely frivolous. Especially if a woman held strong convictions. The world was full of possibility for those willing to step outside their comfortable rules. That was the problem with the British aristocracy. It stood entirely on antiquated ceremony and ridiculed those who wished to live la vie de bohème. She had seen too much of the world to believe she was meant to sit in a parlor and embroider during the day, and serve her husband at night.
Minnie bit back her opinions. There were not welcome in a place such as Miss Martin’s Finishing School, anyway. “May I take my leave now?”
Mrs. Robards raised her hand, waving Minnie toward the door, her ashen face fallen in what could only be described as eternal frustration. The rest of the girls were in the hall when Minnie returned from exchanging her uniform for a traveling dress. A smug surge of happiness filled her chest as she lifted her chin and met the eyes of the others who would be left behind, all of them lined up as if in a receiving line for the queen. Their teasing had been unending, their words brutal. But it was Minnie who had freedom now. They could all have their silly balls and love affairs as far as she was concerned. What Minnie desired was far more.
She had practiced her escape for nearly a week now as she curled up in bed, keeping her back to the others and their ugly whispers. But now she found she didn’t want to give them the pleasure of parting words. Those would be for her to remember. They were all but branded in her heart as it picked up its beat when the door opened and the early morning buzz of London flowed in around her.
One of the maids helped Minnie with securing her hat, then supplied her with a jacket and gloves for the journey home to Burton Hall in Yorkshire. Little did they know that Minnie had no plans to be on that train.
She glanced behind her and bit back a smile, hastening down the stone stairs of the school. She felt Mrs. Robards’s eyes on her back, watchful as ever. Thirty-seven stairs felt more like three miles just then. The coachman waited at the bottom for Minnie, extending a shaky hand to help her into the carriage. She swept her gaze around the interior, satisfied with the blue valise on the floor. It would do the trick nicely. The others on the roof would be a loss, a small sacrifice for the greater cause at hand.
She settled back onto the velvet bench and straightened her skirts before drawing in a deep breath. “Oh.” Minnie fluttered her hand over her chest, the perfect imitation of ladylike distress. “There should be two bags with me in the carriage.”
The coachman stepped back, his hand on the carriage door. “There were only these by the door, miss.” His bushy white brows slanted downward, adding another crease to the wrinkles crowding his face.
“Silly me.” She forced her eyes to water as if overcome with worry. “I must have forgotten one in the hall as I made my goodbyes.” She sighed, wringing her hands in her lap for good measure. “They were quite rushed, you understand.”
If he was annoyed with her faux flightiness, he hid it well. “Of course, miss. Just a moment. Then we will be on our way.”
“Thank you.”
Minnie shifted over the bench seat, scooting closer to the other side of the carriage as soon as the door shut. She waited a beat, her hand resting on the handle, slowly pulling it down until the latch clicked open, her heart thrumming against her chest.
Any moment now.
When his foot scuffed against the first granite step up to the school, she closed her eyes and pushed the door open, grabbing the valise at her feet.
She jumped out into the street, creeping around the carriage. Minnie peered around the black lacquer, watching as the coachman approached the miserable schoolmarm. The two spoke at the doorstep, the busyness of Camden Street drowning out their exchange.
Go inside, go inside. Go. Inside.
The headmistress nodded, scowling down at the carriage, no doubt intended for Minnie and her incompetence, before the heinous woman followed the coachman inside to search for a bag that didn’t exist.
Minnie shot off, dashing through the foot traffic until she reached the first corner, then broke into a run and headed south to Leicester Square. She held her hat as she threw her head back and laughed, watching the beautiful morning transform into a sacred memory. She had plotted for months and finally she was free of that dreadful school, free to pursue her dreams, free of her guardian’s misguided plans.
Minnie Ravensdale was a proper runaway now.
*
They were faster than they looked—much.
Alex peeked over his shoulder, swatting away the line of laundry as he dashed through the alleyway. A petticoat stuck to his front, nearly taking off his cap as he tried to fling it off. His lungs burned as he took another corner, waiting for the sound of the chase to fade away. They were persistent, he’d give them that.
“Marwick!”
He’d come to hate the name he’d given himself. Though if he hadn’t stolen that silver platter from the shopkeeper this morning, maybe he wouldn’t be running blindly through the chaotic traffic of Whitechapel Street right now.
A carriage narrowly missed barreling into him, threatening to flatten him in the street. He missed one and barely escaped a second.
“Marwick! You filthy mick bastard. Mr. Davoren will hear of this, you’ll be sure of that, you will.” The man’s voice got lost in the street noise, carried only to Alex over the fetid air of factories and tenements.
Alex stumbled backward, scrambling for footing. The world was loud today, everything out of order, and yet he felt as though he could knock the city on its feet given the chance. He coyly jumped around the rear of a meat wagon and held on to its rails as it continued on its way.
His breathing even though his heart still raced, Alex jumped off at the next intersection, finding a corner to lean against and gather himself. The trouble would have been worth it if he hadn’t been caught. Instead the silver platter had been taken back and his pockets were all the more empty for it. That’s what happened when he caved to his hunger. His eyes became greedy. He wiped the blood from his lip and cheek, peering down the street. Little spoke of life this early spring day. The city was drab, the colors of his childhood. They spoke of the same misery. Almost.
And then there was a sight that nearly knocked him on his arse.
It was as if Heaven opened its gates and an angel had descended to walk among the filthy sinners of Whitechapel. A well-dressed angel who could put food in Alex’s stomach.
He pressed tighter against the brick façade of a butcher shop, his cap pulled low as he studied the girl. The fancy feathers on her hat stood tall, waving to passersby as if to declare: I have deep pockets. Her silk dress, livelier than the half-dead blooms of the flower sellers, was fa
r too fine for an unaccompanied girl in this part of the city. Her boots were well-polished, free of holes and not worn from work. No doubt, she was a lady through and through.
If she was an angel, then Alex was the devil himself, pushing off the wall to trail behind. She was an easy target, a lamb in the company of prowling wolves. He hadn’t been the only one to notice, either. A stout man elbowed through the crowd, shouting after her.
The girl startled, dropping the handkerchief clutched in her hand. She bent to retrieve it, jostled by the others around her on the busy street. Alex shouldered through everyone until he was near enough to fetch it for her, his hand ready to snatch the reticule at her dress’s waist, before her eyes met his.
He sucked in a breath, struck. Men like Alex were meant for the shadows, not to be seen, certainly not to be studied as she did now. Two hazel orbs remained fixed on him, wide with fear and comprehension. She blinked and broke the moment, sprinting for a narrow alleyway in search of an escape. The bird wouldn’t find a way out, only empty pockets and torn petticoats. Cries for help had a way of falling upon deaf ears in this part of the city.
Feckin’ eejit. She’d get herself killed.
It’d be best to turn around. He had a mission here in London and he’d get nowhere if he went and landed himself in more trouble. But with her retreating figure and the last glimpse of that bright dress of hers, he followed. It was easy to keep pace with a drunk and a girl weighed down with heavy skirts. To her credit, she was handling the situation brilliantly, if not for the last turn into a dead end.
Alex skidded to a stop and peeked around the corner as the girl drew back a blue valise and struck her assailant. The stout man faltered a step, but it was no use. A taller man emerged from the shadowed doorway holding a rag. The men hadn’t seen Alex. He could slip away, search for another to pickpocket. He was a bastard for thinking so, especially when the rag was likely soaked in ether.
A Proper Scandal (Ravensdale Family Book 2) Page 1
