A Proper Scandal

by Charis Michaels

  “No more lies, Elisabeth?”

  “No, not lies. I have never lied.” She sighed. She reached the oak tree and leaned against it. “I will simply describe the foundation in vague terms.”

  “Fine, no more secrets.”

  Elisabeth turned her head and stared at Quincy, whistling as he emptied a watering can into a pot of ivy on other side of the garden. “Sometimes we keep secrets for a very good reason.”

  “Yes, and some secrets are happier than others,” Lillian shot back. Elisabeth nodded and looked away.

  Lilly marched on her. “You must tell him. All of it. Tell him everything, just as you’ve told me. If you do, and if he turns away, then we’ll know what he’s made of, and it will be proof that you would never suit. It will be a great disappointment, but you can cease thinking of him forevermore. On the other hand, if he is charitable, as I think he will be, then . . . ”

  “Yes,” agreed Elisabeth, “then . . . What then?”

  Lillian crossed her arms over her chest. “Elisabeth, is it possible that you were so traumatized by that night that you are, in a manner, put off from any sort of intimacy with a man? Perhaps, ever? Is there some barricade in your mind that will prevent affection or closeness? Is this it? Darling?”

  Elisabeth considered this. She considered how she felt on the balcony with Rainsleigh last night, of how she felt in his library today. Heat rose to her cheeks. She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. I have seen this with many girls in my work, but it is not the way I feel. It was mostly one incident, the second night. There is no barricade, as you say.”

  “If this is true, then you owe it to yourself to explore where a courtship may take you.” She reached out and brushed an errant curl behind Elisabeth’s ear.

  Elisabeth leaned her head back against the tree. “So you say, but I cannot even think of how I would raise the topic. ‘By the by, we’ve met before. Remember me from when you thought I was a whore, and we escaped a brothel together? Remember that night?’ ”

  Lillian laughed sadly. “Well, that would do it, certainly. But you will think of the right words at the right time, of this I have no doubt. Any woman who can leap up from the table and rattle off a man’s accomplishments in one breath can surely string together a few sentences to get the conversation going. I shall never forget the expression on Lord Rainsleigh’s face when you defended him at the party. There is something special here, Elisabeth, something magical.”

  “Hmmm,” she mused, shoving off the tree. It felt better, somehow, for having explained the haunted history to Lillian. Perhaps she should have done it long ago. Perhaps she could, indeed, tell Rainsleigh and survive that too. Not likely, but some bright, hopeful place inside had taken on a new glow. She tucked Lillian’s arm in hers, and they began walking toward the house. “First things first. I will apply for his charity prize. If I manage to win that, it’ll be magic, indeed. In the meantime, let us wait and see.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  May 15, 1811

  Dear Lord Rainsleigh,

  I am writing in response to your kind request to call. Your respectful manners do you credit, and on behalf of my aunt and myself, I thank you for your formality and your consideration of custom. I am honored. However, I hope you will not take offense when I insist that, at the moment, I must prioritize my desire to win your charity prize over any social or personal pursuits I may explore (with you).

  To that end, I respectfully decline your request. I cannot think it fair for me to spend companionable time with you beyond the bounds of the application process—not when other charities have only paperwork to promote their causes. I should like to earn your donation impartially, based on merit and need, as would any other group in town. Conversely, I would not wish to jeopardize my chances for the donation if you and I were to, in a manner of speaking, “not get on.”

  In short, my work is too important and our need too great to indulge the risk. I hope you understand.

  Warm regards,

  Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes

  May 15, 1811

  Lady Elisabeth,

  I received your note. Enclosed is a bank note for £1,000 sterling, which I cede to your foundation as an independent donation, outside the bounds of the official charity prize. With this, I hope you feel less conflicted about competing interests, other charities, or what might happen if we “don’t get on.” I would see you.

  Rainsleigh

  May 16, 1811

  Dear Lord Rainsleigh,

  Your generosity is, indeed, impressive (if not entirely sincere), but of course I could never consider a relationship, romantic or otherwise, with someone who dashed off £1,000 simply to speed things along.

  As much as I would love to earn any donation for my cause, I cannot, in good conscience, accept the money in exchange for my own time. For better or for worse, I am not for sale. If you would but allow me to furnish the completed application, sit for any interviews, and lead a tour of my facility—as required by the official contest rules—you would appreciate the irony of this statement.

  Please find the bank note attached, with regret and thanks.

  Elisabeth

  May 16, 1811

  Let the applications, interviews, and facility tours commence.

  Which best suits your immediate schedule?

  Rainsleigh

  May 17, 1811

  Lord Rainsleigh,

  I have not yet completed the application, which, as I’m sure you know, is exhaustive. Naturally, I want to get it right. I cannot imagine that you are ready to schedule interviews or tours when the written component is outstanding.

  EHB

  May 17, 1811

  My lady,

  Imagine that I am.

  The paperwork interests me far less and may wait. Let us tour or interview presently—any step that allows us to pass time together. Name the hour, day, and location.

  Rainsleigh

  May 17, 1811

  Rainsleigh,

  As you wish. You may tour my foundation in Moxon Street near Regent’s Park at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, if it suits your schedule. We are the sandstone building with the blue door.

  For reasons you would know if I had been given the opportunity to complete the application, there are no signs or direction on the building; our blue door will be your guide. It is the only one in the street. I look forward to introducing you to our program.

  EHB

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “And where do you procure these girls, Elisabeth?”

  Rainsleigh followed her down a sunny hallway of her foundation building in Moxon Street. So far, he’d seen the library, an art studio, a large parlor, a music room, Elisabeth’s office, a tidy garden, and the laundry. He’d been introduced to several reticent but polite girls, all of whom regarded him with a mix of curiosity and distrust, and four pleasant members of staff.

  It was thorough and impressive, whatever it was—but this was the thing. He could not say precisely what he was touring or who, exactly, were the benefactors.

  The irony was, he’d approached the tour not really caring about the bloody charity. His purpose had been to see Elisabeth. How gratified he’d been that she had answered the door herself and led him on a private tour. But after an hour, his curiosity could no longer be tamped down.

  “I beg your pardon?” she called, two steps ahead. Her voice was light, but she tensed and missed half a step.

  He stopped walking. “These girls. Your patrons. Where did you come upon them? How are they chosen to receive your care? Where are their parents? Are they orphans?”

  She nodded her head, but her voice was off. “They are orphans, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Which manner is that?”

  “I believe I mentioned before that we remove them from deplorable situations in the slums of the city.”

  “Such as?”

  She turned to face him and raised her chin. “Surely you are not so wealthy that you are unacqua
inted with poverty and cruelty, inhumanity—”

  “On the contrary, I am intimately acquainted with poverty and cruelty. It’s why I chose to award these donations from the start.”

  “I thought the donations gained publicity for your shipping company.”

  “That too. But you’ve just changed the subject. It was a legitimate question for a philanthropist who is motivated to effect change for the better, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh. Yes, well. You’ll forgive me if I am caught off guard. I was under the impression that your motivation was to see me.”

  He nodded, chuckled, and ambled closer. “Fair point. It was to see you. But now you have sidestepped my question a second time. Surely you know this only drives my curiosity.”

  “But I gave you an ans—”

  “I am rich, Elisabeth,” he said, stepping closer, “not stupid. On the contrary, my ability to discern evasiveness is one of the skills that has afforded me all of the lovely money that I now want to donate to your work. But first, I should like to know exactly to what and for whom I donate.” He leaned closer with every word. His face was only inches from hers.

  She sucked in a quiet breath. After half a beat, her chin went up. “The girls here were working as prostitutes when they came to me.”

  He stared.

  “They were rescued,” she went on, “from brothels. Or bordellos. Houses of ill-repute. They were brought here to start a new life.”

  Rainsleigh searched her face, his brain clambering to catch up. He prided himself on anticipating every given outcome to any situation. He had not anticipated this. “I’m sorry; did you say—”

  “Yes,” she said. “You heard correctly. After time with me—sometimes months, in other cases, years—we send these girls out into the world as fully healed, gainfully employed young women who can support themselves with honest work.”

  Rainsleigh struggled to digest this. “Does your aunt know?”

  “Of course she knows. This work has been central to my life for as long as—well, for as long as I have lived in her care. She is one of my greatest benefactors, in fact. She pays the salary of our nurse—no small gift—and I am eternally grateful. You will meet her—the nurse—unless, that is, you find that you have lost your appetite for the tour.”

  “No,” he said, stalling, reeling. “You’ll forgive me if I take a moment to work my head around this . . . detail.” He looked around the hall as if he was only just seeing it. “This certainly solves the mystery of your evasiveness. I had begun to think you were harboring a dragon in the cellar.”

  “No dragon. Though I have rescued the girls from the mouth of something far graver. But you need not agree. Ultimately, you don’t need to support us with your donation. We have frightened away many a benefactor by putting too fine a point on the precise nature of our work.”

  “And this works?”

  “Not really, but I do it reflexively now, I’m afraid. I am not ashamed of the work I do, nor of the girls I serve, but a vaguely worded summary yields more resources than the glaring truth. People are frightened of certain words.”

  Rainsleigh nodded. “I do not scare easily.” He turned away. “But I am surprised.” He turned back. “How did you become interested in this cause, in particular? Service to prostitutes?”

  She nodded. “I should mention that once the young women enter into our care, we cease referring to them as prostitutes and simply call them girls. To answer your question, however, I . . . I met a young woman once.” She faltered now, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. Her voice had gone off. He was confused by this. Surely he wasn’t the first person to ask this question.

  She took a deep breath. “This young woman . . . escaped a horrible place. She was terrified, running for her very life and entirely alone. Someone had—” She paused and looked at the floor, then out the window.

  Rainsleigh waited while she composed herself. Doubtless, it was difficult for a woman of her station to manage the depravity that was inherent to prostitutes. But this returned him to his original question: why this? For a gently bred lady? Why this societal ill for her?

  “Someone came to the aid of this girl,” she finished. Her eyes darted away. “In the years that I’ve been helping these girls, we have learned that the escape from the brothel is only the beginning. What comes next is the real work. But the rewards are so very great. In essence, we are giving these young women their lives back. After coming to know this girl’s plight, I could not turn a blind eye.”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to reconcile what she said with what any other gently bred lady might say. Then again, no gently bred lady in his acquaintance would venture anywhere near the topic of rescuing prostitutes. It should have alarmed him. It should have put him off. Instead, he found his respect for her only grew.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “And so you, the daughter of an earl, niece to one of society’s grande dames, prowl the streets of London, looking to rescue—and forgive me if I apply the wrong term to the wrong incarnation—prostitutes?”

  “Yes.” The blue-green of her eyes flashed with pride. “This is who my charity aims to save, and that is how the girls come to us. However, I personally do not participate in the work of locating or rescuing the girls—at least not as a front-line raider, out in the streets. I employ a handful of young men—you saw one of them at my aunt’s party. He was with me in the stairwell. He has a team of lads with a similar . . . set of skills, and they discover new victims. Then they plan clandestine raids and rescue them.”

  He stared at her a moment, allowing each new detail to find a place in the rapidly reordered impression of her. “And what if they do not wish to stay here with you? These rescued girls?”

  She sighed deeply, her expression turning indignant. “They all wish to stay here, my lord. Some may be temporarily lost to the lifestyle because it’s all they’ve known but not for long. Not when we show them a different way. No girl is forced to remain in our care, but I am happy to report that very few leave after we explain an alternative and what we will do to care for them, what future they may come to know.”

  “And afterward? When you’ve served them? They go?”

  “Yes. They go. They become chambermaids. Or kitchen help. Or find jobs in a mill. We do not release them until we’ve settled them in safe and sustainable employment. This is, you can imagine, one of the biggest challenges, and I do much of this work myself. While the boys discover and rescue the girls, I work with certain churches and other ‘progressive’ organizations to find positions for them in honest work. In between, they are taught by tutors, treated by the nurse, and enjoy the motherly or sisterly care of my carefully chosen staff. These generous women prepare them in every other way. It is an ambitious undertaking, I assure you.” She smiled at him. “My life’s work. I am very protective of it, I’m afraid. And quite proud. I did not originally intend to apply for your donation because the richest benefactors are typically put off by it, as I’ve said. But when we . . . er, met . . . ” Her smile wavered and she looked at her hands. She appeared disinclined to go on.

  Rainsleigh cleared his throat. “Lady Elisabeth?” he said carefully, “can I trouble you for a cup of tea?”

  She looked up, puzzled. She gave a small, sad smile. He realized that she assumed she’d already lost. You may have the bloody money, he wanted to say.

  It would be precipitous to tell her, but he knew this much. The charity was deserving, well-run, and deeply felt. The money was hers—the easiest thing to give. The greater challenge was accepting this new perception of Elisabeth herself. In his mind, he had already made her his wife.

  Before he could catch himself, he mumbled aloud, “Prostitutes. Why does it have to be prostitutes?”

  “For the exact reason that you’ve just asked. What interests me most,” she went on, “are the very people from whom everyone else turns away.”

  “Please don’t mistake me,” he said. “I’m not judging you or your patrons,
I’m cursing my own life. My father was a great purveyor of prostitutes, as you may have heard.”

  For this, she made no response. “You wanted tea,” she said, leading him around a corner and down a dim stairwell. “Do you mind if we take tea in the kitchens?”

  He nodded and followed her down. “My father sought to employ prostitutes,” he said, filling the silence. “Not to rehabilitate them. It was a cornerstone of his reputation, actually. I believe he made it his goal to sleep with every whore in London. Such lady-loves were with him on the day he died. They allowed him to drown in three feet of water.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairwell, and she said, “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “Don’t be. Gladdest day of my life. But he is why I bemoan your work. Just selfish, I suppose. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to distance myself.”

  “I understand.”

  She didn’t, he feared. “I cannot tell you how unsettling it was to see one—or two, or three—of them seated around the table at breakfast. How wrenching the ensuing fight between these women and my mother. Not that she was any more discerning. There were times when we barely had enough money for food, and she would return from London with new gowns and jewelry—luxuries that she could have only earned one way. ’Tis no different. I burned with shame over her exploits. It would be difficult to say, actually, which of my parents’ proclivities humiliated me more.”

  She hovered on the bottom step. “Lives can be damaged in so many ways.”

  He smiled grimly, staring down at her, and she looked back with an expression so beautiful his heart lurched. Behind her, an empty kitchen glowed softly by the light of a dying fire. The bustle of girls and staff above stairs was a distant hum. They were alone.

  “You’ll forgive me if I find myself wondering why you could not deal in lepers, or prisoners, or lunatics? Some other exiled population.”

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid. The reality is, any money you give me will make a stir in the press. People will associate my work with you. We both know this is true. If you wish to avoid prostitutes because of some family history, well, then . . . ”