A Proper Scandal (Ravensdale Family Book 2) (16 page)

“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, the Baron of Westchester. 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 Barnes in the eye and kept his mouth shut. The air buzzed with tension.

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.

*

Alex trudged up the fine granite stairs to the colossal Mayfair home in front of him. He peered back over his shoulder, both Minnie’s uncle and his friend Barnes pointed for him to continue. They had 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.

That was two days ago. Now he was meant to meet with Barnes’s wife, Nora. But she was grander than that. Barnes wasn’t merely a friend of Bly Ravensdale, he was the Duke of Ashbornham.

Alex sighed, about to reach for the door knob before the door swung open to a man dressed impeccably, and the jowls that rivaled a bulldog.

“Your Grace,” the dower man said as Barnes strode forward.

“The children are in the nursery. As instructed?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

A woman floated out from a room behind the hall, her hands folded in front of her. “Oh h-heaven’s sake, Isaac, the boy i-sn’t a criminal.”

Her Scottish accent was welcoming, a memory that clung to Alex in the passing years since he’d last seen her. Her face was familiar, one he had dreamed about often. A fine face with freckles and a generous smile, and hair was red as a berry.

Bly Ravensdale crowded Alex to step over the threshold. What a grand house. Alex whistled in awe, removing his cap and bowing his head to the grand lady.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Bly said behind him.

No one laughed. Besides, it was true.

The Duchess stepped forward. “I’m not g-going to ask who roughed you u-up.” She glared at Barnes and Ravensdale. Both shrugged, sticking their hands deep into their pockets. “Come have a seat w-with me. May I call y-you Alex?” She stepped forward, surprising him by wrapping him in a tight embrace. “I’ve wished to k-know what happened to you all these years. I am so happy you’ve f-found me.”

“Danny’s dead,” Alex blurted out as she drew away and placed her hand over his arm.

The Duchess nodded, her face stricken. “I know, d-dear. And so w-weren’t you once.”

Before he could make sense of that last part, she was skillfully steering him away from the two man who—for better or worse—knocked him out because he had ruined Minnie, and maybe the rest of the Ravensdale family as well.

“Watch him, Nora. He’s got nimble fingers and I don’t want that Fabergé egg I gave you for your birthday to go missing.”

“Ignore them,” she whispered. “They mean w-well. I promise. Though I wish they’d l-learn not to use their fists to s-settle all their problems. Whether Minnie wishes to b-believe it or not, she means the world to t-them.” She turned back to look at her husband and Bly, then waved. “Have a cigar or t-two, and leave us.”

The room was grand. The ceiling towered above, painted to look like the sky. It was a palace to the likes of Alex. He clutched his cap in his hand, afraid to get dirt on the fine carpet. He paused, taking in the silk covering the walls, the velvet pooling around the windows.

She waved for him to sit on a sofa. “Please call me Nora.”

Alex sank down, perched on the edge as if ready to bolt. His heart certainly thought it was a good idea by the way it was racing.

“Tea?”

He nodded again, robbed of words. It wasn’t just the place, it was Nora. She’d been a ghost these past ten years. He’d fought to find her and now he’d given up Minnie do finally do so.

“Daniel was a g-good friend of mine. We were neighbors i-in Scotland. Our parents a-assumed we w-would marry. He was k-kind, his father w-was not. W-hen it was d-discovered that he h-held affection for another m-man, he was s-sent away.”

Danny had told Alex as much. That’s why when they landed in England, they didn’t head to London. Too many people knew Daniel and his family. By his father sending him away, they’d hidden their shame. Or that’s how Danny would say it.

She sipped her tea. Her hand trembled as she set it down. “Freeing you both was n-no easy t-task. And as I s-s-aid, you were dead. It w-was a miracle that y-you came back to u-us in the carriage.”

The air grew thicker, or maybe the tea was too hot. Either way, Alex felt a fool for coming. He could tell what was next without even asking.

“Y-You’re mother’s name was Lillian. I’ve tried to discover more since then, even a husband’s name or her relatives. She’s a ghost, dear. A place l-like that swallows a person u-up.”

Alex stayed for the remaining bit of his tea, thanked the Duchess, then walked out into Mayfair finally learning his mother’s name.

There’s a world out there, son, she had said, brushing her hand over his forehead as he awoke from a nightmare. It’s filled with color. Dripping in good and possibility. One day we’ll leave here. One day I’ll show you the man you can be.

Lillian was a fine name. It felt odd to say it aloud. She’d always been Ma to him. But as for who he truly was, he still didn’t know.

*

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.

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 at 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, 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.

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

P
ARIS, 1897

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

— Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

S
he 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 of the
hôtel grisettes
, 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.

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

“Is that so?” Minnie was 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 splashing across the floor.

“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, chucking it at the 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.”