A Proper Scandal (Ravensdale Family Book 2) (29 page)

It was damn painful to move, but if he remained still, there was a strong possibility he would go mad from the thoughts polluting his mind. Alex fell in to a rhythmic march—step, bounce, step, bounce, as he trudged across the stage with the rubber ball. The shadows across the stage had changed, so he had been at it for some time. Since his return to London, it felt as though he was perilously close to a ledge and everything he had fought for was tipping over from lack of balance.

All the more, he was hungry to prevent that end. Almost rabidly so. There was an anger in him that had been dormant for years, but now it consumed him. He had lost his dream and his Minnie.

Minnie.

Ainsworth had seen that he had a doctor but he refused to help Alex with the purchase of the theater. What he had saved over the years wouldn’t be enough. And without her, what did he have left?

The ball dropped from his hand and bounced its way off the stage as he looked up into the light streaming through the ceiling rafters.

“Alex!”

He swung his gaze to the small figure advancing, hurdling over the debris of the rotting theater in awkward bounds.

“Alex,” the voice yelled again. “The fight.” Headly limped in, folding down to his knees to catch his breath. “It’s Sullivan, he’s down.”

Alex rose an eyebrow. There was always a fight waiting for him.

“He’s knocked out, Alex,” Headly said. “And Callahan wants to keep fighting. No one wants to go up against him, but there’s a fortune to make. Everyone’s betting on the poor sop Callahan is going to kill.”

The others filed in, standing in what felt like a funeral procession in front Alex by the stage.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Boyd cautioned as Alex raced past them, down the aisle, to crawl out into the street.

That was where they were wrong. He had already had everything taken away from him. There was nothing left to lose. And if he was being honest, he had died that night a few months back. He couldn’t go back and change what happened, and he certainly couldn’t keep living under Ainsworth’s thumb, waiting for him to retire, if Alex wanted to make something of himself.

He was breathless by the time he shoved through the crowd at a nearby warehouse, the rancid air in the small room turning his stomach sour. He jumped into the ring and charged the bloody figure of Callahan, striking him at the temple. Hands hauled Alex back at the insistence of the jeering crowd.

He felt a hand on his chest, brown beady eyes staring only a few inches away, as words about rules were shouted. Outside the ring was chaos. Screams and bets. And none of it mattered to a man like Alex now. He shook out of his shirt, wiping his arm over his brow. It wasn’t wise to let Callahan see the mangled flesh still healing across his middle, but he couldn’t fight with the shirt on either.

Then there was the start, and Callahan barreled forward, relentless in his pursuit of Alex, but Alex didn’t care much. It was a hard-fought battle of crushing bones and bruised skin. The screams behind him transformed Alex into a feral animal, fit for a madhouse. He felt as if he was back there, trapped in the dark and screaming for help, chained and left without food for days.

He clawed and bit, fumbled and swung, only to be knocked down. Blood swam in his mouth and his vision blurred. He labored for air as the pain wracked his body. He was almost sure his nose was broken, and the shoddy stitches across his middle had split open. The ground spun as he struggled to his feet, swinging at empty air as Callahan danced around him, beating him to the ground again. But Alex stood, again and again, even when he could no longer see and felt the world slipping away. And with one lucky strike, his swollen fists connected with flesh and the crowd fell silent.

Alex collapsed on the filthy ground, his face connecting with the stone floor as he struggled for another breath. The cheers beat his ears, assaulting and unkind. When he struggled to open his eyes, he thought he saw her looking down at him from the crowd, a proud grin on her face, but it was only a memory. She was gone now. He had ruined her and Minnie could never be his. He was bleeding out on sawdust and sludge, a fitting death for a guttersnipe. He always knew that dark waited with its companion death for him.

Someone was yelling above him. “Ya crazy son of a bitch.”

He thought it was maybe Danny, but he was dead. The world spun as Alex was turned onto his back, the dim lights from above blinding what little left he could see. He tried to speak, but everything felt broken.

“Ya won, Alex. Ya won.”

P
ARIS 1900

“There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche

M
innie could die there at the dinner table.

She circled the brim of her champagne glass, listening to its mournful hymn, thinking it fitting that it sounded like someone’s funeral. It certainly felt as though she was attending one.

It must have been four or five in the morning. The night’s darkness was fading to a new day, even though she was still stuck in the one before. She could not remember the last time she was awake for the daylight hours. Somehow, she had transformed into something of a nocturnal creature, out to play with the wicked spirits of Paris at night, resigned to sleep off her sins during the day. Once, it had been fun. Now, it was just the same endless dribble with the same boring faces.

She reached out and tipped the champagne glass over. The liquid spilled over the crowded table, seeping into the fine tablecloth, stretching out for the others. No one noticed.

Minnie eyed the silver spout of the absinthe, the candles licking the metal, as another icy drop fell. One slow drop at a time was how she counted the minutes.

Drop.

“Evie?”

Drop.

Minnie tapped her fingers in the puddle of champagne, the liquid spraying her fingertips as a bored smile spread over her face. She squinted to focus her gaze.

“Evie?”

Drop.
Another splash over the sugar cube. The green liquid rose in its glass with a remarkable lack of speed. It would be her funeral before she could have another drink.

It was probably for the best. She was a little further into her cups than she thought. She hoped she could go to bed soon. Then the fact that the world was spinning would not matter.

Laughter filled her ears, familiar but foreign all the same. Nothing had fit quite right for some time.

Only a few things were certain. It was a certainty that men desired her, as evidenced by the man’s lusty laugh shaking her awake now. It was a certainty that she had a fair deal of money now. It was a certainty that she had grown tired of the man sitting at the other end of the table, flirting with another actress.

She stared at the man’s goatee as she tried to speak. She was so bored she could not even manage small talk. She swiped the cigar between his lips and took a puff herself, throwing her head back to gaze up at the night’s stars, but the sky was a little warmer now, the darkness was fading. Minnie sank into the oversized chair, kicking her feet up to the side as a whirl of skirts swirled into the air. She let out a wicked giggle, amused as she arched her back over the other side and tipped backward, losing herself in a cloud of cigar smoke. A hand ran over the rounded crests of her breasts, warm lips traveled their way up her throat.

“Evie.”

Alex wouldn’t call her that name. She inhaled and smelled the sweet honeysuckle in the air, nothing of his orange and cedar soap. But she pretended for a moment that it was his hand skimming her arm, his lips blessing her skin in their search for more. His body there with her and his voice, calling out to her. She lost herself in the momentary pleasure of such a dream.

The hands that pulled her back to sitting upright weren’t the right ones, either. They were too smooth and a bit too wide to be the ones that set her body on fire. The cigar was pulled out from between her lips as a hungry mouth took hers, tasting of absinthe. It was a sloppy assault, even if it did leave her breathless as she was hauled to her feet.

“It’s late and I want you in bed,
mon chaton
.”

The eyes staring back at her weren’t blue. The face a little rounder, and his smile not nearly as charming as the one she remembered so fondly. When her lover kissed her again in front of the others, Minnie thought something of hers had been misplaced. There was no point in searching for it. It belonged to someone else entirely, across the ocean, far from her and this tedious dinner party.

Glasses clinked together, drowning out the debate of politics and art. And if a smell could be intoxicating, Minnie feared the honeysuckle would soon consume her and weigh her down until she drowned in the sweet floral perfume. But her lover’s hand helped her move forward. His hands were greedy, first dragging her inside, then again once when the pair reached bed and they covered her body, seeking pleasure.

His body demanded hers and she gave it willingly, but not entirely. She was still missing that one piece that had made her whole. So instead, she focused her eyes over the man’s shoulders, out of her bedroom window as the sun rose over Paris; the start of another day she would never see.

*

The clasp on her bracelet was being troublesome. She frowned, chasing the string of diamonds as they slid over her silk glove in a frustrating circle. Maybe it was the champagne, but Minnie felt the same way.

How embarrassing to be so out of sorts for the world to witness. She should extend her apologies and return home for an early evening. It was early evening still, right?

“Do you need help, miss?”

She looked up at the maid standing before her. It was fortunate that someone offered before she made an irreparable fool of herself. In the morning, she was sure the scandal rags would talk about her disheveled state. They loved to share her scandals just as often as they loved to gossip about her latest gown or stage role.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, casting a hardened glare at the other women. She hoped they would over-powder their faces and look like clowns on their return to the party.

Everyone was so eager for Minnie to finally fall from grace. If she had learned anything, it was that people wanted to be at the top more than anything. So when she found herself some prize of Paris, it was only natural to be living in a constant bubble of hatred and false praise. Competition was fierce between courtesans, for the truth of it was, beauty waited for no one. There was always someone younger, always a fresh face to lure away men. But Minnie had taken it upon herself to be more than another
les boulevardiers
. She used her travels to win over crowds with tales of adventures, used her wits to make for interesting conversation. She made herself more than a pretty face and for that, she had been awarded with callers upon callers; princes, even.

The maid made quick work of the clasp and asked if Minnie needed further assistance, but she had already turned, ready to exit into the crush and seek out her host to apologize for having to leave early. Like most nights, her wishes were pushed aside for the wants of others.

Those who thought they were her friends, who had fooled themselves into believing that she allowed anyone close, dragged her from group to group like some prized pony. She smiled until her face hurt at the compliments on her china silk yellow gown, the way the light danced in her chestnut hair, and her latest stage role. For some time now she felt she had been floating outside of herself, carrying on with the motions of life without actually living.

“Evie?”

She blinked, forcing her smile to spread further to avoid appearing embarrassed at being caught in her daydream. Minnie was better than the gossip spread about her.

“Your portrait,” a man said. He had the strangest mustache—waxed thin and curled into coils on either side of his mouth. It made it difficult to concentrate when he spoke. No doubt, he had heard that she was no longer in keeping with Monsieur Pilliard by the way his green eyes lingered over her lips.

“Oh, yes.” She took in every bit of him, from the way his honey hair held in a fashionable wave, the way his mouth curled at the corners, all respectability on the surface. “I’m looking forward to seeing what Master Rauldaundi captured with his brush. His show last year was quite breathtaking.”

The others surrounding them nodded their approval. She could last a little longer for the evening if their admiration held out.

Then she was moving once more, ushered toward the front of the crowded room to stand beside a row canvases draped in velvet, ready to be revealed to the world. Her likeness, beneath one.

“There is no need for nerves,” Vivien said, leaning close.

And there wasn’t any reason to be nervous. If the painting turned out awful, the spectators would riot because Evangeline Dupree was a courtesan and socialite, acclaimed for not only her acting, but for the way her face had a look of heaven etched upon each curve. Or so it was often said in the papers.