A Proper Scandal (Ravensdale Family Book 2) (6 page)

“You know, you’re a terrible pickpocket,” Anne said finally.

Alex shrugged. There wasn’t much he was good at, but he wanted to be. And that’s what drove him to London, as well. When the hunger for more finally possesses a man’s soul, it’s unrelenting. “You were too easy of a mark. I like a challenge.”

“We might have been friends, Alex. If the world was different and time didn’t matter.”

She shuffled a few steps ahead of him, stopping short at a great wall of bird cages that towered above them at a pet shop. The air reeked of ammonia and sawdust. Anne stood in front of the cages, her hands held tight behind her back. She watched the tiny finches inside flit about their home of bars, her eyes wide, her mouth drawn into a frown.

This was the sad girl who had run away, the one who stared at the caged birds as if she were right there beside them.

“Don’t you miss your family? Don’t you want what they can give you? I mean, Christ, Anne. You’ve just slept in a whorehouse for two days pretending to be my wife. You’re wearing rags. And now I’m supposed to just let you walk away and fend for yourself as some ballerina girl. Didn’t you have the world at your feet?”

Anne silently stripped off her glove and wiggled her finger between the bars, clicking softly to a yellow canary sitting along on a perch while the other finches hopped around the cage. “I have a parrot named Raja with fine blue and green feathers. He came with me from India.” The bird edged closer, tilting its head toward her. A soft smile spread across her lips while her eyes brimmed with tears. “Don’t you think we should let them all go?” She turned to Alex, a tear running down her cheek. She didn’t move to brush it away, she simply looked at him, imploring him to fix the world for her. And damn if he didn’t want to do just that.

Alex scratched the back of his neck before stepping closer. He wished to say yes, he wanted to say yes to bring back her smile and he didn’t understand. Before Anne, there had only been his mother and the mysterious woman who helped him and Danny escape. But Anne was different. Anne clouded his head and put a strange pressure against his chest, and that black mood that was slowly consuming him was held off by her soft voice. No doubt she could tame the rowdy crowds of London with a voice such as hers. She was a beauty through and through. A rare rose.

“No one sets a caged bird free, darling. I suppose that’s what makes them beautiful.”

Anne wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and straightened. “Of course. How foolish.” She turned and continued on her way, her head held high as she passed the towers of cages, a kingdom of kept creatures.

“If you stay out of trouble, perhaps we can sneak back one night and do so.”

She glanced back over her shoulder and stopped, looping her arm around his. She dropped her head against his shoulder for a moment, one searing moment that set his body on fire. “Wouldn’t that be lovely? Even if we never do so, what a pretty thought to think of all those birds flying off under the cover of night.”

They walked side by side until the theater rose from across a busy square. He slowed, following Anne’s lead as she took in the scene before them. The intersection was busy, the cafes crowded, and the air smelled of tobacco and garlic. Peddlers yelled, shouting for passersby to buy international newspapers. The square itself was shabby, the grass sodden, and the iron fence surrounding it rickety.

“
La vie de bohème
,” Anne whispered, unlinking their arms. She stopped in front of the theater and took a deep breath, her arms on her hips. “This could be the start of everything, Alex. Can’t you feel it?”

He shrugged, unable to take his eyes off her. Regretfully, he handed her her bag. “Listen, Anne—”

She waved him off, spinning in a circle instead and nearly tripping and collapsing to the ground.

He reached out his hand and steadied her. “I wish you the best.” He reached into his pocket, already feeling the loss of what he was about to do. He filled her palm with the money she left on the nightstand. “Try to keep out of trouble. I suspect I’ll be finding myself by the docks. If you’re in need of a friend.”

Anne quickly took the money and stuffed it inside her reticule, then looked up, beaming. “You know, you could always come find me. I’ll be the one onstage.” She winked, then spun around, leaping through the air before she laughed and knocked on the door.

And that was it of Anne, the girl he meant to rob blind. She didn’t put any food in his stomach, but she had given him something far more—a fire in his belly to conquer London.

M
innie rented a bed not far from the theater. It had been an age since she was over on the continent, but she adored how international her new home was. She roomed with three others who also worked as ballerina girls. As luck would have it, a new ballet was about to begin and the theater needed more dancers.

Her flat mates often slept in on the mornings, then left for their day full of dance, not returning until well past midnight after attending the
soirées dansantes
. In the little time they spent in the room, they laughed and chatted among themselves, sometimes practicing their moves with the aid of a chair. Minnie watched, ever the outsider. They had barely spoken to her since she moved in. When she dared ask for advice, they laughed and told her to return to her fancy balls, mocking her posh accent. They told her that the waltz while husband hunting would be the only dance she’d ever experience.

Without their help, she expected lace and tutus during auditions. She expected something far grander than the room that met her, filled with dancers in their walking dresses. They shed their bonnets and shawls, but kept on their gloves as the ballet master begin drilling them all.

The cane chair squeaked beneath her as Minnie tapped her toes in a fluttering beat. The chaperones sat on the other side of the room, looking dire, always watchful of their charges.

She bent down to retighten the ribbons on her new ballet slippers for the fifth time. It had been a luxury to buy them new, but she was required to buy all of her costume, including the silk stockings. Minnie didn’t think chasing after one’s dreams should be done in second-hand shoes.

“At the barre,” the instructor cried.

This was going to be the start to a very long day if Minnie couldn’t shake the tremble that haunted her limbs. Her hand curled over the wooden barre as she listened to the teacher calling out positions. She kept her middle tight and straight as if a string were attached to her head, pulling her upward toward the ceiling. Her body matched the instructor’s demands, bending and arching into the perfect illusion of a ballerina. Through each movement, she couldn’t help but focus back on the group of chaperones.

Her stomach knotted. What would it be like if Clara had agreed for her to pursue dance as she encouraged Minnie’s sister, Grace, to play piano? She’d still have her family, she’d have a place to go return to and be truly at home. Maybe she’d have the funds for a meal instead of having to ration some bread and rotting fruit for the week.

When Minnie was younger, when she had traveled from India to England the first time, newly an orphan and under the care of her wild uncle, and Clara had arrived at Burton Hall to be their new governess, it seemed as if she had found a caring friend. But Clara’s concern over Minnie’s clumsy balance as a small girl quickly transformed into nagging as Minnie grew and traveled with the family back to the East once her uncle was appointed a diplomat to India.

No one understood. No one cared what Minnie wished for in her own life. No one paid attention to her accomplishments, as they had with the rest of the children. Their concern was with dressing Minnie up like the rest of the debutantes and forcing her to behave for the sake of a silly title. As if a title could limit one’s ability to live. A title was trivial compared to the passion and fire that dwelled inside her, the passion to truly live a full life outside of stuffy salons and overcrowded ballrooms.

She stumbled, allowing her thoughts to get the best of her.

Focus, focus.

Arm there, leg stretched, fingers curled like so. The violin played in the small room, the chalk dust clouding Minnie’s eyes as she blinked and stifled a cough.

She survived the first round of auditions, and after a brief break for lunch, of which Minnie had none to eat, they lined up to dance a short routine. The music thrummed in her veins. Her body moved forward, her mind memorizing the positions, her heart beating them into life. While her other flat mates were out, she had practiced alone in her room. And when they were asleep, she rose with the sun to do the same. She imitated the moves they practiced from time to time, and then just practiced what she remembered of the few ballets she had attended with her family while traveling.

She closed her eyes and imagined herself on stage, wearing a beautiful costume, the lights hot on her skin as she floated over the stage in a graceful
attitude derrière
. Her fingers arched out in a gentle wave, soft, as the instructor demanded. She stretched her arm upward, pushing up onto her toes into a perfect
petit fouetté
.

It was flawless until her extended foot slipped and struck the metal can behind her. Water splashed over the floor, pooling at her feet. Her slippers slid and she collapsed, spoiling her only decent walking dress. The violinist stopped, then silence filled the room.

A painful gasp scratched up her throat, the pitiful sound of one succumbing to defeat. Minutes or hours might have passed. Time no longer felt necessary as she remained still. Minnie opened her eyes, the rest of the room staring back, judging her. She was left to sit in a cold puddle of chalky water, staining her new ballet slippers.

She spread her fingers out, pushing herself to her knees, then up to stand. Water ran down her skin, a shiver coursing over her as the water dripped from her body to the floor. Stifled giggles and whispers reached Minnie’s ears as she looked around and tugged at her dress. It felt too small. Or maybe it was the room. She cleared her throat to speak but she was interrupted.

“Again,” the instructor barked, pointing toward the door. “You’re to do that again, alone, until you have it correct or you will find no place in this ballet. You’re no ballerina, mademoiselle.”

You’re no ballerina.

The words repeated themselves in her head until she almost believed them. And it was true. What did she know of ballet but it being more than a dream? She wished to be a ballerina like her mother and so she memorized what she could, and pretended to know the rest. While everything within her wanted to flee, she stood tall and nodded. Again, she would practice until her feet bled, until her body was bruised and sore. She would give her life to be up on that stage, one way or another.

*

Minnie winced as she laced up her slippers, preparing for opening night of the ballet. Her feet were cracked and swollen. She could only wrap her injuries so much and still be able to fit her feet inside. As for her ankle, well she had sprained that nearly a week ago, and it wouldn’t be healing if she didn’t take time to rest. Minnie hadn’t, of course. She couldn’t. She tied the ribbons around it as tightly as she could stomach the pain, and wished for the best.

The other dancers didn’t complain, so she wouldn’t either. By the Grace of God, the instructor had allowed Minnie this far. She half-expected him to pull her away from the others as they were about to go onstage.

The excited murmur of the crowd beyond the closed velvet curtains filled her body with an excitement she’d never known in her seventeen years. Her heart raced, and though she would deny it if anyone asked, her stomach was full of butterflies. Nerves were natural, of course, she told herself, stretching and straightening as the murmur quieted and the first notes of the orchestra struck, plucking the tension in the air like a harp.

“Dancers, ready,” cried the call boy from the darkened wings. The stage manager and property man were amongst the fray as well. And so, to Minnie’s surprise, were a few gentleman.

“Why, you’re lovely,” an older gentleman said as Minnie stretched along with the other dancers. A few of the other girls giggled and flirted; Minnie was struck speechless.

“He’s a patron, you ninny,” one of the girls whispered to her. “You’ll do well by yourself if you remember to smile and give the man what he wants. Be innocent-like, be coy. They like that. He’s here to make us famous. We could be like Sarah Bernhardt.”

Minnie peeked over her shoulder once more, eyeing the man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. His hair was dark and even in the limited light. The only true glimpse of his age was the dash of silver by his temple. His eyes were dark, his mouth unforgiving. So this was the price of freedom? She was to be beholden to yet another man, one who would pay for her career and would claim her body if allowed?

The lights on the stage flashed, drawing back her attention. The music rose and rose, then burst, and she twirled out on the stage with the rest of the dancers, with London before her. With one extended leg and a graceful flick of her wrist, she danced across the stage as though it were home, and perhaps it was.