A Proper Scandal (Ravensdale Family Book 2) (7 page)

*

For a man such as Alex, there was little life held in way of expectations. He could muddle through with the rest, put in a hard day’s work at the docks, or at the iron factory. He could eventually settle and find a good Irish wife from Whitechapel. And then he could have a family of his own. It would never be easy, but life ever hardly was.

But he hadn’t come to London to merely to survive. He had come to make the city his because he had nothing else.

He pulled his cap lower over his eyes, the sun too bright as it poked out from beneath the low clouds stringing across the London sky. There wasn’t work for him at the docks this morning. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d been out fighting the night before and overslept even though he had spent the night in the streets.

A flower seller at the corner held out a bunch of blossoms in her hands, thrusting them at him. “Flowers, flowers for your lady.” Her accent was thick, her letters encased with the hard edge of Russian.

Alex shrugged her off, about to step away before he spun around and grabbed a wilted yellow flower. He stuffed it into the buttonhole of his jacket before he could think further of it, ignoring the nagging suspicion that it reminded him of Anne.

Anne, the ballerina.

He sniffed, rubbing his nose along his shirtsleeve as he rounded the corner of Whitechapel Street. London Hospital rose above the horizon. It was a mighty building, and hard to miss with the line outside waiting for care once the gates opened. Across the street stood Millay’s Club. It was a social club by reputation, but was a casino as well. There was a rumor there was a boxing ring in the basement. But a place such as Millay’s was beyond Alex’s reach. He doubted they’d let him in with the tattoos etched into his hands and arms from his time in the brotherhood back in Liverpool.

Back when he had Danny by his side before he was shot dead. Living on the streets had made a thug of them both, even a titled gentleman like Danny.

Alex ducked behind a row of vendors, nicking an apple, then slide into the darkness of a narrow alleyway. At the end stood a door half on its hinges. By all means it was simple, nothing extravagant, but to him, well it was everything.

He peeked over his shoulder, glancing over the paper advertisements posted against the brick walls. He couldn’t read a word, but the woman’s smile resembled Anne when she didn’t think Alex was looking.

She was a ghost who followed him around these past few weeks. He’d be lying if he didn’t miss having her near. Anne made him feel safe, as foolish as that sounded. He wished he understood why.

The door gave way and he bent at the waist, stooping inside another cavern of darkness. He held his breath, listening closely as he crept toward the stream of light pouring down from the hole in the roof. Pigeons cooed overhead, their wings fluttering in the musty air.

The darkness lifted enough to the little light streaming in. He sucked in a gulp of air, his hands still clenched in fists. He hated the dark and the secrets it guarded.

The wood floor beneath his feet sagged from age as he circled the space, his eyes raking over the rows of seats beyond where an audience once sat in this grand mistress of a theater. Now it was reduced to a habitat for mothballs and rats. But when Alex was finished with it, it’d be so much more.

Because a man like Alex could do two things: he could go along with the rest and live as everyone did in Whitechapel, or he could make a name for himself by being a man of property. He’d spent too much of his life chasing for coin to line his pocket. There was always another who held him in a grip, dictating his life to profit their own.

He was used to living at the edge of the earth. He was accustomed to not knowing who he truly was. Danny had joked he was the bastard son of a duke. The quest for the truth drove him here but he was practical after all. He didn’t expect to find himself some secret heir to a fortune. He didn’t expect to be much of anything except for who he could become.

His mother loved the theater. She told him stories she had seen on stage when he woke during the night from the screams that echoed throughout the hall. He’d start with this theater. Then he’d raise more capital to buy more and more of London. He’d make a man of himself, in spite of his birth.

The door at the far end of the aisle beneath the balcony swung open.

Alex clutched the knife he’d began wearing strapped to his braces. London was above all a city of thieves and vendettas. For all he knew, the coppers had finally tracked him down for what had happened in Liverpool.

“Alex, they made us.” Boyd shouted as Mr. Davoren’s men pushed him forward into the light. Healy was close behind, the ten-year-old wiggling and jumping, trying to escape.

He’d met both by the docks, two barefooted street urchins. That didn’t last long. Alex took his wages and bought both boys some shoes, then found them a place to stay and some food. Boyd was nearly sixteen, and found a job at the iron factory, along with one for young Headly.

Mr. Davoren emerged last, standing at the stairs leading up to the stage, his arms akimbo. Both boys had knives pressed against their necks.

“Mr. Marwick, I thought we had an agreement,” Mr. Davoren said, moving his jacket aside to display a pistol. “I warned you once not to cause trouble in my streets. I don’t give warnings twice.”

Alex dragged in a breath, stretched his neck from side to side, then braced himself as Mr. Davoren and his men rushed the stage.

*

In yet another three weeks, Minnie had grown ragged and exhausted. Her body was bruised and bloodied, the sole day dress she owned hung too loosely over her body. She ate little and slept less, and then there were the
soirées dansantes
she attended after every evening’s performance.

She had lied to Mrs. Robards, convinced her that her uncle wished for her to be removed from the school. That lie had been large; one that was still ongoing, as she was sure her uncle had now caught wind of her rebellion. If there was anything Bly Ravensdale was good at, it was discovering the truth. He wished for his family to be held in esteem in London to make up for the poor reputation of the Ravensdale family. And now Minnie had disappeared to become a ballerina while at night she had to smile at wolves waiting to prey on her.

The patrons of ballet.

What a fool she had been to think she would be on her own for this journey. Men wanted pretty creatures to fawn over, to spoil and claim ownership to. They wanted responsibility for her spot on the stage. And above the other dancers, they wished to keep her.

She had fought off a kiss the evening before. The man responded by gripping her wrist much too tightly and tugging her close as she tried to brush off his advance. Her laughter infuriated him further.

“Miss Gibbons,” the ballet instructor called out. “You’re falling out of step again.”

She snapped to attention, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. She had allowed the man to kiss her cheek, and as a reward of sorts, he accompanied her to dinner with a group of others. Minnie hadn’t returned to her rooms until the rest of the neighborhood poured out of their clubs, boastfully singing opera and laughing. She had burrowed under her covers to the sound of such happiness and cried, because then, and just for that small sad moment, she missed home terribly. She missed the gardens of Burton Hall, the sounds of her brother and sister, those of her cousins. The house was always busy and full of chaos. And here in her small rented room in London, living under another name, the world seemed much colder than she anticipated, even for a summer’s night.

Minnie paused, resting for a moment until she could mirror the other dancers. Her mind, her mind was in another place altogether today. She missed her darling sister Grace.

“Again, Miss Gibbons.”

The instructor stalked over. “One, two, three. Fifth position, Miss Gibbons. One, two, three…”

Minnie swallowed, her stomach fluttering under the hardened glare of the instructor. She was better than today, she was—

A hand grabbed hers, hauling her forward. “If you insist on dancing solo, then here is your chance.”

The violins quieted, and the other dancers stopped, their attention pinned to Minnie. She glanced nervously around the room, the instructor standing by her side.

“You’re no ballerina. I’ve said that since the moment you stepped in this room for the audition. Now please, do dance for us. Entertain us since you’re so in love with the idea of being a
coryphée
.”

He clapped his hands to a beat, the violin squeaky and hesitant to follow. Minnie stood paralyzed.

“
Plié
, Miss Gibbons. One, two, three…I said,
plié
.”

Minnie sunk, her knees bending not from command, but from sensing her world was tipping forward once again. The other dancers softly murmured in front of her. She felt their disregard piling upon her as though they’d just thrown her in a ditch, burying her along with her dream.

“
Arabesque
. Good,
assemblé
.”

His hands clapped in front of her face, adjusting her body roughly. He pulled and twisted, fisting her hair in his hand as he brought her round to meet his furious stare. “Your form is pathetic.”

She straightened, freeing herself from his grip, her limbs now numb. Her heart thrummed against her chest as she briefly closed her eyes, unsteady as he called out more ballet positions as if she were a solider drilling.

“
Grande Jeté
, arms lengthened in fourth position.”

Her muscles tightened, sore and overstretched. She tried to remember how the others had done it, how they had moved their bodies. This wasn’t a move that could be studied by books or observing the other dancers. It was something that a ballerina had trained for until it was a bone deep memory. With the drag of a breath, she filled her lungs and jumped, leaping in the air, her arms extended. Her foot slipped and twisted upon landing and she slid forward, collapsing onto the ground, her ankle radiating in pain.

“As I said, you’re no ballerina, Miss Gibbons. You no longer have a position as a dancer in this ballet or any other at this theater. Collect your things and leave at once.”

*

The waves were quiet by the docks. They gently lapped against the side of the ships and swished around the moorings. The Thames might be tranquil tonight, but for Alex, the world was riotous.

“You got your gob smacked good, eh there, Alex?”

He wiped the blood and sweat from his face with the corner of his shirt, now finally able to breathe after the stench of brawling at the warehouse. He’d spent all day unloading coal from a ship, then came for a fight. He got what he wished for—a fine beating.

“I did.” He released the edge of his shirt, grateful for the brief cool slip of air that brushed against his middle before they wandered out onto the cobblestone streets. The summer air was putrid, reeking of rotting fish and stagnant water. The rest of the boys were behind him, boasting about their bets against Alex, laughing at how he lost. He hadn’t given a damn about winning.

A body edged itself up against the wall across the darkened street. Everyone here was desperate for some money, but a woman selling herself never set well with him. His mother claimed it was love that saw her landed in that asylum.