Page 1 of Season of the Scoundrel
CHAPTER 1
October 1894
For as long asshe could remember, Ivy Bridewell had felt different from other girls.
Her two older sisters were beauties who’d taken pleasure in acquiring all the accomplishments a lady should. They could both dance, paint, speak passable French, and play the piano.
But while Lily and Daphne were taking dancing lessons, Ivy had been hiding in a bay window reading Mary Wollstonecraft and Edgar Allen Poe. She’d always known she didn’t quite fit the mold of what was expected of a proper young lady, but she’d told herself there was a path for her, even if it wasn’t the same one her sisters had followed.
Now Ivy knew exactly what she wanted, and she was determined to succeed.
There was no other option because she wasn’t going to make a good match as her sisters had. She was dreadful at waltzing, watercolors, and needlework, and she loathed the nonsensical rules of etiquette. She’d spent two Seasons as a wallflower,knowing with her entire soul that securing an excellent match with a nobleman was not to be her fate.
But in the last few years, she’d discovered a love for writing and realized she could combine it with her nose for investigation. She’d begun researching a crooked insurance scheme and a nobleman she believed might be at the heart of a criminal enterprise. Now, she just had to find someone willing to publish her pieces, or give her the opportunity to write similar investigative articles for their publication.
After sending out inquiries to several London newspapers and magazines, she’d gotten a favorable response from a Mr. Hector Smythe of a weekly newspaper calledThe Beacon.
Now, as the wall clock in Mr. Smythe’s office ticked steadily, Ivy struggled for patience. She couldn’t seem to keep her boot heel from tapping on the floor as her knee bounced beneath the skirt of her gown.
Mr. Smythe was taking a worrisome amount of time reviewing her writing samples. It felt as if she’d been sitting across from him for hours.
Patience, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time—one of those ladylike accomplishments she’d never mastered.
All her writing was as yet unpublished, but all she needed was a chance, and she would prove herself.
After all, lady journalists were becoming more and more common. Indeed, their work had inspired Ivy’s determination to seek an opportunity herself. She could name half a dozen ladies who wrote for newspapers in the city about issues of social reform and topics of particular importance to women. With the new century’s approach, many were eager for change.
Nellie Bly in America was a particular hero of Ivy’s. She’d had herself committed to an asylum to investigate conditions inside. Her account of the experience had led to a judicial investigation,additional funding, and sparked a reform movement to improve conditions for those housed in such places.
Ivy longed to investigate matters in a way that exposed truths and might move men in power to enact new measures and bring justice to those who needed it. Miss Bly’s writing had changed people’s minds and improved lives—thatwas the sort of work she dreamed of.
It felt so close now that she was sitting in an office on Fleet Street with the glorious bustle of those working in London’s publishing industry passing by the window.
Finally, Mr. Smythe completed his perusal of her work and looked up.
“Well, Miss Bridewell,” he said with the slightest of smiles curving underneath his well-trimmed mustache, “I’m impressed with the breadth of topics you’ve chosen to write about. It reveals an inquisitive mind. A healthy curiosity about the world combined with diligence and a lovely turn of phrase.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Those qualities would be quite useful here atThe Beacon, and I know just the place for you.”
Ivy smiled and her heart felt fit to burst.
“We’re in desperate need of filling the role quickly. Its previous occupant, Miss Porter, left last month on the occasion of her nuptials.” He paused and smiled, almost wistfully. “In short, we need someone who can write with your sort of passion and curiosity about the inner workings of fashionable society. Our readers are forever intrigued with how those of your class live. Miss Porter’s column was extremely popular.”
Ivy had researchedThe Beaconbefore writing to its editor, and she vaguely recalled a byline by a Miss Eugenia Porter. Unfortunately, Ivy had only skimmed the section. It struck her as a gossip column, though less salacious than some scandalrags. Miss Porter had covered fashion, noble weddings, charity fetes, and the like.
“I’m not particularly attuned to fashion or society events, Mr. Smythe.”
The older man’s bushy brows danced a that, lifting and lowering while he scrutinized her as if deeply confused by her confession.
“But your sisteristhe Duchess of Edgerton, is she not?”
“She is.” Ivy wasn’t entirely certain how he knew that fact, but perhaps he’d researched her a bit too.
“Then, my dear Miss Bridewell, you are perfectly placed to gather details that Miss Porter could never dream of.” He shrugged. “You need not be a connoisseur of fashion to report on it. Simply mention what’s popular and throw in a bit of the light gossip you’re privy to.” He winked at that.
Ivy drew in a deep breath.
