Page 1 of Season of the Scoundrel (The Bridewell Sisters #3)
For as long as she 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 called The 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All her writing was as yet unpublished, but all she needed was a chance, and she would prove herself.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— that was 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 at The 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 researched The Beacon before 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 scandal rags.
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 sister is the 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.
Writing about society, balls, soirees, who was pursuing who—none of that interested her, unless she suspected the people in question might be caught up in some kind of criminal activity, of course.
For years, she had consumed gossip rags avidly, but it was only ever out of a desire to be knowledgeable, not fascination with the goings-on of noble ladies and gentlemen.
“As you’ve read in my work, sir, I’m passionate about social reform. Did you see my piece about insurance swindlers who seek to fleece others of their hard-earned wages? The Porphyrion Insurance Company?—”
“Yes, yes, I did skim that piece, Miss Bridewell. It is clear you have a desire to do good.” He lifted a hand and gestured as if an idea had just struck.
“Why not write of noble ladies and the charitable endeavors they’re engaged in?
It might inspire others to take up such causes and then donate to said charities. ”
“What if I wrote of the conditions which required the establishment of those charities? If we could address the root causes, we may not need charities.”
Mr. Smythe grimaced for a moment and then let out a sigh.
“Or,” Ivy said, “I could write about crime within noble circles. You’d be shocked at how much goes on and is hushed up among peers. Blackmail schemes, theft, gambling, horse race fixing. As you’ll see in my article about the criminal ring?—”
Mr. Smythe put a palm out to stop her. “That article disturbs me, Miss Bridewell, but mostly because it names the nobleman you suspect. If we were to print such a piece, we would be presented with an immediate libel suit from Lord Penrose.”
“The story has been thoroughly researched, sir.”
“Miss Bridewell, we are not a scandal sheet. We are a beacon . We look to uplift and inspire, not expose.” He rifled through some papers on his desk.
“Ah, yes, here we are. The queen’s daughter, Princess Louise, is to attend a charity ball next month.
You’ve likely been invited to attend. Your connections and insights would be invaluable to The Beacon . ”
Ivy deflated as if a stone had been laid upon her chest, pushing all the air from her lungs. She knew her writing could make a difference, but it was clear that The Beacon would not be the place to do it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smythe. I hope you’ll understand that I wish to devote my efforts to pieces that will help bring about real change.”
He tipped his head, looking at her almost paternally. “Your youthful exuberance is delightful and would be valued here, Miss Bridewell. And your access to noble homes would make you the perfect correspondent to cover our society column.”
The poor man couldn’t know Ivy did her best to avoid the soirees and balls thrown by her brother-in-law and sister, the Duke and Duchess of Edgerton.
They’d even allowed her to avoid a third Season and pursue her dream of becoming a journalist instead.
Their support was a gift, and she couldn’t squander it.
So, no, writing about nobles and their fetes wasn’t at all what she’d envisioned when she’d sent out her letters of inquiry.
”You may see me as someone who is invited to all the best events, but I’m not, Mr. Smythe. I avoid them, in all honesty.”
He nodded and smiled. “Perhaps you could stop avoiding them.”
Though Ivy’s urge was to do her utmost to convince Mr. Smythe that she was capable of being an investigative reporter, she sensed that nothing would. He had his idea about what she should write, and she had a very different notion.
“I am honored that you would wish me to write for The Beacon . May I think on it and give you an answer tomorrow?”
“Most assuredly. Please give my best regards to the duke and duchess, and I hope you will join us, Miss Bridewell.”
He stood, and Ivy got to her feet too. They shook hands, and he closed her portfolio and handed it back to her. After tucking it under her arm, she made her way out to Fleet Street. On the pavement, she stood a moment, trying not to get swallowed whole by an enormous sense of disappointment.
She looked around at the ladies and gentleman going about their business in the heart of the city’s newspaper and publishing industry and vowed to herself that she would not give up.
A scream cut through the air. Ivy snapped her gaze toward the sound. At the mouth of an alley, a man stood with a cane raised above a child in ragged clothing, who crouched on the pavement, hands over their head as if to shield them from the next blow.