Page 1 of Scandalous: Family Ties and Spies

Chapter 1

Rules Restaurant, London

December, 1912

She was going to hell.

Bleak resignation swept through Amalie like a hard wind blowing across the moors, just before a dreadful storm. She winced. Unlike her courageous and wily ancestor Angus Stewart, who would have seen the ambush coming, Amalie had walked straight into the trap her aunts and mother had laid for her. London and its frenetic energy and loud noise always set her on edge, but Madame DuBois’s was truly hell on earth.

It was just a little after lunch, but the interior of Rules was quiet, the city’s noise muffled by the front door. Amalie was grateful for both. Coming to town had never been a pleasant experience for her. Sometimes even her large family could overwhelm her senses until she retreated to her rooms, simply for a moment’s peace. But in town, everything vibrated against her senses until hundreds of invisible ants crawled over her skin until she had to retreat. There wouldn’t be much relief inside Madame DuBois’s either.

Pouring herself a cup of tea, she breathed in the savory aroma of Earl Grey. The light orange, citrus scent of the tea brushed against Amalie’s nose as the hot liquid flowed through the strainer over her cup. Wisps of steam curled upward over the teacup, and rather than burn her tongue, she left it to cool.

The tray of biscuits the waiter had brought with her tea beckoned, but she hesitated. Lips tightening with annoyed resignation, she released a sigh of frustration. She was going to hell. What was one more biscuit in the face of that journey? The cacophony outside the restaurant was always debilitating, but it paled in significance when it came to entering Madame DuBois’s deceptively beguiling storefront.

Noise of a different kind waited for her there. Whispers of pity and criticism, not to mention the words and snickers of laughter. Even Madame DuBois’s subtle insults were equally painful. The mere thought of what lay ahead had sent her to the British Museum this morning to focus on something else other than her execution by humiliation.

When she’d left the museum a little while ago, her courage had faltered, and she’d stopped at Rules for some tea to shore up her courage. Angus Stewart might have recommended whiskey, but her sharp tongue would be unmanageable after just one small glass. Amalie took a drink of her tea without testing it first.

Pain erupted over her tongue as the drink burned its way down her throat. Damnation, she truly was out of sorts. She knew better than to drink tea with steam rising off it. Somehow, she needed to take control of the trepidation rattling her nerves so badly.

Closing her eyes, Amalie willed herself to find the calm she needed by thinking of something pleasant. Almost instantly, a peaceful image of Callendar Abbey filled her head. Other than Crianlarich Castle, the abbey was her most favorite place in the world. Most years, she would be there now, not staring down the barrel of a visit to Madame DuBois’s.

It was a Rockwood tradition for the family to gather at Aunt Matilda’s large estate in Scotland the week before Christmas, then stay until the day after Hogmanay. Ever since the fire at Westbrook Farms that had taken her father and uncle from them, the entire family spent holidays and other special occasions together with rare exceptions.

Unlike other years, this Christmas would be celebrated at Melton House. Business matters prevented her Uncle Percy and Uncle Sebastian from heading north until the day after Christmas. So, the Rockwood clan would only be in the Highlands for Hogmanay.

Amalie blew across the top of her teacup, then tentatively tested the tea’s temperature. It was still too hot to drink. With a sigh, she set the teacup down, then eyed the biscuits again, but resisted the urge to eat another one. The clock on the wall softly chimed a quarter past the hour. Where others heard a soft announcement of the time, Amalie heard a large church bell tolling her doom.

Forty-five minutes.

Just forty-five minutes until she walked through Madame DuBois’s deceptively welcoming doors. Amalie knew exactly what lay behind them—humiliation. She winced, then muttered an oath beneath her breath. If she’d not gone to tea at Aunt Constance’s a week ago, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

The conversation had started out benign enough until several of her cousins began discussing gowns for the Hogmanay parties. Aunt Louisa had immediately set her cup down on her saucer and pinned Amalie beneath a hopeful gaze.

“Have you made an appointment to visit Madame DuBois’s yet, dearest? The house party at Callendar Abbey is only three weeks away.”

Renown for her love of clothes, the vivacious, kind-hearted Countess of Argaty also had the gift of persuasion. But her Aunt Louisa consistently failed to persuade Amalie to visit Madame Dubois. Fortunately, Amalie’s mother often served as a buffer between Amalie and her aunt. Lady Patience knew how overwhelming Amalie found London and its noise. But Amalie had never revealed the real reason she hated going to the dressmakers.

“I have several gowns that are quite suitable for the house parties.”

Amalie shrugged and reached for another scone. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Madame DuBois chiding her for eating too much. Amalie took a bite of the scone with a mental image of turning up her nose at the woman.

“Oh Amalie,” Lady Lyndham said with alarm. “Please tell me you aren’t planning on wearing that horrible mauve silk gown again this year. I don’t know why Madame DuBois suggested it. The color is all wrong for you.”

Aunt Constance’s observation made Amalie cringe inside before she released a weary sigh of disgust. Even if she were interested in wearing the latest fashion and the noise didn’t bother her, she would still hate entering Madame DuBois’s shop. The dressmaker always pointed out how curvy Amalie was compared to the svelte figures of her aunts.

Worst of all, she had to undress to be measured, then stand in front of the Frenchwoman’s critical eye. Even a new riding habit, the one article of clothing she was actually willing to be fitted for, failed to make a visit to Madame DuBois’s appealing. Amalie knew she was plump, but the dressmaker’s criticism made her all the more resistant to entering the shop. Unwilling to disappoint her aunt by confessing her intention of wearing the gown in question, she didn’t reply.

Instead, she took a defiant bite of her fourth scone and glanced at the woman who had adopted her, Greer, and Braxton after their father’s death. Amalie had no memory of the woman who’d given birth to her, and she’d only been five when her birth father, Caleb Rockwood, had died in the terrible blaze at Westbrook Farm. Even her mother had narrowly escaped death herself, but not without terrible burns down one side of her body.

When Aunt Patience and Uncle Julian had adopted Amalie and her siblings, it had been a natural progression for them to call the couple, mother and father. Now, as she silently pleaded for her mother’s help, amusement flared in the Mistress of Crianlarich’s brown eyes, but she didn’t say a word.

Annoyed by her mother’s lack of support, Amalie swallowed the last of her scone, preparing herself for battle. With a rebellious sweep of her hand, she added another scone to her plate. She didn’t have to eat it, she just needed to make it clear she refused to be something she wasn’t. Stoically, she took another drink of tea, meeting Aunt Constance’s appalled gaze over the rim of her cup.

“I have two gowns that are perfectly acceptable. I intend to wear the blue one at the First Footing dinner party, and the green gown I wore at Uncle Lucien’s birthday celebration for the Hogmanay ball.”

“But they’re completely outdated, Amalie. And you’ve worn the blue gown two years in a row,” Aunt Louisa exclaimed, turning to her sister. “Patience, can’t you convince the girl to buy something new?”