by Amy Ewing
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Excerpt from The Black Key
Back Ad
About the Author
Books by Amy Ewing
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
THERE IS ALREADY A SWARM OF PHOTOGRAPHERS WAITING outside the nightclub as my motorcar pulls up.
“Shall I go around to the back entrance, sir?” the chauffeur asks. He’s not as rough around the edges as some of these Bank drivers can be. One even had the nerve to ask me for my autograph.
“Back entrances are for servants,” I say. “This is fine.”
I check my reflection in the car window. I wish I could thank the surrogate who made me. Cheekbones don’t get more perfect than mine. Two top buttons on my shirt undone: check. Light touch of cologne: check. I put on my most devilish grin, smooth down my hair, and open the car door. Immediately, I’m surrounded.
“Garnet! Garnet, over here!”
“Give us a smile!”
“Is it true you cost thirty thousand diamantes of damage to the Waleford Hotel?”
“How many scandals can the House of the Lake suffer before you irreparably damage its reputation?”
That one makes me stop. I turn and give the photographer a piercing look.
“I’m flattered you think me capable of destroying the reputation of a House that’s been around since the founding of the Lone City,” I say. The man has the decency to look ashamed.
Another reporter jumps in to take his place. “Will your mother be buying a surrogate at tomorrow’s Auction?” she asks.
Someone always has to ruin everything by asking me about my mother. As if that’s the only thing I’m good for.
“My mother does not share her plans with me, especially when it comes to having more children. She has her hands full with just one, as you all are so quick to point out.” That gets a laugh as I walk inside.
They shout after me, calling out for more, but I let their questions roll off my back like raindrops, pattering to the ground and dissolving. I don’t care what the reporters in the Bank think of me.
I’m going to be the Duke of the Lake someday.
I don’t care what anyone thinks.
THE CLUB IS CALLED THE PRIZE JEWEL—NOT A PARTICULARLY clever name, but it’s new and it’s gotten good reviews.
I was invited to the big opening party, of course, but the night before the Auction is so dreadfully dull that I waited a few days so I’d have something to do that didn’t involve being around my mother. She’s always extra awful right before the Auctions, even though she never buys a surrogate. But this year she’s been an absolute nightmare.
So after she and my father left to wile away the evening at the palace of the Rose, I decided it was high time to hit the Bank. I haven’t been in a week, since the Waleford Hotel incident, and the Jewel can get so boring. Plus all the girls are either prudish or far too involved with their companions. Bank girls make for the best parties.
I don’t often feel bad for my father, but I pity him now. How many pre-Auction dinners has he gone to? What do they even talk about? What the surrogates look like? I can’t think of anything more boring than a surrogate. They rarely speak and when they do it’s all “yes, my lady” and “no, my lady.” They’re led around like little puppies, and for the most part, no one sees much of them anyway. At least the regular servants do interesting things, like lie to my mother or have affairs with each other.
Some big burly man in a long coat opens the door with a bow, and a blast of warm air tinged with perfume and sweat greets me. The lighting in this place is fabulous—one large chandelier made out of thousands of small glass balls hangs in the center of the ceiling. There are round tables surrounding the dance floor, small lamps with mauve shades and gold fringe on each one, and the bar is lit from behind so that the glass bottles gleam in greens and ambers and blues.
A brass band is playing and the dance floor is filled with bodies, the Jewel’s younger generations and the Bank’s wealthiest. One girl gives me a wink as her partner spins her out.
I make my way to the bar and people step aside, sometimes acknowledging me with a handshake or a bow. The Bank people love to pretend like they’re best friends with the royals. I don’t mind so long as I can get a drink quicker.
“What can I get you this evening, sir?” the bartender asks. He’s good—only the faintest trace of recognition flickers in his eyes when he sees me.
“Whiskey, neat,” I say, and he nods.
“Garnet!” Peri comes stumbling up to me, drunk already as usual. Peri’s from the House of the Brook, and I think he always assumed we should be friends based on that alone. As if a brook and a lake are at all the same. His full name is Peridot, and I don’t blame him for taking a nickname. I think I’d kill myself if Mother named me something so stupid.
“Easy there, Peri,” I say as he leans heavily on the girl beside him. She’s pretty but too blond for my taste.
“He’s all right,” she giggles. “Hi, I’m Lacey.” She gives me a smoldering look that I’d be willing to bet she practiced at home.
“We’ve got a table, I was wondering when you’d get here,” Peri says. “Come on.”
I take my drink from the bartender and throw a couple of diamantes on the bar. Weaving through the crowd, we come to a small booth in the back. Jasper, from the House of the Dale, has two brunettes on either side of him. A stocky guy from the Bank named Marver has a chubby blonde on his arm—he stands up quickly to shake my hand. His mother runs one of the Bank’s best companion houses.
And right next to the only empty seat is a stunner of a girl—hair like burnished copper, low-cut blue dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, lips painted dark red . . . She smiles at me in a sultry way.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask, and she laughs. It’s a low laugh and it sends a thrill of desire right through me.
“Not at all,” she says. “What are you drinking?”
“Whiskey,” I say, holding up my glass.
“Me too,” she says with another smile, clinking her tumbler against mine.
I think I’m in love.
“Garnet, have you met Cyan?” Marver says. “Her father runs the Lone City Herald.”
“So watch your tongue around her,” Peri says with an exaggerated wink. I want to throttle him. He’s ruining my game before I have a chance to start.
But Cyan just laughs. “Everything tonight is strictly off the record, I promise,” she says. Her hand brushes the top of my thigh and she stares right into my eyes as she downs the rest of her drink.
“Another?” I ask. She smiles.
WHEN I WAKE UP THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MY HEAD feels swollen to twice its normal size and my tongue is like sandpaper.
“Ugh.” I roll over and fall off my bed onto the floor. I’m still in my suit, but my shirt is fully unbuttoned. I’m wearing only one shoe.
What happened last night?
I try to recall the details but they’re all blurring together. Cyan pressing herself against me on the dance floor, bottles of whiskey and champagne arriving at our table, Cyan pulling me into a dark corner, her lips on mine . . .
My eyes snap open. We went somewhere. Alone, together. I remember her unbuttoning my shirt. I remember unzipping her dress.
Oh no. I didn’t . . . I grab my crotch like it will tell me if I broke the one royal rule I know I absolutely cannot break. I’ve broken every other one, but not this. Sex before marriage? And with a Bank girl? I’d lose my inheritan
ce, my title, everything.
I ring for a footman. I need coffee, food. Maybe I didn’t do anything. Maybe we just went at it a little. I seem to remember promising something and her laughing and then getting teary. Was it a new car? It might have been. Or an invitation to the Royal Concert Hall?
I drag myself to my feet, head pounding, and stumble into my bathroom, turning on the sink. The warm water feels good on my face. I take in my reflection—my eyes are red and puffy and my hair is a mess.
“What did you do?” I ask myself.
There is a knock on the door. “Come in!” I call, wiping my face with a towel. “I hope Zara made the coffee strong today.”
But when I emerge into my room, it’s not a footman who has brought my breakfast. It’s Annabelle.
Even if Annabelle’s face wasn’t the most expressive one I’ve ever seen, it’s pretty clear I’m in trouble. I bet none of the footmen wanted to risk dealing with me today.
“What did I do?” I ask.
She sets the tray down on my breakfast table and scribbles on her slate.
Car
“Did I crash it?” I don’t remember driving home last night.
Annabelle rolls her eyes.
LAKE
“I drove it into the lake?” She nods. “Our lake?” Another nod. “Well. That’s a first.”
Then I can’t help it—I start laughing. The image of my mother’s face, when she wakes up on Auction Day and looks out the window to see her son’s car in her precious lake, is just too priceless.
Annabelle comes over and whacks me with her slate.
“Ow! Hey!”
Not funny
“Sorry, sorry.”
Dangerous
“I know,” I say. “I won’t do it again.”
She glares at me.
“I promise,” I say, and draw an X over my heart with my finger. That was how she always promised me she wouldn’t tell on me when we were kids and I got in trouble for doing things like writing swearwords on the ballroom walls or tying all of Father’s shoelaces together.
Annabelle gives me a small smile, and I know I’m forgiven. Then she lifts the cover off the tray. The smell of hot pastrami and fries is like a welcoming call to my stomach. Annabelle knows my favorite hangover foods.
“Pastrami for breakfast?” I say. “You are a lifesaver.”
She pushes the curtains in my room wide and I see that the light is dark gold, the sun starting to set.
“I slept all day?”
Annabelle raises one eyebrow.
What hpnd last night
“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t . . . nothing terrible.”
I can see she doesn’t believe me. I dig into my sandwich and her face falls. She leaves my room, silent as a ghost.
It’s late in the evening when William, one of the footmen, comes to deliver the news.
“What is it?” I ask irritably when he knocks on the door.
“Your mother, sir. She’s returned from the Auction.”
“And I care because . . .”
I mean, the whole reason I’m staying in my room is to avoid her. That and if I move too much I think I might throw up.
William swallows. “She’s not alone, sir. She’s bought a surrogate.”
Two
I LEAVE MY CHAMBERS THE NEXT MORNING FEELING refreshed and mildly curious.
Perhaps I should have seen this coming. The Exetor and Electress have a son, and he will have to find a match soon—the Royal Palace can’t have an unengaged child for long. And I’d heard that this year’s Auction was the largest in recent history. Mother always acts so above all the gossip and schemes, it never occurred to me that she would be right in the thick of things. A careless oversight on my part. Mother loves to scheme, more than most in this circle.
Another child. I wonder what this house will be like with a baby in it. Then I shrug off that thought, because I will most likely have minimal interaction with my little sister. I bet Mother would fear I’d infect her with my unruly ways. Which is fine with me. Babies are loud and messy.
I check to make sure the coast is clear before I leave my room, because I’m not ready to face my mother yet. I still can’t believe I drove my car into the lake.
I’m creeping down the hall when I hear the dulcet tones of my mother’s “disappointed” voice. Or maybe it’s her “infuriated” voice. They’re so similar, I confuse them sometimes.
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
I turn and see her descending the staircase that leads to her private chambers. From the glint in her eyes, I’m going with infuriated.
“Good morning, Mother,” I say cheerfully. “Thought I’d take my breakfast in the dining room today. I heard you had a big night last night. Where’s the lucky surrogate?”
“Don’t speak to me as if this were any other day. Do not stand there in the clothes I provide, in the house my family built, the House that you constantly besmirch with your childish antics, and act as though you have not crossed a very serious line.”
My mother has the ability to maintain a calm exterior while shredding you apart with her words. It’s the one thing I wish I had inherited from her.
“I’m sorry about the car,” I say. “That was . . . irresponsible. If you want to take my keys away for a week or something, that seems reasona—”
“You think this is about a car?” She is practically hissing and I feel a cold dread creep into the pit of my stomach.
“Not anymore,” I say hesitantly.
“Lucien came to see me this morning. He’s in the library,” she says. She’s standing right up close to me and even though she’s short, I still feel like a little kid under that cold gaze. “I think it might be better if he explains it. If I look at you any longer, I may do something I’ll regret.”
Then she brushes past me and goes down the main staircase, so I head to one of the back ones and make my way to the library. My mind is racing, sorting through the blurred memories of the night at The Prize Jewel, but nothing new is coming to me.
I can’t find Lucien at first—Mother’s library is huge, something she takes an insane amount of pride in, and I wander through the maze of shelves until I come upon him sitting in a leather armchair in one of the back reading areas.
“Garnet,” he says, standing and giving me a bow. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“My mother didn’t really phrase it as optional,” I say. Lucien has always made me a little uneasy and not just because he’s a eunuch—there are lots of male ladies-in-waiting. He has this way about him, like he knows everything, like nothing surprises him. He’s so polite and genteel, you can’t really say he’s a jerk but . . . he’s sort of a jerk. I don’t like being around someone who makes me feel like I’m being dissected from the inside out.
Even now, he smiles this knowing smile. “No,” he says. “I’m afraid it really isn’t.”
He sits down and indicates that I take the armchair beside him. I pause for a long moment before I sit, just to prove a point—that it’s my house, not his. I don’t think he notices.
“Were you at The Prize Jewel two nights ago, with other various members of royal families and several young ladies from the Bank?”
“Yes,” I say. Like he didn’t know the answer all along. “Marver Curio was there as well.”
“Marver is irrelevant,” Lucien replies with a wave of his hand. “They are all irrelevant except one young lady, a Miss Cyan Grandstreet. Do you remember spending time with her?”
My ears begin to burn. This is not good.
“Yes,” I say again, and don’t elaborate this time.
“How much of the time you spent together do you remember?”
“Just spit it out whatever it is,” I say. “I haven’t got time for riddles.”
Lucien raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Oh, I think you’ve got time for this one.” He leans forward. “Do you remember being caught by her father on his drafting
table in various states of undress?”
I feel like someone’s punched me in the gut, but the little man keeps going.
“Do you remember promising to marry her, to make her the next Duchess of the Lake?”
My head falls between my legs, the room spinning. I can’t get enough air. What did they put in the whiskey at that place? I should file a complaint. I should have it shut down. How could I have done that? I remember her smile, the faint glimmer of tears in her eyes, the breathlessness as she said, “Really? Oh, Garnet . . .”
“But that was just . . . me being me!” I cry. “She must have known that, right? She can’t have actually believed that I’d marry her.”
Lucien fixes me with such a discerning look, he doesn’t even need to tell me that, yes, she did believe it. Then he cocks his head. “It’s quite a bit like the situation with your aunt, isn’t it?”
Except I’m not like Aunt Opal. I don’t want to throw away my fame, my inheritance, my money. I’m not in love with Cyan. That’s ridiculous. Insane.
I have to put my head between my legs again.
“Though, unlike with Opal, I don’t imagine you actually love the girl,” he continues, like he’s reading my mind. “Nor that you ever intended to keep that promise. In fact, judging by the expression on your face and your difficulty breathing, I would be willing to guess you do not even remember promising her those things.”
“No,” I gasp. “I don’t.”
“I assume it would dismay you further to learn that her father plans to publish her story in his paper,” Lucien continues. My chest seizes up. This is a scandal the likes of which I could never recover from. I’m shocked my mother didn’t simply lop my head off when she saw me in the hall.
“So what are you here for?” I ask, sitting up. “To rub it in?”
Lucien’s mouth curls into a superior smile. “Oh no, Garnet,” he says. “I am here to help you. On one very large, very important condition.”
I can’t imagine what he’d possibly want from me, or that I’d be able to refuse him anything. “And what is that?”
Lucien puts a slender finger to his lips. Then he takes something off the key ring on his belt. It looks like a small, silver tuning fork. He taps it once on the table between us and it hovers in the air, vibrating slightly.