The Lady Heiress (The Zero Enigma Book 8)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “My Lady, it would require time and money,” Ellington said. He looked around the giant chamber, then back at me. “There are literally hundreds of things we’d need to do.”

  “And what we’d have to do to host a ball,” I said. “How long would that take?”

  Ellington said nothing for a long moment. “Assuming we had the staff, and assuming money wasn’t a problem, we could clean the first and second floors in a week or two. We’d have to clean the kitchens and replace some of the equipment before we could cook enough food ... we’d probably have to hire more kitchen staff too. It would be tricky.”

  I nodded. “Start putting together a list of what we need to do, so we can host a ball,” I ordered. “Let me worry about getting the cash.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Ellington said. His expression was bland, but I could hear the doubt in his words. There were aristocrats who’d give him the boot for that. “It will be quite expensive.”

  “I’ve spotted a gap in the market,” I told him. It was true. There were advantages to being weak and irrelevant. No one would take advantage of us, or attack us, if there was nothing to gain. “And we have to move fast if we want to take advantage of it.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Ellington said. He raised a single, polite eyebrow. “Would you like me to put together a more balanced budget as well?”

  “No,” I said. We’d only get one chance to make a splash. “We have to make this place look perfect. Dust the floors, wipe the windows, polish the brass and gold, refresh the spells, hang up the paintings ... everything. We have to move fast.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Ellington said. I knew him well enough to know he still had his doubts. “I’ll see to it at once.”

  “Please.” I smiled at him to conceal my doubts. “It’s time to bring the hall back to life.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Shit!”

  I swore as my father’s spells snapped at me, blue sparks burning my skin. His drawers were locked solid, sealed against anyone ... even me. He’d been a better sorcerer than I’d realised, I reflected sourly as I rubbed my hand. I supposed I was lucky he hadn’t used a stronger or nastier curse. He could have turned a would-be thief into a frog, or frozen him in time, or simply killed him outright. What had my father been trying to hide? I’d spent two days trying to hack the spells and gotten precisely nowhere.

  “Language,” Uncle Jalil said. He stood in the doorway, his face grim. He held a leather folder under one arm. “You’re not old enough to swear like a trooper.”

  I swallowed the response that came to mind as I straightened up. “Right now, I feel old enough to be a grandmother,” I said. My hand hurt too much for me to be polite. “What was he trying to hide?”

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Jalil said. “You might want to call an expert.”

  “Maybe later,” I said. I didn’t know who I could trust. “Did you get my note?”

  “Yes,” Uncle Jalil said. “It’s a good idea, if you can get the money.”

  I sat down, resting my elbows on the table. “And can we get the money?”

  “If you’re determined to go through with your mad plan ...” Uncle Jalil nodded as he sat down, resting the folder on his lap. “I have a handful of prospective candidates.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “I was very careful,” Uncle Jalil said, “but you really didn’t give me enough time to do a proper write-up on all of them. Basically, I looked for candidates who wanted to buy their way into the aristocracy, who could afford it and, most importantly of all, didn’t have the ability to simply dominate us. Anyone who had strong connections to another Great House was dismissed out of hand. I also decided against a couple of men old enough to be your father and one who could easily have been your grandfather.”

  “Good thinking,” I agreed. An older man would be harder to control. He’d want to control me. “What do we have?”

  “I went through the list to confirm they really were wealthy, then narrowed it down to nine possibilities,” Uncle Jalil explained. “Two of them are rich in their own right, the remainder are sons of wealthy men. Their fathers would be happy, I suspect, to meet our terms. They really do want to buy their way into the aristocracy.”

  “And they’d jump through hoops to get in,” I mused. “What’s the best choice?”

  Uncle Jalil looked displeased. “You’re the one who’s going to get married, if your scheme fails,” he said. He passed me the folder. “I think you should decide for yourself.”

  I opened the folder and skimmed the contents. Uncle Jalil had done a good job, although - as he’d warned - two days was hardly long enough to carry out a proper background check. It was quite possible to put on a show of wealth that would keep people from asking questions ... I had the feeling, looking at the account books, that my father had spent most of his time pretending to be rich. And yet ... I shook my head. There was no point in worrying about that now. I had to look to the future.

  The first file was a middle-aged man, twenty years older than me. I dismissed him instantly and moved to the next. He was younger, but there were question marks over the precise origin of his wealth. I frowned, putting him aside for later consideration. I had few scruples, but there were limits. I couldn’t take the risk of running afoul of a con artist. It would destroy my chances of rebuilding the family fortunes. The third was a young man, a year or so older than me, whose father’s money rested in land. I studied the folder for a long minute, thinking hard. The father was definitely wealthy enough to buy House Lamplighter out of pocket change.

  “This son should be married already,” I said, holding up the file. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I believe he’s completing a charms apprenticeship,” Uncle Jalil informed me. “His sister appears to be the one who’ll be taking over the family firm. She’s got a reputation as a shrewd businesswoman.”

  “I see,” I said. I read the rest of the file. “They’re very determined, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Uncle Jalil said. “And desperate to be recognised as aristocrats.”

  I nodded, slowly. The family patriarch had made his money by purchasing land and houses in Water Shallot, then renovating them to sell to families from South Shallot. He been in the right place at the right time to take advantage of the gentrification of the riverside, I noted; he’d reinvested his first fortune, purchased more houses and started to rent them out. There was no doubt he was a wealthy man. Uncle Jalil had collected copies of the title deeds. He could easily raise millions of crowns by selling half his properties.

  “He doesn’t have any land in North Shallot,” I mused. Land in North Shallot was expensive, but not that expensive. “Why not?”

  “I believe he was frozen out, when he tried to buy,” Uncle Jalil said. “The landowners were pressured not to sell.”

  “That makes sense.” I winced in sympathy. The aristocrats wouldn’t hesitate to slap down a commoner they felt was getting too big for his trousers. They could bring one hell of a lot of pressure to bear against anyone they felt was likely to sell. “I’m surprised my father didn’t sell to him.”

  “The only property we have in North Shallot is Lamplighter Hall,” Uncle Jalil said, “and that’s entailed. It cannot be sold.”

  “Yes.” I put the file to one side and scanned the others. Two more looked possible, although I didn’t care for the way they did business; the remainder had too many warning signs for me to be entirely keen on making them an offer. “They do seem the best candidates.”

  I turned back to the file and scanned the notes. “Gary Prestwick, charmsmith,” I read. “I see he got good marks at Jude’s.”

  “And a good character,” Uncle Jalil reminded me. “He wouldn’t have gotten his apprenticeship if his tutors hadn’t vouched for him.”

  “I know.” I continued to read, wondering if I would have known and liked him if I’d gone to Jude’s myself. It was unlikely. He was a commoner. I might not even have so much as known he existed. The y
ear between us would have been an unbridgeable gulf. “He did well, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Uncle Jalil said. “Does he take your fancy?”

  I gave him a sidelong look. “Does it matter?”

  “It does, if you wind up spending the rest of your life with him.” Uncle Jalil looked as if he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. “Lucy ... this could go horribly wrong.”

  “How so?” I could tell there was something he wasn’t sure he should say. “Uncle ... what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Lucy ...” Uncle Jalil let out a breath. “Your parents saw their marriage” - he stopped and started again - “your parents were mature. They had come to an agreement about how they should share their lives, after their marriage was arranged, and they stuck to it. They ... your parents both knew how things worked. And that’s true of their peers too. There are families that exist in name only, with both partners seeing other people. It works because everyone involved knows the score. As long as the families remain united, as long as there’s an heir or two, people don’t care.

  “But your parents both grew up in the same environment. The young men I picked out for you grew up in a very different environment. They might expect something more from you. They might expect ...” He shook his head. “I understand your logic, and I do appreciate what you’re doing, but you have to be careful. There’s only so far you can push someone before they break.”

  I stared down at my hands. “Uncle ... I know the risks.”

  “We shall see.” Uncle Jalil collected his files. “Do you want me to open formal talks with the Prestwick family?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And we have to hurry.”

  “That’ll give them an advantage,” Uncle Jalil warned. “They’ll know we’re short of cash.”

  “I know.” I wouldn’t be surprised if they already knew that. If they were that desperate to join the aristocracy, why hadn’t they made my father an offer already? I shivered, wondering if they had. My father could have declared me an adult years ago, if he’d wished. “We need the money.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Jalil said. “If you want to refurbish the hall in a week, you’ll need a lot of money.”

  “And try to pressgang the rest of the family into picking up brushes and helping,” I said, dryly. “Do you want to help?”

  “Not really.” Uncle Jalil shrugged. “I’ll open negotiations with them, see what they say.”

  “Please.” I stood. “This is our only hope of overcoming our debts and making something of ourselves.”

  “I think there are limits on how much we can make by offering the hall as neutral ground,” Uncle Jalil said. “They’re not going to pay for everything.”

  I shrugged. “We’ll see,” I said. “They might pay for refurbishing if they see the advantages of having neutral ground.”

  Uncle Jalil stood and headed for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he said. “And you’d better read the contract carefully.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. I scowled, unwilling to admit his warnings had resonated with me. I’d heard all the stories about how marriage really worked, but I hadn’t believed them until now. The dreams of romantic love had always been a chimera for me and my peers. I wondered, suddenly, which families truly existed in name only. As long as they put a happy face on in public, no one would give much of a damn.

  But it’s different for the commoners, I told myself. Isn’t it?

  I stood, pushed the chair back and knelt beside the charmed drawers. They remained firmly closed - the scars on my hand bore mute testament to their defences - even as I muttered a pair of countercharms. The locking spells held firm. I briefly considered getting a spellbreaker or wardcracker and putting it against the drawers, but I had a feeling that would trigger an explosion. There was a fairly simple spell designed to disintegrate everything inside the container if the wards started to fail. My father wouldn’t have needed help to cast it. He’d been a skilled sorcerer.

  Blue sparks snapped at me. I yanked my hand back, muttering words I wasn’t supposed to know. Now ... I snorted as I studied the keyhole. I was an adult. I could swear blue murder if I liked, although - as a young aristocratic debutante - I probably shouldn’t swear too loudly. The Grande Dames of High Society, who’d be on the prowl for any excuse to tear down someone younger and prettier than themselves, would take advantage of my lapse to crush me. The men wouldn’t care, but ... they’d be made to care. Or at least to pretend to care.

  My eyes lingered on the keyhole for a long moment. It was nothing more than a formality ... or was it? I knew a hundred charms that could open and close simple locks. I’d used them time and time again, at school, until I could cast them without leaving a trace. No sorcerer worthy of the name would rely on a simple physical lock. It could be picked easily ...

  I drew a hairpin from my hair and poked the lock gingerly. Nothing happened for a long moment, then blue sparks lashed out at me. I threw myself back just in time. The charms still held good. I glared at the keyhole, wondering why it was even there. I’d seen trunks and drawers and even cabinets that had no visible keyholes. They’d just drawn attention ... I stood, brushing down my dress. Father hadn’t been stupid. If he’d left the keyhole in place, there must have been a reason.

  My eyes drifted around the room. The bookshelves looked untouched. The cabinets were open, but useless. I’d gone through the paperwork and found nothing beyond account books carefully sorted into two piles. Father had clearly kept a lot of secrets from the rest of the family. I wondered, as I inched towards the bookshelves, why no one had thought to question him. Had they been afraid of what they might find?

  Up close, the books definitely looked untouched, as if they’d been purchased in bulk and then simply placed on the shelves and abandoned. I scanned the titles, wondering why my father had even wanted them. Books on every magical subject under the sun contrasted oddly with titles on distant lands, empires that had died so long ago no one remembered their names, and tomes on theories most people considered absurd. Why ... I remembered my schooling and smiled. A bookshelf was a great place to hide something you didn’t want found. I started removing the books on the topmost shelf and feeling behind them. It wasn’t long before my fingers touched something metallic. I picked it up and carried it into view. It was a tiny gold - and charmed - key.

  “Clever,” I said, as I carried it back to the desk. “The charms can’t be undone without the key.”

  I knelt beside the drawers and pushed the key into the lock. Magic sparkled over me, then faded as I turned the key. The drawer snapped open. I pulled it out and peered inside. A handful of account books, a pair of notebooks and a spellcaster that felt ... wrong. My skin crawled when I touched it. I had no idea what my father had been doing with it, but it had clearly left a mark. I tried not to disturb it as I removed the account books. There was a small pile of letters underneath. I took them too, then closed the drawer. I’d have to go through them all.

  The letters were charmed, but I had no trouble opening them. Mistress Grayling’s handwriting, all too familiar from my years at school, leapt off the page. She’d written to my father to remind him of the deal he’d made, the deal that allowed me to stay at the school ... I frowned, wishing she’d been a little more direct. The letter was suspicious, but hardly incriminating. I suspected that meant they were trying to hide something. If they’d come to an agreement to defer payment for a few years, they’d hardly have been reluctant to write it down.

  I frowned as I read through the remaining papers. Father had written to everyone for money, it seemed, and they’d all turned him down. I spotted a handful of very familiar names amongst the letters, names I knew from school gossip. And, at the bottom, there was a letter signed by Zadornov. It told my father, in no uncertain terms, that he had two weeks to repay his debts. There was no ‘or else’ but it was clearly implied. The letter was dated ten days before my father’s death.

  A shiver
ran down my spine as I reread the letter. Uncle Jalil hadn’t said much, hardly anything, about Zadornov. Who was he? Why had he loaned my father money? Why had he made a personal loan? I opened the account books and frowned as I ran my eye down the figures. The interest rate had been impossibly high. My father must have been mad. Or desperate ...

  And yet, he didn’t try to marry me off, I thought numbly. That speaks well of him, doesn’t it?

  There was a knock at the door. I hastily put the letters and notebooks back in the drawer, then concealed the key in my pocket. “Come!”

  Uncle Jalil stepped into the room. “I spoke to Danny Prestwick, Gary’s father.”

  I blinked. How long had I been lost in my thoughts?

  “Good,” I said, absently. I was still reeling from the letters. “What did he say?”