The Lady Heiress (The Zero Enigma Book 8)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Malachi grinned. “I’ll have you driven home now,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you getting hurt along the way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Malachi’s farewell statement haunted me for the rest of the day. Don’t get hurt on the way home? It was odd, to say the least. I was an aristocrat. I had enough magic to protect myself against most threats, certainly the ones I might encounter on the streets. Anyone powerful enough to kidnap me would certainly know my family - and the aristocracy at large - could be expected to take a horrible revenge. The remnants of the last people to kidnap an aristocratic child were still screaming.

  It - and what he’d told me - nagged at my mind. Marlene a commoner? It seemed absurd. She had the aristocratic arrogance down pat, up to and including complaints about the lack of maids at Grayling’s. I’d believed she’d never brushed her hair with her own two hands. And yet ... could it have been an act? Kate had picked up some of the aristocratic mannerisms, simply by sharing a dorm with me. So had Jadish. And Marlene really had come to the party - to help me with the party - on very short notice. It was odd. Even if she’d been enthusiastic about helping, she should have written back to haggle over the terms. She shouldn’t have come right away.

  I spent an hour, in my office, working through the genealogy books. Marlene was hardly an uncommon name. I could easily believe a pair of servants, trying to curry favour with their mistress, had named their daughter after her. There were few names that were exclusive to the aristocracy, if only because there was no effective way to police their use. I’d known a dozen girls at school who’d had the same name, though they weren’t related. The tutors had resorted to calling them by number. I closed the books with a frown. There were quite a few girls called Marlene in the same age bracket, but none of them matched my Marlene. It didn’t prove anything ...I thought. Marlene could easily have gone by her middle name. And yet ...

  I couldn’t decide, as I headed to bed, if I wanted to laugh or cry. I’d always been told there was something special about the aristocracy, that true might and magic came from blood. We were distinguished because our ancestors were distinguished, or so I’d been told. The thought of someone posing as an aristocrat, of fooling us all for years, was laughable. And yet, I could see how the deception might have been sustained. No one in Grayling’s was surprised when parents failed to materialise, even when they were alive. They didn’t send their kids so far away because they wanted to see them. I was hardly the only student whose parents never visited the school.

  And if she did pose as an aristocrat, I asked myself, what should I do?

  The thought mocked me. A year ago, I’d have been delighted. Really delighted. I could have blackmailed her into submission or torn down her house of cards, exposing her to the censure she so richly deserved. I could have made her my slave ... I felt sick. Malachi had blackmailed me! How could I condemn Marlene when I’d done much worse myself? And how could I do something that I’d hated when it had been done to me?

  I scowled as I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Malachi hadn’t told me about Marlene out of the goodness of his heart. I didn’t think he had any goodness in his heart. No, he’d wanted to tempt me. He’d wanted to offer me the chance to blackmail Marlene, to twist the screws until she bent the knee to me ... to become a player in his games, an ally in his bid to drain everything he could from people unlucky enough to fall into his power. I felt sick at the mere thought. I could become a monster if I used the knowledge he’d given me. I could ... I told myself I wouldn’t, as I drifted off to sleep, but I wasn’t sure that was true. I was on the brink of falling into darkness.

  The following morning brought no peace. I stumbled out of bed and staggered into the shower, feeling as if I hadn’t slept. Malachi wanted to twist me until I became a monster, a monster just like him. If he failed ... he might find another way to tempt me or ... he might simply force me to do his bidding. And yet, Marlene couldn’t have very much ... could she? If she was a commoner, the daughter of a pair of servants, what could she possibly offer him? I cursed under my breath as warm water washed over my body, banishing the last remnants of sleep. Marlene didn’t have much, apart from access to a Great House. He could turn her into a spy.

  And yet, she doesn’t have that much to lose, I thought. I had no idea how Marlene’s master and mistress would react to her posing as an aristocrat, particularly if they’d hinted Marlene was a natural-born child. They might think it was funny. Marlene hadn’t tried to court any aristocratic boys, as far as I knew. Her activities had never crossed the line. She might get away with it.

  I washed my face, then dressed and headed to the kitchenette. Uncle Jalil was sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. The lead story contained lurid revelations about Prince Jacob of North Cairnbulg, who’d left the city after the infernal devices had started to explode. I couldn’t say I cared very much, even though I understood precisely how he felt. In hindsight, I might have been smarter to leave my family instead of doing my duty. I might have felt a great deal better about myself if I’d simply left.

  “We need to talk, after breakfast,” Uncle Jalil said. He poured himself another mug of coffee. “Are you awake?”

  “I ... need ... coffee,” I said, as deadpan as I could. I took a mug for myself, then a pastry from the preservation cabinet. “What happened?”

  “I suppose the real question is what happened yesterday,” Uncle Jalil said. “I heard you were out for hours.”

  I felt a hot flash of anger, mingled with the grim awareness he had every right to be concerned. It took me several moments to calm myself. I was no longer the little girl who had to answer to her parents, her tutors and the school prefects. I could go wherever I wanted, see whoever I liked ... I, not my elderly relatives, was in charge. And yet ... I scowled as I sat down and drank my coffee. I’d made a bloody fool of myself. Even if I got out with my reputation intact, I’d still made a fool of myself. He knew it too.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I said. I hesitated, then leaned forward. “Uncle ... have you ever heard of someone posing as an aristocrat?”

  “It’s happened, a couple of times.” Uncle Jalil shot me a thin smile. “Why do you ask?”

  “Long story,” I said. “Why? Why did I never hear about it?”

  “Because no one who got fooled wants to admit it,” Uncle Jalil said. “Your father was never prepared to admit he’d made a mistake, that he’d let himself be conned until it was far too late to salvage something. High Society is just the same. The smarter ones learn from their mistakes, but they rarely admit them.”

  I shook my head. “How is that even possible?”

  “For someone to pose as an aristocrat?” Uncle Jalil shrugged. “Every summer, legions of distant relatives invade the city, hoping to secure fame, fortune and a well-connected husband or wife. There’s plenty of room for someone to slip inside, as long as they don’t make any elaborate claims that can be easily disproven. Their marks might know everyone who lives here, but they don’t know their distant cousins. And a couple of people have blended into High Society so perfectly that no one realised, for years, that they weren’t actually aristocrats.”

  “Hah.” It would have been amusing and outrageous, a year ago. “How did they get away with it?”

  “Trickery.” Uncle Jalil said. “Go to a fancy hotel. Wear fancy clothes. Make a show of having money - tip everyone, well over the odds. Talk up your connections whenever you have a chance, drop names and tell everyone you know everyone. As long as you appear wealthy, the sort of person who can buy and sell the hotel out of pocket change, they’ll be hesitant to ask for actual payment. And make sure you don’t give them any real details. You don’t want someone poking holes in your story too quickly.”

  “I suppose not,” I said. I’d seen Marlene at a couple of parties, but she’d been alone and seemingly isolated. The question echoed in my mind. “How do they get away
with it?”

  “People don’t want to admit they’ve been fooled,” Uncle Jalil said. “They’ll go the long way around just to avoid having to admit, even to themselves, that they’ve been fooled.”

  He finished his coffee. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  I nodded, refilling my cup and carrying it with me. The office was the most heavily warded room in the hall, although I knew that could be meaningless. Malachi’s memory stripping technique would allow him to keep an eye on me, if he thought to use it. I could think of a hundred uses for such a device, ranging from the fun to the outright illegal. He could have made a dozen fortunes, simply by renting it out. He didn’t have to resort to blackmail.

  And what does it say about him, I thought, that he does?

  “I did a great deal of research, after I spoke to the information broker,” Uncle Jalil said, once the door was shut and sealed. “The information he gave me opened up several promising new lines of inquiry. I do intend to continue researching, although there are limits to how far we can go without making waves. I’d be surprised if he didn’t have contacts keeping an eye on his records in the Genealogy Hall.”

  I nodded. The Genealogy Hall recorded bloodlines, from the oldest to the youngest. Everyone who was anyone was listed in the files, from birth to death; their children, legitimate or not, recorded for future matchmaking. I had a file, as did everyone in my family. The archivists were supposed to be neutral, but I was fairly certain they could be compromised. Everyone had his price.

  “Malachi Rubén,” Uncle Jalil said. “Born Malachi Pringle, forty-five years ago. Parents aren’t listed in the records, suggesting he was born in Water Shallot. They may have kept him off the books deliberately, as the tax system of that era was designed to penalise poor people for breeding. The first real record of his existence I can find is his application to Jude’s. His parents were clearly wealthy enough to pay the fees, as there’s no suggestion he won a scholarship.”

  “Or he had the records removed, at some point,” I said. “He’s certainly got the influence.”

  “Yes.” Uncle Jalil nodded, stiffly. “There are few records of his academic achievement. I haven’t been able to get access to his actual school reports, but there are no mentions of him within the school newsletters. My guess is that he was neither at the top nor the bottom. He was, it seems, a close friend of Carioca and Davys Rubén. They were close enough that Malachi was permitted to court and marry Petal Rubén.”

  I frowned. “That would be Akin’s father and uncle, right? Malachi is a Rubén by marriage?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Uncle Jalil said. “Malachi and Petal had three daughters. The oldest - Penny - lives in Shallot. The other two live with their mother on her country estate. I believe, reading between the lines, that Malachi and Petal were on the outs well before ... well, before something happened. There’s no solid record, as far as I can tell, but Malachi was ordered to leave Rubén Hall. He may have been disowned completely.”

  “I can see why,” I muttered. “Why? I mean ... why was he invited into the family in the first place?”

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Jalil said. “It’s possible he’s a powerful magician. It’s also possible he’s innovative enough to overcome his weaknesses. And ... it’s possible he really was a good friend to Carioca and Davys. They might have urged him to court their sister as a reward for his services.”

  “Yuck,” I said. I didn’t want to think about Malachi kissing anyone. “Didn’t she have a choice?”

  “I suspect not,” Uncle Jalil said. “She certainly chose to leave the city as soon as she decently could, leaving her husband behind. There’s no record of her attending any parties between her departure and now. The match might not have worked or” - he shrugged - “both parties might have assumed it would only last long enough to produce children, then they’d go their separate ways. There’s no way to know. They might even have liked each other.”

  “Impossible,” I said. “He’s a creep.”

  “People change,” Uncle Jalil said, reprovingly. “He might have been a quite agreeable character when he was a child.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “It’s impossible.”

  Uncle Jalil shrugged. “There are a bunch of rumours, as always. I haven’t been able to prove or disprove them. Malachi took part in the Challenge, during his last year at Jude’s, when a student died. There’s no suggestion, as far as I can tell, that whatever happened might have been his fault. Francis Rubén died four months ago, at roughly the same time Malachi was told to leave. It may be a coincidence, but Francis was doing the Challenge too.”

  I frowned. Francis Rubén? The one who’d told Malachi about Ayesha and Akin? It was certainly possible, but ... he was dead? He’d died? That couldn’t be a coincidence. And yet, what did it mean? What could I do with the information? What had happened when Francis died? I doubted anyone would tell me. Ayesha might ... I winced. She hated me now. I was pretty sure she was already planning my death.

  “There has to be a connection there,” I said, slowly.

  “There might not be,” Uncle Jalil pointed out. “Correlation does not imply causation. Not always. People try to impose order on everything, building a narrative that links two or more events together without being sure there’s actually a link. Malachi might have been kicked out for reasons that have nothing to do with Francis’s death. We simply don’t know.”

  “I’m sure there’s a connection,” I said. “I just don’t know what.”

  My eyes narrowed. Malachi might have married into House Rubén, and sired three children of aristocratic blood, but ... he wouldn’t have been a true aristocrat. No wonder they’d been so quick to get rid of him, when ... what had he done? I doubted he’d killed Francis personally, if only because Francis’s parents would have demanded bloody revenge. An accident? Or something completely unconnected? It was hard to believe. The two events were so close together, practically on top of each other, that they had to be linked.

  I stared down at my hands. “So he was kicked out,” I said. “What’s he been doing - openly - since then?”

  “Nothing, as far as the records say,” Uncle Jalil said. “You know better, of course.”

  “Yes.” I let out a breath. “Are they funding him?”

  “I think he’ll get a stipend as long as he stays away from them,” Uncle Jalil said. “He’d hardly be the first aristocrat to be paid to keep away from his family. There are entire communities composed of exiles in foreign parts.”

  “They get paid to stay away,” I said. It was funny, in a sad kind of way. I would have felt sorrier for Malachi if he hadn’t been a monster in human flesh. “What did they do?”

  “They went too far, I guess.” Uncle Jalil snorted. “They did something too repulsive for their families to tolerate, even though they had to cover it up. And so they got sent away, the whole affair buried under the carpet and ... scrubbed from history. The records might have been incomplete, given Malachi’s murky origins, or they might have been changed at some point. He’s never been important enough to be listed anywhere, at least until he married into quality. I don’t think he was ever truly welcome outside his family.”

  “I see,” I said. I suppose it explained something about Malachi. The lack of concern for High Society’s values was odd, for a born aristocrat, but if he wasn’t a born aristocrat ... he might even see himself as taking revenge on a society that had never really taken him seriously. No wonder he’d wanted to make me crawl. I was the personification of everyone who’d shunned him. “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Jalil said. “I’m trying to work on it, but ... it’s not easy to look without making ripples. He could be living in the finest hotel in North Shallot or in a garret somewhere in Water Shallot. I just don’t know.”

  I remembered Malachi’s comment and smiled. “Look in Water Shallot,” I said. If he’d been worried about me getting home, if he’d been worried, he had to be living somewhere
dangerous. We’d certainly driven far enough to reach Water Shallot. “I think you’ll find him there.”

  Uncle Jalil blinked. “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t,” I said. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be that easy. “But they wouldn’t have let him stay in North Shallot. Even South Shallot would have problems. And if ...”

  I scowled. “And if he was born in Water Shallot, he might have felt more comfortable there,” I added. “There’d certainly be more places to hide.”

  Chapter Thirty

  There was no name on the letter.

  I glared, feeling my heart twist once again. There was no name, no seal, nothing to so much as hint at the sender. The letter was written in such vague terms that the writer could have been writing about anything, anything at all. And yet, I knew who’d sent it. I could read between the lines. Malachi wanted me to tighten the screws on Ayesha, to make her spy on her father ... I swallowed, hard. If she went to her father and confessed everything, she’d destroy me. She’d be humiliated, but I’d be destroyed. Malachi - damn him - might just have time to make his escape before it was too late.