Kings of Mercia Academy 1-4: The Complete Bully Romance

by Sofia Daniel

  She wrapped her arm— sling and all— around her middle, accentuating her huge breasts, and hobbled on her single crutch over to our table. “Blake,” she said in a small voice. “May I talk to you?”

  “About what?” he grabbed a slice of toast from the rack and slathered it with butter.

  Her gaze darted around the tables, where people had stopped to glare at her. “It’s… personal.”

  I clamped my lips together and clenched my teeth. It made no sense that Charlotte would try to confide in the person who had filmed her sucking him off and then broadcast it to the whole of Elder House. In case this was an attempt to rile me up and start a fight to garner sympathy for herself, I focused on my eggs.

  “I’m all ears.” Blake crunched into his toast.

  Charlotte let out a frustrated huff. “Blake, I—”

  “Whatever it is,” he said, “I’m not interested unless you’re here to tell us the truth about who you’re working with.”

  “Blake—”

  “You have a short memory.” Blake snapped. “How many girls have you lured into perilous situations?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Don’t approach us until you’re ready to tell us everything you’ve done behind the scenes to hurt Emilia and the other girls.”

  In English Lit, Miss Oakley handed out copies of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. A flush stained her sallow cheeks, and she pulled off her robe and lay it on her desk. “Now, I know it’s not British, but since we have an American in our ranks who can relate to this tale, I thought we might indulge in this wonderful piece of literature for the next fortnight.”

  I rolled my eyes. Would this old lady ever stop comparing me to prostitutes and fallen women? At least this was better than her Pretty Woman analogy.

  She clapped her hands together. “Can one bright spark tell me about the theme of this story?”

  Charlotte’s hand shot up. “It’s about a woman who ended up ostracized for trying to do the right thing.”

  The teacher’s pale eyes gleamed, and she smacked her thin lips. “Do explain.”

  “Hester fell in love and got pregnant out of wedlock. In enlightened societies, this isn’t of any consequence. However, in puritan times, they forced her to wear the mark of an adulteress.”

  “Yes, yes.” Miss Oakley edged closer to Charlotte.

  “Hester was mistreated by her peers.” Charlotte stood and addressed the class like she was the lecturer and not the salivating old woman behind her. “Sometimes, a person is just ahead of their time. Look at Galileo? He was arrested for heresy for being a misunderstood genius, and it took nearly a century for people to realize that he had been right all along.”

  A few of our classmates whispered among themselves, and I caught a few people offering murmured words of support. I turned around and stared at the girls who had been drugged, but none of them spoke up or even cast Charlotte a glare.

  My pulse pounded like a war drum. Blood roared through my ears, and the part of me who believed that scoundrels like Charlotte always landed on their feet bristled. I clenched my fists and ground my teeth. Nothing about her being shunned at breakfast had been undeserved. She’d set up dozens of girls to be date-raped, and some of them still suffered in hospital beds.

  “Miss Oakley, I have a question.”

  The old woman’s eyes sparkled. Probably because she considered me the subject-matter expert on all things scandalous. And it was all thanks to Charlotte, who had placed red ink on my skirt and informed her that I’d bled from rough sex.

  “Yes, Miss Hobson?”

  “Does the heroine of The Scarlet Letter trick other women into following in her example?”

  The old woman shook her head. “Hester Prynne was more virtuous than the puritans who ostracized her.”

  Edward tugged at my arm, probably to repeat his warning from breakfast about publicly calling Charlotte out, but I ignored him. Her stupid Galileo speech seemed to be swaying the weak-minded sheeple who had called me names just to follow the example of the triumvirate. The drugged girls hadn’t said a word against Charlotte, out of fear or embarrassment, I didn’t know, but I couldn’t stand to listen to that girl’s bullshit any longer.

  I nodded. “I think that drugging other girls in the village and trying to sell them to the men would justify the heroine becoming a pariah.”

  “Oh, Miss Hobson.” The teacher pulled at the lapel of her tweed jacket. “You really ought to read the book. Hester Prynne didn’t—”

  “But that’s what Underwood did.” I turned around and glared into Charlotte’s sneering face. “And she sold tickets to the boys, promising them success with girls who had shunned them.”

  Miss Oakley backed toward her desk. “Miss Hobson, that’s rather harsh and potentially slanderous—”

  “I was there.” Alice shot out of her seat. “There were bottles of lager for the boys and a fruit punch on the bar for the girls. I only had a few mouthfuls of it and got sick.”

  Grumbles filled the room, and Charlotte collapsed into her seat. “H-Hobson is a liar.”

  Irritation flared across my skin. I was about to call Charlotte a liar and a conspirator to commit date-rape when someone knocked on the door, silencing the class.

  A prefect from the year below poked his head inside. “Sorry to interrupt. Underwood is wanted in Mr. Weaver’s office.”

  Charlotte’s body sagged with relief. She hopped out of her seat, walked part-way to the door, then hobbled back to fetch her crutch.

  I ground my teeth. She was such a shameless fraud. And nothing was being done to take her to task for drugging all those girls. I didn’t, for one minute, believe that Philippe had placed the drugs in the punch without her knowledge. She would never have sold tickets to a party where boys thought they would have sex with girls unless she knew there would be a way to make the girls compliant.

  At lunchtime, Charlotte walked into the dining hall, holding some papers. Mr. Carbuncle’s replacement, a much older man with a Santa Claus beard, Mr. Jenkins, and two policemen followed her inside. The new caretaker held a toolbox and a stepladder.

  “I hope this is about the doctored drinks,” I muttered into my glass of sparkling water. “Maybe they’ve found her stash of illicit drugs.”

  “Not quite,” replied Edward.

  Charlotte glanced at the piece of paper and pointed at a spot on the mantelpiece. The caretaker placed his ladder against the wall and climbed up. He turned to the police and nodded before climbing back down to rifle through his toolbox.

  “Does anyone know what’s going on?” I asked.

  “I made a deal with Charlotte,” said Edward.

  “When?” asked Blake.

  “Just before the first period, he replied. “I wouldn’t mention her involvement in the drugging to the board of directors in exchange for her volunteering to show Mr. Rigley the location of all the hidden cameras.”

  Blake chuckled. “Did she know the police would accompany her?”

  Edward raised a shoulder. “Even I didn’t know they’d make an appearance. Perhaps Mr. Weaver called them.”

  My gaze darted back to the fireplace. “But it kind of looks like she might have planted the cameras.”

  “That’s a small price to pay for not being expelled.” Edward sliced into his salmon steak.

  I glanced around the tables, my stomach lining trembling with apprehension. What if Charlotte publicly accused me of being the leak again? Everyone stopped eating to stare at the group by the fireplace. When the caretaker pushed aside a picture frame and removed the first camera, noises of uproar filled the dining room.

  Mr. Jenkins strode into the room with his palms raised. “Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your voices down. Miss Underwood has kindly brought to our attention a security breach we believe is responsible for the recent spate of bad publicity surrounding Mercia Academy.”

  I slid further under the table. Based on the sneers being sent her way, she might not w
ant to return to school in September.

  “Miss Hobson.” Mr. Jenkins hovered by my table. “There’s a pressing matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  Dread lined my belly with a layer of cold lead. Charlotte might have convinced him that I had been the one who had set up those cameras. I glanced at Edward in a silent request to accompany me to the housemaster’s office. My few interactions with Mr. Jenkins revealed him to be the kind of man who sided with bullies simply to get an easier life.

  Edward and I stood, and the three of us walked out of the dining room to Mr. Jenkins’ room. The musty scent of old paper filled my nostrils and made me cough. Even more documents than before piled his desk, and I wondered how he got any work done. He sat at desk chair and groaned.

  “Sir?” I said.

  “The school received a letter from Rudolph Trommel’s office, explaining that this would be your last term here at Mercia Academy. Will you return to Park Preparatory? We need somewhere to send your records.”

  A jolt of panic shot through my heart. What the fuck was the old bastard planning this time? I exchanged a confused look with Edward and turned back to Mr. Jenkins. “I’m returning here next year.”

  Our housemaster leaned back in his creaky desk chair. “That’s not what the letter says.”

  “Was it written by my mom?”

  He rubbed the back of his silver hair. “No, but—”

  “Rudolph didn’t adopt me. He has no say in where I study.” Now that Mom knew about his behind-the-scenes machinations, and I had her number, there was no way I would get nervous over this matter.

  His cheeks pinked. “I do beg your pardon, but if you wish to maintain your place at Mercia Academy, your parents or guardian must inform us in writing no later than two weeks after the end of term.”

  “Thank you for the information,” said Edward in his most cordial tone.

  We both stood and marched out of the room.

  “Is this a preemptive strike?” Edward asked.

  “I think so.”

  Edward shook his head. “Let’s discuss this tonight, outside the academy.”

  My hands balled into fists. If we didn’t come up with a way to stop Rudolph soon, I was screwed.

  Chapter 5

  Rudolph’s latest stunt soured my mood for the rest of the day. I couldn’t even focus in class, earning me two demerits from Mr. Weatherford in Creative Writing for daydreaming. I couldn’t tell whether Rudolph’s attempt to withdraw me from Mercia Academy was revenge for refusing to supply him with new stories or a warning. Maybe he knew I was plotting against him with the triumvirate.

  By the last lesson, Spanish class, my thoughts had become so paranoid, I pictured Rudolph and Philippe holding Mom at gunpoint for some imagined slight.

  Henry and I sat in the back of the classroom, translating a passage of El Buscón by Francisco de Quevedo. I pulled out my phone and sent Mom a text to ask how she was doing, hoping to get a response in a few hours.

  Just as I slipped the phone in the pocket of my blazer, it buzzed with her reply. She was shopping in Paris and would soon leave for Casablanca to stay with friends. My shoulders sagged with relief, and I focused on our translation.

  As soon as the bell sounded, indicating the end of the school day, I stuffed my books in my bag and shot out of my seat.

  Henry grabbed my wrist. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about that letter he sent the school. What if there’s a deeper meaning?”

  With a sigh, he placed his books in his satchel. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind who sends cryptic messages.”

  “He isn’t.”

  Henry stood. “Perhaps the letter means exactly what it says: he’s no longer willing to fund your education.”

  I blew out a long breath, and we walked out of the classroom together into the hallway. A gaggle of first years crowded around a bank of lockers, seeming less tiny than they had been in September. Many of them, who had started the academic year with blazers a size too large, now fit into their clothes. I smiled and turned back to Henry, who looked down at me with concern in his green eyes.

  “Come on.” I slid my hand down his arm and interlaced our fingers. “Let’s meet the others.”

  We walked under the magnolia trees holding hands. Only a few pink flowers remained on their branches, now replaced by dense, green foliage. The faint scent of citrus wafted down to us through their canopy, but it did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.

  I glanced up at Henry, who turned his gaze down to me and smiled. It was a bitter-sweet curve of the lips, perhaps a more cheerful variation of the British stiff upper lip, but it struck at my heart.

  A flock of butterflies took flight in my belly, urging me to use this opportunity to patch up our relationship. “Henry, I—”

  “Let go of my person!” screeched a voice from behind.

  A gang of fifth-year girls crowded around Charlotte. I recognized a blonde girl whose hair was cut in a bob from a conversation I had overheard earlier in the term. Patterson-Bourke, the shortest rugby player in the school, had accosted her in the hallway for having dumped him.

  “Finally decided to show your face?” said the blonde. “What do you have to say for yourself after nearly killing us with a cocktail of drugs?”

  Charlotte flung her arm out in my direction. “That American trollop put the drugs in your drinks. If you want retribution, go to her.”

  I rolled my eyes. That girl’s desperation knew no bounds.

  The blonde placed her hands on her hips. “The trollop wasn’t even on the boat.”

  Her friend snuck up behind Charlotte and yanked at her hair. “You promised us the Yank wouldn’t be there, so we know you’re lying!”

  My heart sank at the irony. I had endured so much to stop Charlotte from exploiting these girls, yet they still despised me. Maybe this was why Edward hadn’t wanted me to speak up against Charlotte. Little had changed since the first term. The other students had only stopped calling me names because I was now under the protection of the triumvirate.

  “Ignore them.” Henry placed an arm around my shoulder and walked me further along the path of magnolia trees.

  Blake and Edward stood outside the steps of Elder House, still clad in their school uniforms. The limo waited at the side of the building.

  Edward raised his brows in silent question about how I was faring following Rudolph’s letter. I tilted my head to the side and grimaced to indicate that I was still freaked out.

  “We’re going to Maison Saint-Nazaire.”

  I pictured the friendly old French couple who ran the quaint, little restaurant in the village. “We’re seeing Jean-Paul and Françoise?”

  Blake beamed. “He made us something special but told me it was a surprise.”

  The tightness in my shoulders unwound. An evening away from Charlotte sounded like heaven.

  After a round of effusive hugs and kisses, Françoise led us to the table by the kitchen, which she explained the boys had used since the Duke of Mercia had brought them over as first years. I sat next to Henry and opposite Blake, while Edward sat opposite Henry. Françoise served a round of Kir Royal, the most delicious aperitif of crème de cassis, which I learned was a blackcurrant liqueur, and champagne. A few diners sat at the front, but there was enough space between us so they wouldn’t overhear our conversation.

  The first dish was bouillabaisse, a rich, garlicky stew made from a dizzying array of seafood ingredients, served with bread Françoise had baked in her special baguette oven.

  As Françoise poured us glasses of sauvignon blanc, she turned to Edward. “Your father was here today with his friend. It was good to see him.”

  Edward straightened. “How was he?”

  “Happy, and that is all that matters, no?” The old woman retreated into the kitchens.

  Edward leaned across the table and clasped Henry’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough.” Emotion choked his voice. “What you hav
e done for Father has been beyond my wildest expectations.”

  Henry shook his head. “There’s no need—”

  “I know what it cost, and there has never been a truer friend than you.”

  “Hear, hear.” Blake raised his glass of sauvignon blanc.

  I peered at Henry under my lashes, pondering the nature of the sacrifice he had made. Edward might have been referring to getting disinherited, but I couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t a subject I wanted to raise because I had endangered their plans by calling the police.

  Later, Jean-Paul brought a pot of cassoulet, a rich casserole containing a variety of meats, beans, and sausages, which he had made using the recipe of a chef who worked for the Bourneville Group. Françoise brought a vintage Chateauneuf du Pape that had arrived earlier in the day from France. As she chatted with Edward and Henry in rapid French, I leaned over to Blake and asked, “What’s this sacrifice Edward was talking about?”

  “Sacrifice?” he whispered back.

  “Edward said the kidnapping incident cost Henry something.”

  His brows drew together. “That time you followed him into the bushes on our school trip. One of Bingham’s assistants knocked you out, and they argued about what to do with you.”

  My gaze flickered to Henry, who was still deep in conversation with Françoise. “Go on.”

  “Mr. Frost and the others gave Henry a choice,” Blake continued. “If he left you behind in that clearing to wake up naturally, the deal was off, and Edward wouldn’t get the help he needed for his father.”

  I nodded. It made sense since I would raise the alarm and get them all caught.

  “But if Henry brought you along, it would ruin the friendship you’d built up. Even though I made the first move, Henry was the first to start liking you.”

  “Oh.” I dipped my head.

  Blake leaned across the table and whispered, “If you’ve already forgiven Henry, give him a sign. While I love guarding your naked body at nights, it’s not the same without him in the room, don’t you think?”