The Lost of New Bristol (Lila Randolph Book 2)

by Wren Weston

  The Lost of New Bristol

  A Lila Randolph Novel

  Wren Weston

  Topsy-Turvy Publishing

  Topsy-Turvy Publishing

  512 West MLK Jr. Blvd, Suite 264

  Austin, Texas 78701

  Copyright © 2016 by Topsy-Turvy Publishing

  ISBN 978-1-68381-017-9 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-68381-018-6 (epub)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Visit Topsy-Turvy Publishing on the web at www.topsyturvypublishing.com.

  Visit Wren Weston at www.wrenweston.com.

  Contents

  Title Page ♦ Contents

  Chapter 1 ♦ Chapter 2 ♦ Chapter 3

  Chapter 4 ♦ Chapter 5 ♦ Chapter 6

  Chapter 7 ♦ Chapter 8 ♦ Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 ♦ Chapter 11 ♦ Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 ♦ Chapter 14 ♦ Chapter 15

  Chapter 16 ♦ Chapter 17 ♦ Chapter 18

  Chapter 19 ♦ Chapter 20 ♦ Chapter 21

  Chapter 22 ♦ Chapter 23 ♦ Chapter 24

  Chapter 25 ♦ Chapter 26 ♦ Chapter 27

  Chapter 28 ♦ Chapter 29 ♦ Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Preview: The Wolves of New Bristol (Book #3)

  Chapter 1 ♦ Chapter 2

  Newsletter

  Other Titles ♦ About Wren

  Chapter 1

  The only flaw in Lila’s plan was Tristan.

  Again.

  She cast a not-so careless eye toward the LeBeau militia gathered at the base of the auction house stairs. The dozen women and men tugged at the collars of their formal uniforms, the sweaty fabric chafing in the muggy afternoon. The LeBeau coat of arms, a scorpion with its stinger poised to strike, had been stitched in lavender on the breast of their summer-weight blackcoats, cut in ankle-length cotton rather than leather. The group chugged bottles of ice water, a balm against the late October heat wave, and fanned their coats to reveal tranq guns underneath. One of the militia whispered something. They all chuckled before separating once more to pace.

  As the chief of her family’s militia, Lila had been party to such jokes for years. It was likely a barb against the paparazzi, or the so-called press behind the stanchions. Microphones in hand and cameras at the ready, they stood at attention while their flashing bulbs captured the scene. Of course, the joke might have been aimed at the heirs who flowed up the silver-carpeted stairs toward the auction house, wilting under their finery.

  Predictably, the highborn had ignored the weather. The heirs wore their autumn dresses and well-tailored long coats while the men panted in their vests and coats and breeches, their cravats tied and pinned at their necks. Everyone wore their family colors. The highborn sparkled with jewels and sweat as they ran the gauntlet of press and photographers, vainly dabbing at their foreheads between photos and interviews, desperate to enter the cool lobby and the ballroom beyond.

  And they all suffered.

  All except Lila. She’d visited the family tailors, insisting they alter a dress from the year before. Obligingly, they’d scissored off half the blood-red fabric and dyed a pair of gloves to match. After all, she had to hide the stitches and bandages that crisscrossed her palms. She’d earned them the weekend before when she’d been trapped in the middle of a riot. Of course, few people knew the real story. She’d told everyone she’d been in a motorcycle accident. So far, everyone believed her.

  The other highborn stared at her dress, half jealous, half grumbling that her clothes too closely resembled last year’s fashions. Her tailors had been clever, though, expertly tying together the trends. The bodice of her backless dress hardly covered her breasts, and the silken skirts barely brushed her skin. The slit had been cut as high as was proper, allowing for a delightful breeze between her legs. She’d balked at the matching gossamer coat, but it might have been woven by magical spiders, for it didn’t stifle her in the slightest.

  With her dark hair set in tumbling waves and her makeup perfectly applied, she looked a great deal less like a militia chief and more like the eldest heir to one of the richest and most powerful families in New Bristol, and perhaps all of Saxony.

  Which she was. Sort of. Only fifteen women in each generation could call themselves heirs in each family, all standing in line to become the next chairwoman. The current matron’s eldest daughter stood first among them. Despite being the prime heir by birthright, Lila had traded away her spot a decade ago in order to join the Randolph militia. She shouldn’t have been allowed on the silver carpet at all. Instead of an heir, she should only rank as a highborn.

  Her mother would never suffer such an outrage, though. The Randolph family had only fourteen official heirs, but everyone understood who held the fifteenth spot, no matter how often Lila resisted the implication. And under the pretense of sparing her younger sister Jewel from failure on the New Bristol High Council of Judges, her mother had declared Lila the family’s emissary, forcing her to sit on a council made up of matrons and prime heirs.

  The fact that Lila had never officially accepted her position as heir rankled the others.

  The fact that everyone accepted it for her rankled Lila.

  It also made everything about her annoyingly fuzzy—except her place in the action house line. Only matrons and primes could skip them at highborn functions. As an heir, even an unofficial one, she had to wait, just like the others.

  But waiting in line had been part of Lila’s plan, for it allowed her to study the LeBeau militia. She counted six blackcoats on the roof while another half-dozen kept the front secure. Lila couldn’t tell if the LeBeau chief had reinforced the alley, but Shirley watched from a neighboring building. The old woman had a keen eye, and an even keener mind for trouble. She’d let Tristan know the moment she found it.

  Toxic would too. Lila had hacked the auction house security cameras. Toxic now watched every feed, including the ones Lila had looped and fed back to the LeBeau militia. Unfortunately, Lila couldn’t check them herself. She’d hidden her palm computer in her clutch, and she couldn’t remove the device while she tarried in line. Not around the nosy highborn heirs.

  With the way the afternoon had unfolded, the heist might be over before she even got into position. Too many heirs had shown up later than usual to escape the heat, tying her up outside when she should already be inside.

  Until then, Tristan and his people were on their own, and that was never a good idea.

  “Chief Randolph?” came an overly cheery voice on the opposite side of the stanchions. The voice belonged to a pale, slender blonde in an off-the-rack dress, holding a worn palm.

  Lila tried not to frown. Every heir knew Marion Carpenter, a leading journalist for the New Bristol Times, and every journalist knew that Lila Randolph didn’t give interviews. Giving one meant that Lila had officially taken up her role as heir, and, more importantly, it meant any news outlet could run her photo without consequence. Lila enjoyed her anonymity far too much to destroy it. She also enjoyed the gaping loophole it created. The Randolph militia chief was completely off-limits to the press. No photos. No videos. Not even a sound bite.

  “An unofficial word,” Ms. Carpenter pleaded.

  Lila gripped her clutch tighte
r and motioned her forward. It was good for the Randolphs to court the local press, officially or unofficially.

  Ms. Carpenter hopped the rope and rushed over. “You look quite healthy, chief.”

  “I feel healthy.”

  “So there’s no truth to the rumor that Peter Kruger shot you in the chest last Friday?”

  “I’m wearing a backless dress, Ms. Carpenter. I think you’d notice the bullet hole.”

  The journalist’s gaze dipped to the low bodice of Lila’s gown. “There were reports you were taken to Randolph General.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, conflicting reports. I heard you were shot. I also heard you were in a motorcycle accident. Care to elaborate?”

  “Perhaps it was both. Perhaps I’m a fast healer.” Lila smirked, glad it had only been a tranq that had felled her, rather than a bullet. “Perhaps you rely too heavily on your sources.”

  Ms. Carpenter bit her lip. “How does it feel to acquire the Wilson estate so early? Unofficially, of course.”

  Lila recalled the exact words her mother had beaten into her head at breakfast. “While the Randolphs obviously regret the fall of any highborn family, on occasion, one must step aside so that another can join our ranks.”

  “You feel regret for the Wilson family? The same Wilsons who rioted throughout the family’s compound the night Celeste Wilson and her son were taken into custody? The same family who killed a Bullstow militiaman during their tantrum?” Ms. Carpenter crinkled her nose. The highborn did not express violence; it just wasn’t done. Even the poorer classes avoided it like a young child copying its elders. “The woman defrauded her own family and tried to do business with our enemies. Her son tried to make a deal with the Roman Emperor, promising to return his long-lost nephew for a pile of riches and safe haven. They rioted and killed for that, yet you feel regret?”

  “I sincerely hope that the men of Bullstow will see justice for their fallen brother,” Lila said carefully. “I also feel pity for anyone betrayed by Celeste and Patrick Wilson, regardless of their bloodline. I hope the next matron will not be so careless with the futures of her family and those who serve it.”

  “You sit on the New Bristol High Council. The rumor is you’ll discuss candidates for the next matron soon. Which lowborn family will you support?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Bullshit. You could. You just won’t. Give me a name, chief. Will it be the Parks? Everyone says it will be the Parks. Just confirm it for me. Unofficially.”

  “It’s not my job to confirm things. You’ll have to wait until the council announces its decision. Good day, Ms. Carpenter.” Lila stepped forward in line, finding herself before the auction house sign. LeBeau’s had been scrawled in an artsy cursive script. The branding served as a backdrop for photo ops during the event.

  Ms. Carpenter made the poor choice of stepping with her, blocking the view of the press behind the stanchions.

  “Madam, we need the shot!” a member of the paparazzi yelled, already snapping photos of the pair, not realizing which heir he’d captured on film. “Get out of the way!”

  Others clamored at the ropes, shouting at the journalist to move aside. Bright lights flashed around the pair, searing Lila’s eyes. She lifted her hand to block them. Light-shadows danced in her vision.

  Ms. Carpenter turned at their continued boos and jeers. “Unless you want a slave’s term and a lifetime suspension of your license, I’d suggest you put down your cameras.”

  The paparazzi snuck a peek at Lila, faces falling as they marked her blood-red dress. Most deleted her photos immediately, scared they might post one by accident.

  Ms. Carpenter swiveled back to Lila. “My sources tell me that you were instrumental in the capture of Celeste and Patrick Wilson. Is that true?”

  “Your sources have interesting imaginations.” Lila didn’t know where the rumor had come from, but it spurred a sense of unease and apprehension among the highborn. Lila enjoyed keeping the matrons and primes on their toes.

  “Do you plan on attending their executions?”

  Lila steeled her face. Patrick might have hired Peter Kruger to kill her, but he was her best friend’s little brother. “It’s a bit early to talk of executions. The High Council has not even confirmed the sentence yet. If you’ll excuse me, I have my mother’s auction to attend.”

  Before Lila turned away, Ms. Carpenter blurted out a last question. “Are you still friends with Alexandra Craft-Wilson? Have you two spoken since her family’s fall?”

  The journalist scanned Lila’s face, then smiled at the expression she found.

  Lila cleared her throat. “My feelings for Ms. Wilson have never wavered.”

  “Have Ms. Wilson’s? After all, it is her mother and brother who will be executed, some say due to your own maneuvering.”

  “You’d have to ask Ms. Wilson that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve tried to get an interview with Ms. Wilson all week. Your matron has denied it time and time again. I—”

  Lila’s jaw locked. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You want an interview with Alex.”

  Ms. Carpenter took a step back.

  The auction house door opened. A short, chubby woman appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a long silvercoat and a formfitting green dress. Her gaze lingered over the line of highborns, landing on Lila.

  “Ah, there you are, Chief Randolph,” Chairwoman Masson called out, crooking her finger. Though only a dozen years Lila’s senior, the chairwoman had dyed her hair silver, coloring it in stages over the years to attain the much-desired look of wisdom, maturity, and experience. Today it hung in thick curls around her calm, serene face.

  A little too serene, actually. Lila sometimes wondered if she smoked just enough weed to render her unflappable. It had always been impossible to ruffle the elegant woman, not that Lila hadn’t tried.

  “Come,” the matron said, ignoring the journalist. “We have council business to discuss.”

  Lila stifled her grin and jogged upstairs in her heels. The heirs on the silver carpet stared at her jealously as she passed, but no one said a word. Grace Masson was a matron, after all.

  “I owe you,” Lila whispered as the chairwoman clasped her arm.

  “Yes, you do. I thought you might pull a tranq gun from gods know where and shoot her. Not that I would have minded. Dreadful woman, that one.”

  “Dreadful is too polite a word.”

  “Well, you may pay me back for my kindness this very afternoon. Take my son for the season. He’s beautiful, sweet, and in need of a good match.”

  “He’s very beautiful and very sweet, and also barely twenty.”

  “Twenty and twenty-eight aren’t that far off. Besides, younger is better. You get stronger genes that way. You’ll care about these things soon.” The chairwoman eyed Lila’s face and broke out into a wide grin. “A mother has to try. I promised. You’ll tell him so?”

  “I will tell him you gave it your very best shot.”

  “Excellent. That is payback enough.” The chairwoman squeezed Lila’s arm and led her into the blessed coolness of the lobby. The room stood as a monument to marble, gold trim, and Renaissance paintings. The line outside continued inside, stretching to the ballroom’s entrance. Each heir waited impatiently to be announced.

  “Such a horrid line in horrid weather. Why didn’t you come earlier?”

  “Work,” Lila fibbed.

  “You should take a vacation, darling. You look tired.” The chairwoman led her to the front of the line as if she were prime once more and gave her a quick wink. “Once you’re announced, we’ll talk about tomorrow’s council meeting. I’ll find you in the ballroom directly.”

  Lila watched Chairwoman Masson walk away, years of ballet training in every step.

  The rest of the heirs looked at Lila as t
hough she’d cheated at cards.

  Lila ignored them.

  The teenage boy standing at the ballroom door turned to face Lila, his back straight, his chest open. “Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph,” he announced over the tittering in the ballroom and the clinking of champagne glasses. Though the boy’s breeches, tailored jacket, and accent placed him in the upper echelons of highborn society, the tremble in his voice betrayed his true class, marking him as far too overwhelmed with the crowd around him.

  A well-trained and beautiful lowborn, then, putting on airs.

  Lila couldn’t blame him for being overwhelmed. The crowd in the ballroom might have been composed of vultures, glamoured by Puck himself for his own amusement. Every heir within two hundred kilometers had assembled, all to bid on items the Randolphs had seized from the Wilson compound. LeBeau’s staff hadn’t even placed chairs inside the ballroom, knowing all too well the whims and the fancy of their kind. It wasn’t often the heirs had a chance to gather en masse outside of the season.

  The fall of the Wilson family had brought them all out for business with a side of gossip. The sea of whitecoats and silvercoats and bold family colors churned like a raging sea, with groups breaking away to join other groups that then broke apart again, a shifting foam of rich indigos, bold blues, hunter greens, and monarch oranges. The matrons and their daughters bid with upraised paddles or discussed business amongst themselves in the lull between items. Designer dresses marched back and forth over the polished oak floor, whisked back and forth on missions of scandalous importance. The occasional male from the great families dotted the crowd, whispering in hushed tones, smoothing over proposals, or laying the groundwork for new deals, hopeful to bring his matron another for consideration.

  Of course, wherever highborn women ventured, the senators congregated as well. New Bristol and Saxony senators alike had crowded into the ballroom. The New Bristol senators wore their silver city medallions with pride, puffing out their chests in their tailored burgundy coats, black breeches, and black boots, the last polished to a fine gleam. Not to be outdone, the Saxony senators wore their hard-won black coats and gray vests, prowling around the ballroom as kings on a hunt. Both groups of men had likely arrived early, all to flirt for as long as possible with the heirs, all under the pretense of legislation and society, all trying to make a match before the season had even begun.