Tournament of Ruses

by Kate Stradling

  Tournament of Ruses

  A Novel and Mostly Unnecessary Sequel

  By Kate Stradling

  Tournament of Ruses

  Copyright © 2014 Kate Stradling

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written consent of the author.

  Published by Kate Stradling

  katestradling.com

  For my mom and everyone else who complained.

  You can’t always get what you want.

  This book is probably no exception.

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter One: The Woes of Flora Dalton

  Chapter Two: Of Fathers and Fortunes

  Chapter Three: One Lie Begets Another

  Chapter Four: Silliness Ensues

  Chapter Five: Both Seen and Unseen

  Chapter Six: Bond and Free

  Chapter Seven: The New Crowd

  Chapter Eight: An Illustrious Visitor

  Chapter Nine: All Is Well

  Chapter Ten: The Order of Things

  Chapter Eleven: Shades of Malice

  Chapter Twelve: Lessons Begin

  Chapter Thirteen: Self-Assertion

  Chapter Fourteen: All Bets are Final

  Chapter Fifteen: A Day Off

  Chapter Sixteen: Quite the Intimate Interview

  Chapter Seventeen: In the Silence of the Night

  Chapter Eighteen: Making Allies

  Chapter Nineteen: Lady-Killer

  Chapter Twenty: Frivolous

  Chapter Twenty-One: Rumors and More Spying

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Grand Exhibition

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Dismal Curse, Dismal Cure

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Stark Light of Day

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Mingled Black and Red

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Final Examination

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: An Ending, of Sorts

  Preface

  In general, I am not a fan of sequels. I say this in the preface of a sequel, fully laying my hypocrisy for all to see (but knowing at the same time that almost no one reads the preface anyway, so my reputation is still safe). In my experience as a reader, too many sequels are stale reincarnations of the book(s) that preceded them. Characters get stuck in developmental ruts. Plots are shades and alterations of previously faced conflicts. In short, for me, many sequels feel like watered-down clones of the original story, and rather than adding upon it, they erode its integrity away.

  One of my goals as a writer is never to write such a sequel.

  When I offered my original manuscript for Kingdom of Ruses as tribute to my most Noble Patron, I considered it a finished novel, self-contained and complete, never to be revisited. My patron’s reaction after reading it was, essentially, “That’s it? You can’t end it like that!” I’m stubborn and stuck by my ending, but even as I justified it to her, the seed for a sequel sprouted in my head and grew so quickly that I couldn’t suppress it.

  I sincerely hope that Tournament of Ruses is not a watered-down Kingdom. I framed it, like its predecessor, as a stand-alone novel. As its author, I liken myself to a traveler who, having once visited a far-off land, received an unforeseen chance to tour its foreign shores again. The second visit did not follow the same itinerary as the first. Should I happen to visit again (which is unlikely, or so I believe), it would be a different experience anew. To my mind, Lenore exists independent of the stories I tell, with that timelessness that belongs only to imaginary worlds.

  All that being said, this is a frivolous book and a light-hearted read. Don’t take it too seriously.

  Many thanks to Danielle, Russell, Jill, Shawnette, Kristen, Ryan, and others who read and provided feedback over the course of my multiple drafts. Many thanks as well to my mother, Edith, the original voice of protest that spurred the creation of this mostly unnecessary book.

  K.S.

  June 2014

  Chapter One: The Woes of Flora Dalton

  I am in the absolute pits of despair, with misery weighing heavy upon my shoulders and misfortune pressing down upon me with a diabolical sneer. At least, that’s how I would describe my state of mind if I were Georgiana Winthrop, who seems to have a gift for such horrendous over-dramatization. I am miserable, it is true, and I wish I could wax eloquent with paragraphs and paragraphs dedicated to my misery, but alas, I just don’t have the knack. (I threw in that “alas” for poetic effect, but now that I’ve reread it, it seems to fall flat. I told you I don't have the knack.)

  I’m very happy for my father, that he could be promoted to the Parliament of Lords. Lenore is a small country and its politics are long established, so Dad never expected such an opportunity. But with that terrible business last summer, and the aftermath when several lords resigned on suspicion of treason against the Prince (and one was even executed!), suddenly there were positions that needed to be filled. The Daltons are a small family, but we are respectable, and since Dad has been magistrate in our little town for ages, he received a promotion.

  Does it make me a horrible daughter that I wish he might have moved to the capital by himself and left me out in the rough where I belong?

  I tried to convince him that I was responsible enough to remain behind on my own, with Mrs. Finch as a sort of guardian, but he would have none of it. He actually told me that eighteen is too young for a girl to live by herself, even though he knows that I’m every bit as mature as any old dowager. Then he made his Very Serious Face and said that as a parent, he could not fathom leaving his only child behind, even if it was my wish to abandon him.

  Just how was I supposed to argue against that?

  We’ve inherited one of the houses on Lords’ Row as part of Dad’s appointment. I lingered in the countryside while he was getting everything settled, but here I am at last, in a miserable little townhouse with its tiny, miserable, mistreated garden, and to make matters even worse, my dad has enrolled me in a Ladies’ Conservatory. I have been here all of three days, and I positively despise the whole place!

  Mrs. Olivette’s Conservatory for Proper Young Women is not a school. I’ve already graduated from our rural little schoolhouse and the only hope for further education would be acceptance to the Royal Academy, which is quite impossible because they do not accept women (curse their narrow-mindedness for it, too!). No, Mrs. O’s Conservatory is not a school at all. It’s more like a club where all the well-to-do daughters of notable people gather daily to socialize and gossip.

  Hence my despair.

  I have been received with open arms, which I find very strange, seeing as how I have no reputation to speak of in the city and all these girls seem very cliquish to me. If you’re reading this and don’t know me personally, you might think that I’m being ungenerous to them, but I assure you that I am not. I’ve lived my entire life in the country and haven’t the first clue about city style or manners. My greatest ambition when I’m with them is to go unnoticed, but they’re constantly beckoning me to their circles. Then they gossip about whichever girl is absent, which only makes me wonder what they say about me when I’m not there.

  I shouldn’t say they spend all their time gossiping about each other, though. Most of their conversation is turned toward the Eternal Prince, and toward the shocking announcement that was heralded through the city on the same day my father was sworn into Parliament, about a week before we officially moved here: after hundreds of years living in his palace solitude, our Illustrious Protector has decided to take a consort.

  I don’t know what young woman in her right mind would want to marry a mysterious, magical creature who
is several hundred years older than herself. I certainly wouldn’t.

  “Do you think the Eternal Prince will expect his wife to cover her face just as he always does?” asked Georgiana Winthrop as she studied the delicate teacup she held in one hand. “I’m not sure I could go through the rest of my life wearing a veil, but it is rather romantic to think that only we two would be able to gaze upon one another’s true beauty.”

  “What if he’s not beautiful, though?” asked Dorothea Spencer from beside her.

  Georgiana appeared affronted at the very suggestion. “Of course he is! You’ve all seen what a fine figure he has, veil or no veil. Besides, he wasn’t wearing his headdress last summer when he led that army of creatures to squash Lord Conrad’s silly rebellion, and everyone who saw him said he was remarkably good-looking.”

  “I thought no one really got a good look at his face, though,” Augustina Markham spoke up. “He could be horribly disfigured for all anyone knows.”

  “He covers his face because he’s so beautiful that anyone who looks upon him will be immediately enamored of him,” Georgiana retorted with a stern glare. “Not that it really matters. He doesn’t have to be handsome to have a handsome wife, not when he rules the whole country.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’re bothering to get your hopes up, Georgie,” said Priscilla Irvine from across the table. “Anyone who knows anything about palace affairs says he’s going to marry Viola.”

  “He has to consider each of the Lords’ daughters before he makes his final decision, Prissy,” Georgiana replied pettishly, “and that includes you, me, Augustina, Dorothea, and of course our dear, dear little Flora here.”

  Dear, dear little Flora didn’t know what she had done to incur Georgiana’s great pleasure, but she sincerely wished she could undo it. Georgiana Winthrop was uncontestably the queen bee of this particular clique of girls, and Flora could well understand why. She was beautiful: chestnut hair, big brown eyes, and a commanding—nay, domineering—presence. Flora felt small and insignificant next to her.

  The other girls were only slightly less intimidating. Even next to Dorothea, who was the plainest among them, Flora felt insignificant. Dorothea was at least dressed according to the latest fashions. Flora’s own dark locks were kept in a simple chignon—which was “very quaint,” as Georgiana had kindly informed her upon their first meeting—and her country gowns were decidedly less elaborate than their city counterparts. Mrs. Finch, her housekeeper, had already followed her father’s instructions and ordered her a new wardrobe from a pack of eager seamstresses, but it was not yet complete. Flora, far from being grateful, wanted to keep her old dresses and retreat back to the family estate, where it did not matter that her pale skin and sloe-black eyes were “not quite the thing anymore,” as Georgiana had said.

  In fact, Georgiana had informed her of all of her shortcomings so benevolently on her first day at Mrs. Olivette’s Conservatory that Flora had decided then and there that she positively hated her. Flora was by instinct a timid creature, though, so rather than lashing out as she had wanted, she simply kept her mouth shut and allowed herself to be bullied. There was nothing to gain by losing her temper. She was a Dalton, and the Daltons were dignified, even if they weren’t paragons of the fashionably elite.

  Besides, the last thing her father needed in his new career in Parliament was a daughter who caused trouble with the daughters of his peers. For his sake, she could endure far worse treatment than such poisoned compliments as these girls might dish out.

  Thus, as Georgiana favored her arm with a familiar squeeze, Flora simply mustered a weak smile and asked in her most unwitting voice, “Who is Viola?”

  Her ignorance surprised her companions, but after one shocked moment, they all erupted into twittering laughter—like a flock of ill-tempered birds, Flora thought unkindly.

  “Dear little Flora,” said Georgiana with forced affection, “it’s no wonder you don’t know about Viola—Viola Moreland, that is. She’s Prime Minister Moreland’s only daughter, of course, but she’s never associated with the likes of us, so we hardly knew she existed until last summer!”

  “She was tutored at the palace,” Augustina volunteered. “I’d never even seen her until the Midsummer’s Eve banquet.”

  “When she seduced every boy present,” Dorothea groused.

  “She’s probably already seduced the Prince,” said Priscilla, “so, as I said, I don’t see why any of us should bother to get our hopes up.”

  Georgiana grew dangerously still. “You think I’m no rival for Viola Moreland?”

  “Of course you are!” cried Dorothea with a sycophantic devotion that Flora had learned to despise in the few days she had spent with these young ladies. “There’s no one more beautiful than you, Georgiana! You have such grace and style! Why, I saw Viola Moreland near Market Street last week, and she was not half as pretty as you!”

  “She’s downright plain,” Augustina agreed.

  “It’s only her family connections that she has to her advantage,” Dorothea continued, encouraged, “and Prime Minister isn’t so much better than lord. You’re infinitely her superior!”

  Flora wondered if she would be expected to add to these compliments, but luckily the conversation took another turn.

  “I shouldn’t have expected you to be so critical of her when she’s practically your sister-in-law, Georgie,” Priscilla said innocently. “Or did you break things off with her brother when the Prince announced his intention to take a consort? Poor Charles, to be jilted for someone of higher status.”

  Georgiana stiffened again. “Nothing between Charles and me was official.”

  “That’s not how you were talking two weeks ago.”

  “He well understands the circumstances,” she replied with a rising blush. “I can’t help it if Parliament decided that the Prince should choose from among all the eligible young ladies of the country. Why must you bring this up, Prissy? You have no idea how worried I’ve been that the Prince would choose me, and that Charles—my sweet, lovelorn Charles—would challenge him to a duel. I shouldn’t be able to live with myself if such an unspeakable tragedy were to occur!”

  Dorothea and Augustina were caught up with Georgiana in her dramatic daydream. Flora sank deeper into her chair and bit her lower lip to keep from scoffing.

  Across the table, Priscilla was unmoved. “Charles Moreland isn’t going to challenge the Prince to a duel. More likely, while you’re off dangling yourself as a potential consort, he’ll find some other girl to suit his fancy. There are plenty of us who wouldn’t mind his attentions, you know.”

  Georgiana’s answering expression looked like it had been stolen from Death Incarnate. An involuntary shiver raced up Flora’s spine as the two girls glared at one another.

  “I would take that as a personal insult, Prissy,” Georgiana uttered. Dorothea and Augustina cowered away from her. Priscilla’s confidence wavered. “A very personal insult,” she repeated to drive her point home.

  The underlying threat was most effective. Priscilla abandoned her half of the power struggle.

  “Well, of course,” she said dismissively. “I know none of us here would angle after him, but I only meant to warn you. There’s no telling what some girls might do, given the opportunity. If the Prince is going to marry Viola anyway, there’s no point in setting yourself up as a rival to her and losing your place with Charles.”

  Georgiana scowled. “But any one of us could rival her! She is plain. If anything, it’s her wanton manner that draws men in—but then, they never want to marry that sort.” She gave a knowing look to her friends. Eyes widened at the innuendo, but no one contradicted it.

  “Has anyone heard when the Prince plans to make his choice?” Augustina abruptly inquired. It was the third time in as many days that someone had asked this, and Flora was fast becoming sick of the subject.

  “Papa said he is to meet us each individually,” said Georgiana knowingly, just as she always did. “H
as your father said anything about the matter, Flora?”

  They always asked this question next, so that Flora was almost used to the way four hawk-like pairs of eyes honed in on her. “No, nothing,” she reported as she had every other day thus far. Why she was expected to have information from her father, she did not know. One could hardly expect him to be the foremost expert on this of all subjects.

  The gaggle of girls was growing a little tired of her continued denial, if the mirror-like thinning of their lips was any indication.

  “You know,” said Flora innocently, “I’m leaving early today. I wanted to stop by Graham’s Lending Library to see if they had anything new.”

  The Frivolous Four (for such she had started to call them in her mind) deplored reading; their complaints about the subject were vociferous, and Flora expected to get rid of them on this remark.

  “Oh, yes!” Georgiana cried, much to her dismay. “I should very much like to go with you! They have a new set of novels my mother recommended to me, and I wanted to pick up the first one! Which book are you looking for, Flora, dear?”

  “A treatise on botany,” Flora replied flatly. “Our garden is in a wretched state.”

  Four pairs of eyes blinked, as though she had just announced she sought a book on the best methods for butchering livestock. Flora had expected as much, but she didn’t care. Botany was interesting, even if other girls her age didn’t agree.

  The silence was broken, though, by a twittering laugh from Georgiana. “Oh, our dear Flora, how droll you are! Let us go to Graham’s at once!”

  And so, to her supreme disappointment, Flora was dragged along behind four flighty females toward the lending library. When she had discovered Graham’s the previous day, she had hoped that it would be a sort of safe-haven. She had not anticipated that it was quite so fashionable to be seen there.

  Luckily, being seen there was the only fashion. As Flora browsed, the other girls gradually drifted toward the door and back to the busy street beyond. “Flora, we’re all waiting for you,” Priscilla said from the doorway as Flora selected a book.