1905

MAEVE

My darlings were vibrant, thriving in the middle of summer. I walked around my precious potted greens as the distant sound of the candlestick telephone interrupted the peaceful morning, which was rare in summer where everyone was hot and restless. It was quiet again as a servant picked it up.

"Miss," the maid called, poking her head through the arched doorway of the garden. "A Francis wishes to talk to you."

I frowned, not familiar with the name. But I nodded anyway, because it could only be one of two things: Francis called to inform me that a cousin of mine was dead, or it was just another business call. It could be the latter, but the one thing I learned in the nineteen years I had been around is that it was hard to kill anyone in my family. My great-grandfather was a stubborn, bedridden, breathing proof of that.

I stepped out of the garden and crossed the hall toward the telephone. Leaning my cane against the table, I lifted the mouthpiece higher to my lips. "Maeve St. Vincent," I said as I held the receiver against my ear.

"Meet me at Milton's in an hour." The voice, the words, and the way they were spoken already told me a little about Francis—Impatient and seething with arrogance. Well, at least I was not losing a cousin today.

"I don't drink coffee," I said.

"You do not have to."

"I'll be at The Curb in thirty minutes," I said, ending the call with a scoff.

With light, long strides of imperfect lanky legs and cane, I imagined the Francis in my head staring at his telephone with mouth hanging open. No one could tell Maeve St. Vincent where to go.

I reached my room with my usual loud flair: the door banging open against the wall, cane dropping and rolling to the floor after a hasty disposal on a chair, and a gasp of a surprised maid. "I'll be out for an hour. I won't need a companion."

The maid was new, but the other servants must have given her the talk because she just nodded, watching as I laced my crusty leather boots. Her gaze followed me with interest and growing concern as I smelled my coat and put it on. "What's wrong?" I asked, grabbing my leather bag from the closet.

She blinked, took a few seconds to find her voice, and when she did, she said, "Miss—your hair. Should we—"

"Throw me my cap, will you? There, by the chair." I caught the brown flat cap, held the mass of black hair over my head, and put it on. "Cane?" She picked up the cane from the floor and threw it. Catching it with one hand, I twirled it twice before the tip hit the floor with a thud. I smiled at her. "You're learning fast, Justine."

Her eyes widened even more. "You remember my name."

"I remember everything," I replied, already moving toward the door.

"Then perhaps you remember you have an appeal to write, Miss?"

I narrowed my eyes at her. "You've been talking to my mother." She bit her lips, face flushing. "Tell Mother I'll work on the letter once I'm free," I added with a sigh before walking out.

"She said you'll say that, and she said to tell you that now that you have no school to go to, you have a lot of time, Miss. And also, Miss Blythe wanted to ask if you're joining the Ivory Game this year."

"No on both regards," I said, walking out the door. Before my mother could catch me herself, I slipped out of the house.

Moments later, I was cursing the crowd as I walked down the cobbled walkway in the middle of the summer heat. We lived in the affluent district of Coulway, along Bridge Street, that led to a famous bazaar. I adjusted the strap of my bag across my chest as I slipped through the pack of tourists swarming the area with boxes from the city's luxurious shops. Like ants around a large crumb of bread, they got denser the closer I got to the bazaar. A gentleman almost threw me off my feet and cane as he passed.

I glared and shouted, "Oi! You there!"

He slowed down and looked back like an ignorant fool.

"Watch where you're going."

He looked at me, my cane, and then around him, silently wondering if he got lost and ventured into the slums.

I moved along. The walk was far and my leg was starting to feel it, but my mind needed the distance to think of the list of things I had to do. And things I didn't have to, the letter to Queens University being one of them.

After three blocks, I was at the park taking a rest, imagining other things I could do if Queens refused my appeal this time. "Miss St. Vincent," someone greeted, hurrying away, averting my eyes. There were a few who were a little friendlier, throwing a smile or stopping for a chat, asking about my mother or father or brothers, telling me I did not have to stand while glancing at my cane.

The St. Vincents were quite liked. Well, most of us, anyway. They found us... entertaining, I guess. Some thought our eccentric nature was both charming and alarming. I remember when I was nine I read a large print on a gossip column: St. Vincents—best doctors, terrible friends, horrible enemies. My father said it was good free marketing. The page was still pasted on the wall of my laboratory in the attic.

Thirty-five minutes and six blocks later, with sweat dripping down my temples, I crossed the street toward Eden Row, the district of town someone from a place like Bridge Street should not be at. Thick soot plastered the walls of the buildings I passed. If the strong smog that cloaked the alleyways in gray could not ward off anyone who could breathe, perhaps the sundry smell of horse manure, raw meat, and baked bread would do the job. This was the playground of rodents—both humans and animals.

"Oi, Saint!"

I looked up and broke into a smile. "Gary," I greeted with a nod as I passed him.

"A fancy thing's waiting for you at the curb!" Gary said with a laugh.

I groaned, leaning on my cane.

Pushing the door into The Curb, my eyes instantly locked on the fancy thing Gary mentioned. The perfectly brushed brown hair and shaved face made me cringe. His clothing tried its best to be modest, but the blinding white cotton shirt was just too bloody obvious. And it was not just the way he looked; it was also the way he sat in that corner—unmoving, pale, and probably dead, his face looking like he was itching for a bath while murdering someone with his bare hands, which, to be fair, would not be surprising after a trip to the Row.

I walked toward him, then halted, noticing the two other men seated around him. There were two more standing outside.

Guards.

I took a second look at the fancy thing and cursed under my breath.

Bloody hell.

The last time I saw him was at a ball. We were not friends, nor were we acquaintances, even though he was just a year older. Yes, our families went way back, but we were generations away from that part of history. I was quite certain it would be considered a scandal if we were seen together. Not good for me and the business, certainly.

"Mary, I'll take the back, please."

"That would be ten," the barmaid said.

I fished inside my bag and handed her a few bills. She had a small smile on her lips. "He looks like the—"

"Make sure no one walks in."

He finally moved when he saw me, his already murderous look turning lethal.

"Follow me," I said before he could speak.

"Stay and keep guard," he ordered the two men. It was the first time I heard him talk. His voice was matter-of-fact; it was also light with just a hint of roughness, like the porous stones you throw away at the beach.

Throwing my bag on the round table in the shabby private room of the alehouse, I sat down with a sigh of relief, stretching my right leg as I watched him enter and close the door.

"I don't know how ignorant palace folks are, but you should have at least made the effort to fit in. And next time, put on a cap. Your royal hair will thank you for—"

"You're late." It was an amalgamation of a growl and a hiss.

"I'm sorry, Your Royal Highness. My cane was taking its jolly time," I replied.

Francis Terrence Davercher, Royal Prince of Sutherland, pursed his lips and looked around the room, allowing me a moment to study him closely. As most Daverchers, he was not strikingly handsome. His curly brown hair was probably his best feature because it softened his hard edges. His nose was tall and thin, his mouth a little too long for his narrow chin, and his blue eyes had too many lashes.

However, it was the way he stood with his hands in his pockets that gave him a distinct air; something I could not point out at that moment. My eyes wandered to the veins that ran down his arm. Something almost dangerous. His shirt had two buttons loose. Or rebellious, I thought, although none of the things I heard about him told the same.

His angry eyes, bluer than the smog-filled skies of Eden Row, studied me for a while. He briefly settled on my cane before looking back into my eyes. "I don't appreciate being here."

"I don't aim to please you." I opened my bag, jumping straight to business. "What do you need? I only have three bags of my strongest herb, two of something new I have been working on, but it might be a little sweet for your liking. My bestseller is out of stock, I'm afraid. There will be a good yield in a few months if you want that, but it will cost more—"

"I'm not here for that," he interjected, eyeing my bag with distaste and disapproval curling the corners of his mouth.

I blinked at him. "Then I don't see why you're wasting my time."

He clucked his tongue with an impatient flick of a hand. "I know you offer other services."

He was not wrong, but I was not about to reveal my list of expertise in front of someone who could bring me more trouble than I already had.

Only when he stepped closer, hands still in his pockets, that I realized he was taller than I thought; probably a head taller than me. "The Ivory Game. You've joined twice before," he said, looking down at me with a frown like I was someone he had to tolerate.

I closed my bag. "Yes, but contrary to what you might think, it's not a hobby of mine."

"Enter this year's game." When I just stared, his jaw clenched. "I'll pay you, of course."

"I'm quite busy," I said, tapping my bag.

He scoffed. "I know." He pulled a chair and stared at its filthy state for a second. Remaining on his feet, he veered his gaze back to me and added, "Queens realized how busy you were and thought it best to expel you—thrice."

A slow smile curled the corners of my lips. "I think they're wrong about you. You're more charming than your brother."

His face tightened at the mention of the crown prince. Ah, the spare didn't want to be reminded of what he was not. "I can assure your readmission to Queens if you complete an assignment."

I held his gaze. "Queens and five-thousand sutherends."

Francis shook his head. "Getting you back to Queens is akin to moving a bloody mountain, what with your history and all."

"Then I hope you can find someone else." I grabbed my cane and stood, ready to leave. "I'd curtsy if my leg could allow it, but as you can see—"

"Three-thousand," he sharply cut in. I felt his annoyance in every syllable, but it did not deter me from slinging my bag across my chest. "It's worth more than what you earn selling whatever you call those," he added with disdain, nodding at my bag.

"Herbs. Medicinal," I said, but I knew we both knew it was a half a lie.

"I don't care about your fatuous dealings. Three-thousand and a readmission to Queens to play a bloody game is enough. You don't even have to win."

"Do you know how agonizing it is to spend an entire week with dozens of ladies? To be both their friend and enemy? To dine with their gossips and two-faced—"

"Do you talk this much?" he interjected, gravely irritated.

"Do you dislike everything?" I countered. He glared at me. "Because if it's just me, I don't know why you're still here tolerating my presence, which you clearly despise."

His mouth formed a tight line.

"Five thousand and a readmission to Queens."

He might have spit on me if he did not need me for something. His face had turned red; it was clear he was not used to being talked to the way I did. "Fine."

I broke into a smile and sat back down. "I'd like an initial deposit into my account in a week. Half."

His face twitched. "Fine." I smiled. The fancy thing didn't like being told what to do.

I placed my bag back on the table and held my cane beside my chair with one hand, looking up at him. "But first, I want to know the assignment."

"But we just agreed."

"I have to like both the payment and the job." As he glowered in incredulity, I asked, "What is the job?"

"Who," he corrected. "Claire Braxton."

A shot of pain went through my leg at the name. "Your betrothed," I coldly said.

"She is not."

"That's not what the papers say."

His jaw tightened. "She is not."

I held up my hand. "Very well," I said, gritting my teeth as I stretched my tight leg. "Whatever you say."

"You've assisted two other ladies to win the game during your last two games."

My answer was a shrug. There were a few business transactions I could not take credit for. My eyes rolled and I let out a scoff as I realized what Francis wanted from me. "I'm afraid I have to refuse," I said with great regret.

He glared. "Why? I was assured you'd take the job."

He would be the last person I'd tell why I could not work with Claire Braxton. "I don't care who told you that, but you should know that Claire Braxton doesn't need my help in the Ivory Game. She is the most capable of winning."

His eyes held mine in a firm gaze. "I'm well aware of that."

I frowned as my brain, which was suddenly flooded with vile memories of Claire Braxton, slowly gathered the clues. Finally, the smile returned to my lips when I realized what he meant. "You want her to fail."

"Yes."

I stared at him for a while before my shoulders shook with laughter.

His eyes narrowed, his lashes casting a shadow on his cheeks. His brows, not too thick, nor too thin, dipped lower. "Does this mean you are you taking the job?"

There were butterflies in my stomach as I stared at him, fluttering with delicious vengeance. "I can get back to school five-thousand richer knowing I ruined Claire Braxton's dream?" I grinned. "It's a bloody yes, Your Highness."