ALISTAIR

  “I need you.”

  Corin tilted Alistair's chin up, pulling his focus away from his Physics homework. They were alone in the private clubroom, and Alistair felt the heat rise to his cheeks, his mind betraying him the moment she whispered the word need.

  “Anything,” he said.

  Always a fool. Starved for her attention, he would do whatever it took—he would swallow a blade if she asked it of him.

  “Bring him to the lessons.”

  Him. Alistair's blood turned cold.

  The board had been reset, and the queen was suddenly moving the bishop. Toward what end, he still could not say.

  “Of course,” he agreed, catching her wrist before she could pull away. He leaned in, his words a hushed, protective murmur. “That rouge is a bit loud for your taste. Tell me, how was the dinner with your father?”

  “He made it through the main course,” was her curt reply.

  That distance, and that frost. There was too much of the Chairman in her.

  When the announcement rippled through the old circles that Gordon Clarendon's only child would attend Billard instead of some foreign finishing institution, the former aristocracy had scoffed. They said she was so much like Belize that she would just need her pretty face to survive the world. A fancy education would be wasted on her.

  Senator Salazar Ascor—his grandfather—disagreed. He had ordered Alistair's father to send him to Billard instead of Eton. Not for prestige, but for proximity to Corin.

  “She is Gordon's daughter. She is more a Clarendon than a Spencer,” the senator once told him. “You'll need one like her by your side.”

  Salazar had always admired Gordon, secretly wishing he had been his son. He could not have the father. So eventually he would want the next best thing.

  “An improvement.” Alistair gently pulled Corin close, his eyes intent on watching her lips move. “Tell me more.”

  “You're uncharacteristically chatty today.” She lingered beside him, her gaze narrowing in silent curiosity.

  Alistair caught it briefly, that cut on her lip she was trying so hard to hide. Corin would never complain about it, only endure. He had simply expected that she, at least, would be spared from her father's cruelty.

  He stilled his face, that practice coldness she was accustomed to, making sure that she does not notice that he saw the wound.

  “Just make sure Lucien gets to every lesson on time.”

  Lucien Green. His bishop—a commoner who outpaced them all.

  Alistair waited the next day, back against the wall, staring at one door, the concept of knocking completely irrelevant.

  “You have to stop showing up at my door like a suitor.”

  Lucien said it the moment he saw him present in the corridor.

  “Start walking,” he said, pushing off the wall and stepping ahead.

  “Why are you even coming?” Lucien asked.

  Alistair glanced at him, cool and unimpressed. “Did you imagine I volunteered to be your chaperone?”

  “So, she asked you?”

  “Corin Clarendon doesn't ask.”

  On the gravel drive, a black car waited. They had both been excused from their morning activities. Not as a reward, only reassigned to a different kind of lesson. They slid into the back seat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Green. Mr. Ascor,” the chauffeur greeted.

  “Morning, Alfred,” Alistair replied.

  The engine purred to life. Billard receded in the rear window. Lucien leaned back, watching the academy shrink as though it might vanish if he blinked.

  “Your lessons will be held in Harrowhell—”

  “Where?” Lucien cut in surprised.

  Alistair suppressed a sigh. “I misspoke. Harrowhal Hall.”

  Lucien's brow furrowed. “Henrietta's?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “She insisted.”

  That was true.

  Henrietta did not entertain boys. She collected them.

  Lucien fell quiet at that. His gaze shifted to the passing countryside, but Alistair noticed the change in his posture. Straighter and alert. That unsettled him more than arrogance would have.

  Most of the heirs had arrived at Billard bloated with certainty. They mistook wealth for inevitability. When rankings slipped, so did their composure.

  Lucien had none of that softness.

  He did not bristle when insulted. He did not boast when praised. He absorbed.

  Alistair studied him in the reflection of the tinted window. He had no family crest. No generational expectation or safety net if he failed. And yet he sat in that car with a confidence of an heir apparent.

  Harrowhal Hall loomed in the distance soon after, the familiar sun-washed stone rising from manicured grounds. As per usual, the servants had lined up to receive them. They bowed in a wave as Alistair and Lucien approached.

  The bloody fool actually bowed back.

  Some of the maids stared, their expressions unreadable, but Alistair caught Lucien by the elbow and nudged him aside.

  “You do not bow to the staff,” Alistair schooled him, his voice a low, sharp blade.

  “I'm not an heir like you, Alistair.”

  “You think they don't know that?” Alistair whispered as they climbed the marble steps. “They're bowing to that pin on your tie. You're a Holder now—an extension of the Clarendon name. Do not forget it.”

  Henrietta Harrowhal appeared at the summit, draped in her lavish silks. She leaned on her silver-topped cane, her eyes narrowed with the predatory glee of a woman who had run out of scandals to enjoy.

  “Welcome to Harrowhal,” she called out. “Lucien Green. The last time I saw you, you were a mere provincial curiosity. Now look at you.”

  She marched toward him, the clicking of her cane punctuating her delight. She didn't bother with a greeting for Alistair. Her eyes were fixed on the gold pin. She reached out, her fingers hovering over it.

  “The Holder,” she beamed, clutching his hands with surprising strength. “Congratulations are in order. Heatherrow, break out the scotch.”

  The butler nodded and vanished into the shadows of the hall.

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  “It's good to see you, Henrietta,” Lucien said, giving her that earnest, wide-eyed smile that worked on everyone but Alistair. “But isn't it a bit early for scotch?”

  Henrietta let out a sharp, dry bark of a laugh. “My dear boy, if you're going to be a Clarendon proxy, you'll have to develop a much higher tolerance for daytime decadence.”

  Alistair cleared his throat pointedly. A diplomatic sound meant to remind her that she was encouraging a Billard student to violate academy mandates before noon.

  Henrietta waved a hand as if swatting away a persistent fly.

  “Oh, don't be such a prefect, Alistair. It's exhausting,” she sighed, though she didn't press the point. “Tea, then, if we must be tedious. Come.”

  She beckoned Lucien toward the drawing room, her cane clicking rhythmically against the stone. “Alistair, darling, do try to keep up.”

  Henrietta led them to the drawing room. A different one from where he received Alistair last time. This was bigger, exclusively used by the late Lord Harrowhal in the old days. Alistair had been here before when he was younger, once when his grandfather brought him.

  Like the rest of the house, it had been stripped of its old horror. The only thing left of the old lord's memory were the paintings. They were hideous no doubt, but they were heritage assets, priceless. Henrietta liked owning things other people couldn't have.

  The room was draped in Chinoiserie wallpaper and smelling faintly of beeswax and ancient, expensive dust. In the centre sat a low table laden with a silver service that looked heavy enough to bludgeon a man.

  Henrietta ensconced herself in a wingback chair, her cane hooked over the arm. Maybe if Alistair got lucky, she might strike Lucien with it.

  “Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the silk-upholstered settee.

  Lucien sat. Alistair, moving with the practiced grace of a man who had been groomed in rooms like this since his christening, took the chair opposite Henrietta. He kept his spine a hair's breadth from the velvet, his ankles crossed with invisible precision.

  Lucien, however, made the mistake of leaning back. The silk gave way, and for a fraction of a second, he looked like he was being swallowed by the furniture.

  “First lesson, Mr. Green,” Henrietta snapped, her eyes tracking the movement. “The furniture is not your friend. It is an obstacle. You sit on it, you do not sink into it. You are a guest, not a cat.”

  Lucien adjusted, shifting to the edge of the cushion. His face remained calm, but Alistair saw the slight tightening of his jaw.

  The tea was poured by a maid who moved like a ghost. She placed a cup and saucer before Lucien. The porcelain was eggshell-thin, the sort that shattered if you breathed on it too hard.

  “Sugar?” Henrietta asked, though it sounded like a trap.

  “Two, please,” Lucien said.

  “Then pick up the tongs, dear boy. Don't stare at them as if they're surgical instruments.”

  Alistair watched, his own tea cooling untouched. He felt a strange, prickly tension. He wanted Lucien to fail. It would be easier if the commoner was incompetent. And yet, the thought of Henrietta dismantling him was oddly grating.

  Lucien gripped the silver tongs. They were long and claw-like. He managed the first cube with a steady hand, dropping it into the amber liquid. The second cube, however, slipped. It hit the surface of the tea with a wet sound, sending a tiny, microscopic spray of droplets onto the white lace tablecloth. The silence that followed was deafening.

  “Alistair,” Henrietta said without looking away from Lucien. “What did he just do?”

  “He scarred the linen,” Alistair said smoothly. His hand rose, fingers pressing firmly against his temples as he scrutinized the damp spot.

  “Precisely.” Henrietta leaned forward, the silver top of her cane glinting. “In the Clarendon circle, Lucien, a splash is a scream. It says you are hurried, that you do not respect the tools of your betters. Try again. Empty the cup into the waste bowl and start over.”

  He emptied the tea, his movements slow and deliberate.

  “Now,” Henrietta continued, in a somewhat dangerous tone. “The spoon. Stir it. But if I hear the silver touch the porcelain, I shall have Alistair take you back to Billard immediately and tell Corin you are unteachable.”

  Lucien picked up the small spoon. Alistair leaned in, almost despite himself. This was the 'Bells Test.' The goal was to stir the tea in a vertical motion—six to twelve o'clock—without ever letting the silver strike the sides of the cup.

  The room was so quiet Alistair could hear the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Lucien's hand was steady, but the steam rising from the cup seemed to mock him. He moved the spoon. Clink. A tiny, musical ring.

  “Again,” Henrietta whispered.

  Clink.

  “Again.”

  Lucien paused. He closed his eyes for a single second, taking a breath that didn't stir his chest. When he opened them, the earnest, wide-eyed boy was gone. The 'Holder' was back—the strategist who had climbed the Billard rankings through sheer, cold-blooded observation.

  He moved the spoon. This time, there was only the sound of swirling liquid. Quiet. Effortless.

  “Better,” Henrietta conceded, though she looked almost disappointed she couldn't dismiss him yet. “Now, the sandwich. Pick one up. Use your fingers. But God help you, Lucien, if I see a single crumb fall onto your lapel.”

  “Lady Harrowhal, forgive me.” Heatherrow interrupted, returning with a cordless phone and looking unexpectedly frayed. “A call, ma'am.”

  He didn't mention a name, but the sudden rigidity in the butler's spine suggested the person on the other end was someone of significant gravity.

  “Well, would you excuse me, gentlemen? I must take this.” Henrietta rose and swept from the room.

  The moment the door clicked shut, Lucien dropped the sandwich back onto the tray and let out a long, heavy sigh. It had only been the first few minutes of the lesson, and the strain was already beginning to show.

  “Giving up so soon?” Alistair asked, his voice a drawl as he took a measured sip of his tea.

  “I liked you better when you didn't talk at all,” Lucien scoffed. He brushed his hair back, blowing his fringe away from his eyes in a rare moment of agitation. Then, catching himself, he picked up his teacup and mirrored Alistair's grip with haunting, effortless precision.

  Clever little fool, Alistair thought, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

  “Can I ask you something?” Lucien had settled back into the perfect sitting posture—spine straight, ankles crossed, a mask of aristocratic boredom. “What kind of person is Chairman Clarendon, really?”

  “Don't you watch the news?”

  “I don't want the PR version,” Lucien countered. “I want to hear it from someone who has actually breathed the same air as him.”

  Curiosity about the Chairman was a dangerous habit, but Alistair supposed it was inevitable for a boy in Lucien's position to start asking questions.

  “You know the Clarendons were royals, once. Dethroned, stripped of their titles, and consumed by debt,” Alistair began. “For a generation, the name was synonymous with scandal. Gordon Clarendon is the man who dragged that name out of the gutter and turned it into an empire. What kind of man do you think it takes to do that?”

  Lucien tapped a rhythmic, thoughtful pattern against his thigh. Alistair assumed that was the end of the conversation.

  “Does he hurt people?”

  Alistair's hand faltered, his teacup rattling against the saucer with a sharp sound. He glanced at Lucien, weighing the boy's expression, wondering how much he should actually reveal.

  “How is he with Corin?” Lucien added, his fingers lacing together in his lap.

  The question hit Alistair like a physical blow. Lucien knew.

  The Chairman's temper was no state secret, and after Lucien outranked Corin in the Mocks, the fallout was hardly a surprise. He just hadn't expected him to be so perceptive.

  “The Chairman is a hard man,” Alistair said carefully. “I don't know how they handle things where you're from, but in the House of Clarendon, they call it discipline.”

  “Where I'm from,” Lucien snapped back, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dark fire, “we call that violence.”

  That ridiculous tongue.

  “Well,” Henrietta said, having returned. “We will proceed with the guest list. Heatherrow will acquaint you with the people who will love and hate you in equal measure. Lucien, dear, would you come closer?”

  Lucien stood and walked toward the massive screen that had been wheeled in, completely abandoning the earlier conversation. Alistair was grateful for Henrietta's entrance then.

  On the screen were photographs and dossiers that looked like something out of a security briefing. These were the titans of the “Old Circles”—the faces Lucien would have to navigate at Chairman Clarendon's gala.

  Heatherrow, the Harrowhal butler, stood by the screen with a laser pointer, his posture so straight it looked painful. He was the gold standard of service, a man whose family had likely served the Harrowhals since the Regency.

  “To your left, Mr. Green, we have Mr. Anthony Tolworth,” Heatherrow intoned. “Third-generation steel. Values punctuality and a specific vintage of Bordeaux. His wife, Mrs. Elara Tolworth, is a patron of—”

  Alistair glanced at Lucien. He was slumped slightly in his chair, his gaze drifting over the screen, eyes glassy. He looked like a student enduring a particularly tedious lecture on the humanities.

  Heatherrow paused, the silver pointer trembling ever so slightly. The butler's jaw tightened. “Am I boring you, sir?”

  The 'sir' was delivered with enough frost to kill a summer harvest.

  Lucien shifted his eyes slowly to Heatherrow. “No,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual. “It's just... you have this voice, Heatherrow. It's quite... fetching. It lulls the senses.”

  Henrietta, perched in her armchair let out a sharp, dry bark of a laugh. “Fetching! Oh, Heatherrow, I do believe he's flirting with your professionalism.”

  Heatherrow's face turned a shade of pink that Alistair had never seen on a butler before. “I shall endeavour to be more... melodic, sir.”

  “Test him,” Alistair urged.

  “Sir?”

  Every name, every dossier, even the most absurd bit had already been absorbed. Alistair had seen it before. There was no point in dragging the charade out any further. Besides, Lucien was right, Heatherrow's voice truly did lull the senses.

  Heatherrow straightened his waistcoat. “Very well. Without looking at the screen, Mr. Green, the woman in the emerald silk, four rows down. Her name—”

  Lucien didn't even hesitate. He stared directly at Alistair, his eyes dark and impossibly still.

  “Margot Sterling,” Lucien said. The boredom had vanished, replaced by a terrifying, cold clarity. “Her husband, Thomas Sterling, lost a quarter of the family estate in a high-stakes baccarat game in Macau three years ago—an incident the Clarendons personally hushed up. She hates talk of the 'Far East.' If you want her to like you, ask about her prize-winning spaniels, but specifically the one with the limp. It's her favourite.”

  Heatherrow's pointer froze mid-air.

  “The man next to her?” Alistair challenged, leaning forward.

  “Julian Vesper,” Lucien rattled off, the words coming with the speed of a ticker-tape machine. “Second cousin to the former Earl of March. Bankrupt but stylish. He's looking for a seat on the Clarendon board. His grandfather was a—”

  “Joy!” Henrietta cried, her eyes dancing with predatory glee. She raised her hand to stop him before he could recite the entire Vesper family tree back to the Crusades. “It seems there is hope for you after all.”

  The butler clicked off his pointer, looking both defeated and stunned.

  Alistair leaned in closer to Lucien’s side. “I think you scared Heatherrow.”