BLURB
A confidence scheme, when properly executed, will follow five movements:
I. The Mark II. The Intrusion. III. The Ballyhoo. IV. The Knot. V. All In.
There may be many counter-strikes along the way, for such is the nature of the game; it contains so many sides, so many endless possibilities…
Nothing is quite as it seems in Victorian high society in this clever novel set against the most magnificent wedding of the season, as a mysterious heiress sets her sights on London’s most illustrious family
1898. Quinn le Blanc, London’s most talented con woman, has five days to pull off her most ambitious plot yet: trap a highly eligible duke into marriage and lift a fortune from the richest family in England.
Masquerading as the season’s most enviable debutante, Quinn puts on a brilliant act that earns her entrance into the grand drawing rooms and lavish balls of high society—and propels her straight into the inner circle of her target: the charismatic Kendals. Among those she must convince are the handsome bachelor heir, the rebellious younger sister, and the esteemed duchess eager to see her son married.
But the deeper she forges into their world, the more Quinn finds herself tangled in a complicated web of love, lies, and loyalty. The Kendals all have secrets of their own, and she may not be the only one playing a game of high deception…
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EXCERPT
A confidence
scheme, when properly executed, will follow five movements in close and
inviolable order:
I. The Mark.
Wherein a fresh
quarry is perceived and made the object of the closest possible study.
II. The
Intrusion.
Wherein the
quarry’s outer layers must be pierced, his world peeled open…
III. The
Ballyhoo.
Where a golden
opportunity shall greatly tempt and dazzle the quarry…
IV. The Knot.
Wherein the
quarry is encircled by his new friends, and naysayers are sent gently on their
way…
V. All In.
Where all
commitments are secured, and the business is happily—and irrevocably—concluded.
A coda: there
may be many counterstrikes along the way, for such is the nature of the game;
it contains so many sides, so many endless possibilities…
Rulebook—1799.
Day
One
The
Mark
1
Quinn
Five days
earlier
Here was how it
began. Four miles east of Berkeley Square, a few turns from Fashion Street and
several doors down from the synagogue, stood a humble old house in
Spitalfields. Four floors high, four bays across. Rose-colored shutters, a
green trim to the door. A basement kitchen hidden from the street, and a colony
of house sparrows nesting in the eaves, feasting on bread crusts and milk
pudding scrapings.
On the first
floor, behind peeling sash windows, stood Quinn Le Blanc.
She changed her
gloves. She had a fine selection at her disposal, per her exalted rank in this
neighborhood—chevrette kid, mousquetaire, pleated gloves for daytime, ridged
ones for riding, silk-lined, fur-edged. All shades, too—dark, tan, brandy,
black, mauve. No suede, of course. And no lace: nothing that could snag. The
purpose of the glove was the preservation of the skin. Not from the sun, not
from the cold.
From people.
She pulled on
the French kid—cream-colored with green buttons—flexed her fingers, tested the
grip. For she was the reigning Queen of Fives, the present mistress of this
house; the details were everything.
“Mr. Silk?” she
called from the gaming room. “Have you bolted the rear doors?”
His voice came
back, querulous, from the stairs. “Naturally I have.” Then the echo of his
boots as he clumped away.
The gaming room
breathed around her. It was hot, for they kept a good strong fire burning
year-round, braving incineration. But now she threw cold water on the grate,
making the embers hiss and smoke. She closed the drapes, which smelled as they
always did: a tinge of tobacco and the sour tint of mildew. Something else,
too: a touch of cognac, or absinthe—one of the prior queens had enjoyed her
spirits.
Quinn examined
the room, wondering if she should lock away any valuables for the week. Of
course, she had no fears of not returning on schedule, in triumph, per her
plan—but still, she was venturing into new and dangerous waters. Some prudence
could serve her well. The shelves were crammed with objects: hatboxes,
shoeboxes, vinegars, perfume bottles, merino cloths, linen wrappings. But then
she decided against it; she despised wasting time. The most incriminating,
valuable things were all stored downstairs, in the bureau.
The bureau
contained every idea the household ever had, the schemes designed and played by
generations of queens. It stood behind doors reinforced with iron bolts,
windows that were bricked up and impassable. It was safe enough, for now.
“Quinn?” Silk’s
voice floated up the stairs. “We must be punctual.”
“We will be,”
she called back with confidence.
Confidence was
all they had going for them at the Château these days.
The Château. It
was a pompous name for a humble old house. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
It gave the place a sense of importance in a neighborhood that great folk
merely despised. There were tailors and boot finishers living on one side,
cigar makers and scholars on the other, and a very notorious doss-house at the
end of the road. Quinn had lived in it nearly all her life, alongside Mr. Silk.
Quinn descended
the creaking staircase, flicking dust from the framed portraits lined along the
wall. They depicted the Château’s prior queens, first in oils, later in
daguerreotype, with Quinn’s own picture placed at the foot of the stairs. Hers
was a carte de visite mounted in a gilt frame, adorned with red velvet
curtains. In it, Quinn wore a thick veil, just like her predecessors. She
carried a single game card in one hand, and she was dressed in her inaugural
disguise—playing the very splendid “Mrs. Valentine,” decked in emerald green
velvet, ready to defraud the corrupt owners of the nearby Fairfield Works. She
was just eighteen, and had already secured the confidence of the Château’s
other players—and she was ready to rule.
That was eight
years ago.
Quinn rubbed
the smeared glass with her cuff. The house needed a good spring clean. She’d
given up the housekeeper months ago; even a scullery maid was too great an
expense now. Glancing through the rear window, she caught her usual view of the
neighborhood—rags flapping on distant lines, air hazed with smoke. The houses
opposite winked back at her, all nets and blinds, their disjointed gardens
tangled and wild. She fastened the shutters, checking the bolts.
Silk was
waiting by the front door. “Ready?” He was wearing a bulky waistcoat, his
cravat ruffled right up to his chin. His bald head shone in the weak light.
Quinn studied
him, amused. “What have you stuffed yourself with?”
“Strips of
steel, if you must know.”
“In your
jacket?”
“Yes.”
“For what
reason?”
“My own
protection. What else?”
Quinn raised a
brow. “You’re developing a complex.”
“We’re living
in a violent age, Le Blanc. A terribly violent age.”
Silk was
forever clipping newspaper articles about foreign agitators, bombs being left
in fruit baskets on station platforms.
“Stay close to
me, then,” Quinn said, hauling open the front door, squinting in the light.
Net curtains
twitched across the road. This was a quiet anonymous street, and the location
of the Château was a closely guarded secret, even among their kind. But the
neighbors kept their eyes on the Château. Nobody questioned its true ownership:
the deeds had been adulterated too many times, sliced out of all official
registers. In the 1790s, it was inhabited by an elusive Mrs. B—(real name
unknown). Some said she’d been a disgraced bluestocking, or an actress, or
perhaps a Frenchwoman on the run—a noble comtesse in disguise! She caught the
neighborhood’s imagination; they refashioned her in their minds. B—became
“Blank,” which in time became “Le Blanc.” Her house was nicknamed le Château. Smoke
rose from the chimneys; queer characters came and went; the lights burned at
all hours. Some said Madame Le Blanc had started a school. Others claimed it
was a brothel.
In fact, it was
neither.
It was
something much cleverer.
The Queen of
Fives. They breathed the title with reverence on the docks, down the coastline.
A lady with a hundred faces, a thousand voices, a million lives. She might spin
into yours if you didn’t watch out… She played a glittering game: lifting a
man’s fortune with five moves, in five days, before disappearing without a
trace.
The sun was
inching higher, turning the sky a hard mazarine blue. “Nice day for it,” Quinn
said, squeezing Silk’s arm.
Silk peered
upward. “I think not.” He’d checked his barometer before breakfast. “There’s a
storm coming.”
Quinn could
feel it, the rippling pleasure down her spine. “Better and better,” she
replied. “Now, come along.”
They made an
unassuming pair when they were out in public. An older gentleman in a dark and
bulky overcoat, with a very sleek top hat. A youngish woman in dyed green furs,
with a high collar and a sharp-tilted toque. He with his eyes down, minding his
step. She with her face veiled, gloves gripped round an elegant cane. Always
listening, watching, rolling dice in their minds.
Silk and Quinn
had a single clear objective for the day. Audacious, impossible, outrageous—but
clear. He showed her his appointment book: Three p.m.—Arrive in ballroom,
Buckingham Palace, en déguisé.
“In disguise?
Doesn’t that go without saying?”
“You tell me.
Has your costume been delivered?”
“Not yet. But
we have a more serious impediment.”
“Oh?” he asked
her.
“I’ve still not
received my invitation card to the palace.”
They turned
into Fournier Street. Silk tutted. “I’ve dealt with that. Our old friend at the
Athenaeum Club will oblige you.”
“You’re quite
sure? We’ve never cut it so fine before.”
“Well, you
might need to prod him a little.”
“Just a
little?”
“The very littlest
bit, Quinn.”
Unnecessary
violence was not part of their method. But persuasion—well, that was essential.
Let’s call a spade a spade: the Château was a fraud house, a cunning firm, a
swindler’s palace ruled by a queen. It made its business by cheating great men
out of their fortunes. In the bureau stood the Rulebook, its marbled endpapers
inscribed with each queen’s initials, setting the conditions of their games.
And this week
the Queen of Fives would execute the most dangerous game of her reign.
Quinn paused
outside the Ten Bells. “Very well. We can’t afford any slips. I’ll go to the
Athenaeum now. Anything else?”
Silk shook his
head. “Rien ne va plus.” No more bets.
They gripped
hands. He gave her his usual look: a fond gaze, then a frown. “Play on, Le
Blanc.”
She grinned at
him in return. “Same to you, old friend.”
They parted
ways.
And the game
began.
Excerpted from THE QUEEN OF FIVES by Alex
Hay. Copyright © 2025
by Alex Hay. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALEX HAY grew up in the United Kingdom in Cambridge and Cardiff, and has been writing as long as he can remember. He studied history at the University of York, and wrote his dissertation on female power at royal courts, combing the archives for every scrap of drama and skulduggery he could find. He has worked in magazine publishing and the charity sector and lives with his husband in London. His debut, The Housekeepers won the Caledonia Novel Award, and was named a Best Book of the Summer by Reader’s Digest, The Washington Post, Good Housekeeping, Harper’s Bazaar, and others. His second novel, The Queen of Fives, publishes in January 2025. Alex lives with his husband in South East London.
AUTHOR LINKS
Author Website: https://alexhaybooks.com/
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