Thrones We Steal (Thrones We Steal #1)

1. “I Dare You” - The Regrettes

“I Dare You” - The Regrettes

It’s just an old diary, exactly like a thousand others that have passed through the Historical Society: decrepit, brittle, and smelling like a musty attic. Much like the people who donate them.

One thing is certain—it doesn’t have the power to change my well-organized life. The thought is laughable. But Maisie isn’t laughing.

“I’m telling you, Celia. Once you read it, you’ll never be the same.”

Sighing, I glance at my watch. “I need to leave for my meeting, but I’ll get to it Monday.” I close the task manager on my screen and shut down the computer.

“That’s too long. It’s gotta be now.” When I don’t respond, she adds, “Like, right away. I made a copy.” She places a stack of papers next to the antique journal on my desk.

“Maisie, I swear I’ll do it first thing next week.” I swing my bag onto my shoulder. “Before you go, can you search the archives for anything we have pertaining to a J. Thompson? Mrs. Kelley thinks there may be a link to her grandfather who was killed in the First World War.”

Maisie moves to block my way before I can reach the door. “I don’t think you understand. This is, like, really important.” She grabs the pages and shakes them. “There’s information in here that will change everything.”

I take another step forward. “I can’t afford to be late just to read about life in the nineteenth century.

Also, make sure Ethan gets access to the online database.

He was having some trouble earlier.” She refuses to budge, and I find myself close enough to smell her lavender and vanilla body spray.

She shakes her head, sending her blonde ponytail wagging.

“It’s not just an old diary. You have a personal interest in this one.

It’ll change your life, I promise. Like, big-time change.

As in, a read-it-and-never-look-back kind of thing.

And not just you. All of Wesbourne. This country as we know it will change if this diary becomes public knowledge. ”

She’s either being melodramatic or buzzed from caffeine. One option is as likely as the other.

“Just give me a quick summary. And maybe lay off the coffee.” I look at my watch again. I need to leave now if I want to make it on time.

“Okay, okay. How about this?” She brackets my face with her hands like she’s framing a portrait. “Right now you’re Celia Chapman-Payne, Duchess of Whitmere and director of the Wesbourne Historical Society. After you read these”—she shakes the papers once more—“you will no longer be any of that.”

“I don’t style myself like that anyway.”

“That’s not the point! Everything will be different. I can’t tell you how, though. You’d never believe me.”

I doubt her already, but I purse my lips and extend my hand. “Fine. I’ll read it tonight.”

“Trust me, okay?” She shoves the photocopies at me. “You won’t regret it.”

My mother’s throwing a dinner party tonight, and I was planning to duck out early to draft a proposal for the next board meeting of the Wesbourne Nature Conservancy. Now it looks like I’ll be reading through someone’s daybook instead.

As I leave my office, the reception area of the Historical Society murmurs with quiet activity, typical for a late Friday afternoon.

The receptionist hands a brochure to a middle-aged couple at the front desk with information about the kinds of items the Society will accept.

One of our interns is carrying a cardboard box to the archive room.

Sunlight streams in through the building’s glass front and reflects off the marble floor.

It gives everything a chic, modern look that belies the centuries of history preserved within these walls.

The Society had been housed here for over a decade before I became its director two years ago.

If I had my choice, we’d be headquartered in a building like the Allerton Hotel, rich in history and architecture, but some battles aren’t worth fighting.

A group of high school students descends the staircase after their tour of the second-floor museum.

Their guide, Dame Adelaide Mansfield, follows.

Her white hair is cut into a wavy bob, and she looks as regal as a queen, although her closest connection to royalty is having been knighted in 1994 for her work in foreign relations. She shoots me a look of exasperation.

I step back to let the students to file out of the building and wait for her to join me at the door.

“A bunch of bloody twits. All of them more engrossed in their phones than in the genuine history right in front of their faces.” She rolls her eyes at the kids’ retreating backs. “How are the wedding plans coming along, poppet? It’s been ages since we talked.”

“Let’s grab tea together soon, and I’ll catch you up on everything,” I say. “I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to make my meeting with the petition committee.”

“I won’t keep you, dear. You’re going to need all the favor you can get.”

I’m terrified she may be right.

As always, Adelaide is right.

I scan the half dozen men surrounding the table in front of me, stuffed into their suits like sausages threatening to burst their casings. The Crown must have scraped the bottom of the barrel for this committee.

“Sirs, please.”

Their low chatter quiets as they turn in my direction.

“If I could have a few more minutes of your time, I think you’ll be very interested in this footage.

” It’s a stretch, but one can hope. I aim the remote at the ancient television in the corner of the room and press play. The news anchor leaps into action.

“—body of fourteen-year-old Kira Radbury, found in her home on the east side of Wesbourne City on Wednesday.” A girl’s picture fills the screen next to the anchor.

Her lips are curved into a smile around her braces.

My vision blurs at the sight, and I blink to clear it.

“Preliminary reports say that Radbury had large amounts of insidion, Wesbourne’s most popular drug, in her system, which caused the death of the young teen in the early hours of Wednesday morning.

This is just one of the many cases of insidion overdoses in Wesbournian youths—”

I click the power button, and the screen goes black. Waiting a few beats, I hope to allow Kira’s photo to stick in their minds. That pink-cheeked, strawberry blonde girl could have been any one of their daughters.

No, that isn’t true. All of their daughters are safely ensconced in private schools Kira’s single mother had no hope of ever affording, leaving her at the mercy of the public school system.

There, the currency of choice among students is insidion, a lethal and temperamental drug that is almost always addictive, if it doesn’t kill you first.

I turn around to face the committee—all men, not a single woman—and say, “Surely you can all see the need to do something about the rise in illegal substances entering our ports.”

Lord James clears his throat before replying. “It’s not that we don’t think something should be done about it, Your Grace. It’s simply your proposition to increase security at the ports that raises concerns.”

“And what do you propose we do instead?” I ask.

Evidently having completed his duty, Lord James looks around at his colleagues on the special committee assigned to my petition.

Lord Sutton sighs. “Why not simply incorporate more teaching in schools?”

“As I mentioned earlier, the schools are already pushing a large amount of anti-drug education. While proving somewhat effective, there is still the matter of large supplies of insidion making it onto school grounds and being sold to children. If we could cut these off before they ever enter the country—”

“Sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but adding more security personnel to the ports would not only slow down processing, but also increase costs exponentially. It would require a raise in taxes.” This from Lord Barton, possibly the most understanding member of the entire group, if not for his single-minded focus on inane matters like cost.

“I think most citizens would be in favor of a slight tax increase if it meant protecting their loved ones from the devastating effects of drug use,” I counter.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I hardly think a woman in your position could know what the people of Wesbourne would or would not be in favor of,” Lord James says.

The stuffy room becomes as still as death. My throat grows tight, and I choke for air.

He seems to regret his words immediately and stammers, “My apologies, I simply meant—”

“No apology needed. I’m sorry to have wasted so much of your time.

” I gather the stack of files I brought with me: accounts of insidion-related teen deaths in the past five years, detailed spreadsheets that received only cursory glances from the committee members, and the reports of the estimated future results should they approve my petition.

I shove everything into my bag and march out the door without a backward glance, heading to my car.

Good riddance to the lot of them. I’ll find another way to save this country from going to hell in a bloody handbasket.

This is the problem with a class system so deeply entrenched that even a century of modernism hasn’t completely rooted it out.

There are those who think social status is the only thing that matters, the ultimate protection, even from the law.

Rumors trickle—a military deserter who got off with only a hefty fine because he was a member of the House of Lords; a baroness whose temerarious driving endangered innumerable lives, but her record remained spotless.

And there are those of us who believe in earning what we have, in equal opportunities for everyone, regardless of how many times their family is mentioned in A History of Wesbourne.

Despite our differences, Wesbournians fight with a relentless determination for what we believe in, and we’re proud of having one of the strongest monarchies to survive the twentieth century. This nation isn’t perfect, but it also isn’t afraid to confront its problems.

Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.

My car takes a wheezing breath as I turn the corner onto Browning Street.

I make a mental note to call the garage.

It’s been making funny noises the past few days, and I promise it a full detail if it’ll hold out a little longer.

I just need it to get me home in time for my mother’s party tonight.

I’m twenty-five years old and hold a dukedom, for crying out loud, but that woman can still put the fear of God into me.

St. John’s Cathedral comes into view on my right. My heart gives a little burp of anticipation. Just four more months, and I’ll be walking through her doors in an exquisite white gown.

My phone trills from my bag, and I hit the button to accept the call.

Maisie doesn’t waste time. “How was the meeting?”

“Stellar.”

“Sooo, not good?”

“If you consider wasting my time and effort in front of a bunch of spineless prats who don’t give a damn about anything but their pocketbooks, who then insult me simply because I’m a woman, ‘going well,’ then it was a smashing success,” I tell her, accelerating through the intersection as the light changes from yellow to red. Orange, my mum always calls it.

“Yikes. Do they have any idea what they’ve done?”

“Likely not, but they’ll soon find out it will take more than their measly excuses to stop me. What’s up?”

“Lady Rosalind called. She said you weren’t answering your mobile.”

“My mother believes the earth stops on its axis when she calls. What did she need?”

“She wanted to ask if you could pick up a few more bottles of wine for tonight. Something about there being a mix-up with her order?”

I stifle a groan. That means going back downtown and delaying my return home. “Lovely. With any luck, I’ll get there just in time for her to roast me and serve my carcass for dinner.”

“Just remember, if another queue seems to be moving faster, as soon as you switch to it, it will slow down.”

“Helpful as always, Maisie.”

“I do what I can,” she sings.

I turn the car around and head to the nearest wine shop. A large poster attached to a light pole catches my eye. I recognize the picture of Kira Radbury beneath the words Protect Our Children.

“I should send flowers to Kira’s mum,” I say. “Maybe even meet with her, give my condolences. Let her know there’s someone on her side.”

“I’m writing it on a Post-it note as we speak,” Maisie says. “It’ll be on your desk Monday. Don’t forget about reading the diary.”

My gaze shifts to the pages tucked in my handbag. “Don’t worry. My unofficial assistant won’t allow me to forget.”

Her laugh echoes through the car. Maisie and I have worked together for two years, and if my arm ever needs amputating, I’ll see about getting her attached instead.

I buy the wine for my mother and nestle the bottles in the back of the car with the blanket I keep there for emergencies.

The large diamond on my left hand snags on the delicate fibers, and I smile as I untangle it.

Everything is going according to plan—as long as I’m not late to dinner.

My career is off to a great start, I’m in love with a man who couldn’t be more perfect for me if he tried, and I’m overflowing with ideas to improve this beautiful country I’m lucky enough to call home.

I hate to tempt the universe, but it’s hard to imagine anything strong enough to ruin this life I’ve built for myself.