The Queen of Fives by Alex Hay
About the Book:
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...
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.
Purchase Links
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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.
Keep in touch on
social media:
Author Website: https://alexhaybooks.com/
X/Twitter: https://x.com/alexhaybooks?lang=en
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