BLURB<\/span><\/b> 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… 1898. Quinn le Blanc, London\u2019s 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. PURCHASE LINKS<\/span><\/b> EXCERPT\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n A confidence I. The Mark.<\/span><\/p>\n Wherein a fresh II. The Wherein the III. The Where a golden IV. The Knot.<\/span><\/p>\n Wherein the V. All In.<\/span><\/p>\n Where all A coda: there Rulebook\u20141799. <\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p><\/div>\n Day The \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 1<\/span><\/p>\n Quinn<\/span><\/p>\n Five days Here was how it On the first She changed her From people.<\/span><\/p>\n She pulled on \u201cMr. Silk?\u201d she His voice came The gaming room Quinn examined The bureau \u201cQuinn?\u201d Silk\u2019s \u201cWe will be,\u201d Confidence was The Ch\u00e2teau. It Quinn descended That was eight Quinn rubbed Silk was Quinn studied \u201cStrips of \u201cIn your \u201cYes.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cFor what \u201cMy own Quinn raised a \u201cWe\u2019re living Silk was \u201cStay close to Net curtains In fact, it was It was The Queen of The sun was Silk peered Quinn could They made an Silk and Quinn \u201cIn disguise? \u201cYou tell me. \u201cNot yet. But \u201cOh?\u201d he asked \u201cI\u2019ve still not They turned \u201cYou\u2019re quite \u201cWell, you \u201cJust a \u201cThe very littlest Unnecessary And this week Quinn paused Silk shook his They gripped She grinned at They parted And the game Excerpted from THE QUEEN OF FIVES by Alex \u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHOR\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019s Digest, The Washington Post, Good Housekeeping, Harper\u2019s Bazaar, and others. His second novel, The Queen of Fives, publishes in January 2025. Alex lives with his husband in South East London.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n AUTHOR LINKS
A confidence scheme, when properly executed, will follow five movements:
<\/span><\/span><\/span>
I. The Mark II. The Intrusion. III. The Ballyhoo. IV. The Knot. V. All In. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
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 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
Masquerading as the season\u2019s most enviable debutante, Quinn puts on a brilliant act that earns her entrance into the grand drawing rooms and lavish balls of high society\u2014and 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.
<\/span><\/span>
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…<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
HarperCollins page <\/a>
BookShop.org <\/a>
Barnes & Noble<\/a>
Amazon\u00a0<\/a><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nscheme, when properly executed, will follow five movements in close and
\ninviolable order:<\/span><\/p>\n
\nquarry is perceived and made the object of the closest possible study.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nIntrusion.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nquarry\u2019s outer layers must be pierced, his world peeled open\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n
\nBallyhoo.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nopportunity shall greatly tempt and dazzle the quarry\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n
\nquarry is encircled by his new friends, and naysayers are sent gently on their
\nway\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n
\ncommitments are secured, and the business is happily\u2014and irrevocably\u2014concluded.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nmay be many counterstrikes along the way, for such is the nature of the game;
\nit contains so many sides, so many endless possibilities\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n
\nOne<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n
\nMark<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n
\nearlier<\/span><\/p>\n
\nbegan. Four miles east of Berkeley Square, a few turns from Fashion Street and
\nseveral doors down from the synagogue, stood a humble old house in
\nSpitalfields. Four floors high, four bays across. Rose-colored shutters, a
\ngreen trim to the door. A basement kitchen hidden from the street, and a colony
\nof house sparrows nesting in the eaves, feasting on bread crusts and milk
\npudding scrapings.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfloor, behind peeling sash windows, stood Quinn Le Blanc.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ngloves. She had a fine selection at her disposal, per her exalted rank in this
\nneighborhood\u2014chevrette kid, mousquetaire, pleated gloves for daytime, ridged
\nones for riding, silk-lined, fur-edged. All shades, too\u2014dark, tan, brandy,
\nblack, mauve. No suede, of course. And no lace: nothing that could snag. The
\npurpose of the glove was the preservation of the skin. Not from the sun, not
\nfrom the cold.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe French kid\u2014cream-colored with green buttons\u2014flexed her fingers, tested the
\ngrip. For she was the reigning Queen of Fives, the present mistress of this
\nhouse; the details were everything.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ncalled from the gaming room. \u201cHave you bolted the rear doors?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nback, querulous, from the stairs. \u201cNaturally I have.\u201d Then the echo of his
\nboots as he clumped away.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nbreathed around her. It was hot, for they kept a good strong fire burning
\nyear-round, braving incineration. But now she threw cold water on the grate,
\nmaking the embers hiss and smoke. She closed the drapes, which smelled as they
\nalways did: a tinge of tobacco and the sour tint of mildew. Something else,
\ntoo: a touch of cognac, or absinthe\u2014one of the prior queens had enjoyed her
\nspirits.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe room, wondering if she should lock away any valuables for the week. Of
\ncourse, she had no fears of not returning on schedule, in triumph, per her
\nplan\u2014but still, she was venturing into new and dangerous waters. Some prudence
\ncould serve her well. The shelves were crammed with objects: hatboxes,
\nshoeboxes, vinegars, perfume bottles, merino cloths, linen wrappings. But then
\nshe decided against it; she despised wasting time. The most incriminating,
\nvaluable things were all stored downstairs, in the bureau.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ncontained every idea the household ever had, the schemes designed and played by
\ngenerations of queens. It stood behind doors reinforced with iron bolts,
\nwindows that were bricked up and impassable. It was safe enough, for now.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nvoice floated up the stairs. \u201cWe must be punctual.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nshe called back with confidence.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nall they had going for them at the Ch\u00e2teau these days.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwas a pompous name for a humble old house. But that was the point, wasn\u2019t it?
\nIt gave the place a sense of importance in a neighborhood that great folk
\nmerely despised. There were tailors and boot finishers living on one side,
\ncigar makers and scholars on the other, and a very notorious doss-house at the
\nend of the road. Quinn had lived in it nearly all her life, alongside Mr. Silk.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe creaking staircase, flicking dust from the framed portraits lined along the
\nwall. They depicted the Ch\u00e2teau\u2019s prior queens, first in oils, later in
\ndaguerreotype, with Quinn\u2019s own picture placed at the foot of the stairs. Hers
\nwas a carte de visite mounted in a gilt frame, adorned with red velvet
\ncurtains. In it, Quinn wore a thick veil, just like her predecessors. She
\ncarried a single game card in one hand, and she was dressed in her inaugural
\ndisguise\u2014playing the very splendid \u201cMrs. Valentine,\u201d decked in emerald green
\nvelvet, ready to defraud the corrupt owners of the nearby Fairfield Works. She
\nwas just eighteen, and had already secured the confidence of the Ch\u00e2teau\u2019s
\nother players\u2014and she was ready to rule.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nyears ago.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe smeared glass with her cuff. The house needed a good spring clean. She\u2019d
\ngiven up the housekeeper months ago; even a scullery maid was too great an
\nexpense now. Glancing through the rear window, she caught her usual view of the
\nneighborhood\u2014rags flapping on distant lines, air hazed with smoke. The houses
\nopposite winked back at her, all nets and blinds, their disjointed gardens
\ntangled and wild. She fastened the shutters, checking the bolts.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwaiting by the front door. \u201cReady?\u201d He was wearing a bulky waistcoat, his
\ncravat ruffled right up to his chin. His bald head shone in the weak light.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhim, amused. \u201cWhat have you stuffed yourself with?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsteel, if you must know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\njacket?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nreason?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nprotection. What else?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nbrow. \u201cYou\u2019re developing a complex.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nin a violent age, Le Blanc. A terribly violent age.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nforever clipping newspaper articles about foreign agitators, bombs being left
\nin fruit baskets on station platforms.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nme, then,\u201d Quinn said, hauling open the front door, squinting in the light.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ntwitched across the road. This was a quiet anonymous street, and the location
\nof the Ch\u00e2teau was a closely guarded secret, even among their kind. But the
\nneighbors kept their eyes on the Ch\u00e2teau. Nobody questioned its true ownership:
\nthe deeds had been adulterated too many times, sliced out of all official
\nregisters. In the 1790s, it was inhabited by an elusive Mrs. B\u2014(real name
\nunknown). Some said she\u2019d been a disgraced bluestocking, or an actress, or
\nperhaps a Frenchwoman on the run\u2014a noble comtesse in disguise! She caught the
\nneighborhood\u2019s imagination; they refashioned her in their minds. B\u2014became
\n\u201cBlank,\u201d which in time became \u201cLe Blanc.\u201d Her house was nicknamed le Ch\u00e2teau. Smoke
\nrose from the chimneys; queer characters came and went; the lights burned at
\nall hours. Some said Madame Le Blanc had started a school. Others claimed it
\nwas a brothel.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nneither.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsomething much cleverer.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nFives. They breathed the title with reverence on the docks, down the coastline.
\nA lady with a hundred faces, a thousand voices, a million lives. She might spin
\ninto yours if you didn\u2019t watch out\u2026 She played a glittering game: lifting a
\nman\u2019s fortune with five moves, in five days, before disappearing without a
\ntrace.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ninching higher, turning the sky a hard mazarine blue. \u201cNice day for it,\u201d Quinn
\nsaid, squeezing Silk\u2019s arm.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nupward. \u201cI think not.\u201d He\u2019d checked his barometer before breakfast. \u201cThere\u2019s a
\nstorm coming.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfeel it, the rippling pleasure down her spine. \u201cBetter and better,\u201d she
\nreplied. \u201cNow, come along.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nunassuming pair when they were out in public. An older gentleman in a dark and
\nbulky overcoat, with a very sleek top hat. A youngish woman in dyed green furs,
\nwith a high collar and a sharp-tilted toque. He with his eyes down, minding his
\nstep. She with her face veiled, gloves gripped round an elegant cane. Always
\nlistening, watching, rolling dice in their minds.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhad a single clear objective for the day. Audacious, impossible, outrageous\u2014but
\nclear. He showed her his appointment book: Three p.m.\u2014Arrive in ballroom,
\nBuckingham Palace, en d\u00e9guis\u00e9.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nDoesn\u2019t that go without saying?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nHas your costume been delivered?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwe have a more serious impediment.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nher.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nreceived my invitation card to the palace.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ninto Fournier Street. Silk tutted. \u201cI\u2019ve dealt with that. Our old friend at the
\nAthenaeum Club will oblige you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsure? We\u2019ve never cut it so fine before.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nmight need to prod him a little.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nlittle?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nbit, Quinn.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nviolence was not part of their method. But persuasion\u2014well, that was essential.
\nLet\u2019s call a spade a spade: the Ch\u00e2teau was a fraud house, a cunning firm, a
\nswindler\u2019s palace ruled by a queen. It made its business by cheating great men
\nout of their fortunes. In the bureau stood the Rulebook, its marbled endpapers
\ninscribed with each queen\u2019s initials, setting the conditions of their games.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe Queen of Fives would execute the most dangerous game of her reign.<\/span><\/p>\n
\noutside the Ten Bells. \u201cVery well. We can\u2019t afford any slips. I\u2019ll go to the
\nAthenaeum now. Anything else?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhead. \u201cRien ne va plus.\u201d No more bets.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhands. He gave her his usual look: a fond gaze, then a frown. \u201cPlay on, Le
\nBlanc.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhim in return. \u201cSame to you, old friend.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nways.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nbegan.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nHay. Copyright \u00a9<\/span> 2025
\nby Alex Hay. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n![](\"https:\/\/blogger.googleusercontent.com\/img\/b\/R29vZ2xl\/AVvXsEhyukW5Z7RDlT-2x1FbjmVGV2FV9liaJ_UJJotOdpVSbAdlq9BXieeCJJN4ZxFKoOF0jUYgFSEkEWpFY2igmQEqTxv7-k98tR14aHSR_763r5BE84e2Ot1JVIOMYMT236Z7f_KgeygKpQxyAMImEMTM72mD1F6R4U5ApoNCgb5UlPkkrgJgWG69MA1hyphenhyphen5Jd\/s320\/Alex-Hay-author-photo,%20no%20credit%20needed.jpeg\")
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