She flicked her eyes at the next titled lord in question, a grainy photograph of a dark-haired boy with a prominent nose and chin. “Archie Fairfax,” she said. At a sharp glance from Vera, she relented and recited his real name. “The Honorable Archibald Fairfax. He prefers champagne, music halls, and noise.” Finally, an honest answer, she thought.
Ronan sighed. They were all the same, these inbred, weak-chinned boys. They had too much money and time but too little to do, even as they professed a proclivity toward an athletic endeavor, supposedly cultivated an interest in some form of art, or followed the teachings of a great philosopher. Truth be told, it was common knowledge that boys from privileged backgrounds mostly favored cards, girls, and drink. Their only advantage came from their families’ magical holdings.
Unlike her own father, who wasted his time on such wrong-headed pursuits as “technology” and “progress” and who would have been dubbed “Empty Pockets Astor” in the papers if anyone knew the truth of their situation. Thankfully, her mother was good at keeping up appearances. No one in New York knew how badly off they were.
Perhaps she was just bitter. The Astors held one of the oldest and most important positions in the Americas; they were deeply loyal to House Aquitaine, and had been well-rewarded for it. If only her father had managed to hang on to more of his inheritance, instead of squandering it all away on frivolities—investing in such notions as railroads and steam engines that would never be built, nor run correctly. He continually assured his family they would soon receive generous dividends. But not soon enough for their comfort, she thought, knowing the vast sum that was mortgaged against the estate. That was the problem with Americans, they placed too much faith in science, when anyone could see that such pedestrian inventions as shoulder rifles or mechanized cannons would never beat England and its powerful Merlin. The American rebels had learned as much during the failed Insurrection of 1776, when the Redcoats and Her Majesty’s magicians had laid waste to the attempted sedition with their superior spell-casting.
Luckily, her ancestor had been on the right side of the rebellion, and had retained the governorship of New York and all the privileges that came with it. Their country home in Hastings was practically a castle. Of course, nothing could compete with the sprawling and magnificent stone piles that the Europeans called home, but even the queen had spoken fondly of her time at Hudson Park. Maintenance, however, was another matter; keeping up the estates and the staff had all but drained the family finances. Many of their beautiful things had quietly been sold to pay their monthly bills.
Relief was on the way however, in the form of passage on the Saturnia, which was to take her across the Atlantic. Once there, she would be presented to the queen. It was her family’s dearest hope that Ronan secure a desirable mate and land an engagement before the season ended and all the eligible aristocrats repaired back to their country homes. As it was, her trousseau was not worth its mention in the Herald. The enthusiastic descriptions of the fabulous gowns she would be taking to London masked the shabby reality: scraping together the very last of their resources had only resulted in a trunk full of knockoffs of the latest Parisian styles. She had a few of her mother’s glamorous gowns, of course, but they were twenty years out of date. Her jewels, or lack of them, were an unspeakable tragedy. No longer did she have her great-grandmother’s famed Astor tiara, but only an expert reproduction—it was a fake, paste and glass, and created in utmost secrecy. The real one had been sold long ago to an Arabian princess, who was probably wearing it somewhere in the desert. A shame.
Ronan was sailing across the sea so she could sell herself to the highest bidder, and she must make a match—a rich one that would allow her to pay off their debts and secure her future. And if the family came with a retinue of magicians at their beck and call, then all the better. It was tiresome living without a little glimmer every now and then. All of her friends had the latest fripperies from the empire: powders that turned your hair gold, creams that took away blemishes on the skin. She was at least fortunate in that she did not need a magician to appear beautiful.
“There’s my favorite girl,” her father said, entering the room. He was a large man with a bristly beard and a gruff but gentle demeanor, the type who was called upon to play Father Christmas every holiday. “What’s this?” he asked, looking askance at the book on the desk, which was open to a lavish illustration of a ducal coat of arms. He made a face, realizing what was going on.
“Oh, Daddy, it’s nothing,” Ronan said, closing the leather-bound book with a thump and handing it to Vera, who politely excused herself from the room.