The Van Alen Legacy

Ronan Elizabeth Astor grimaced at the book in front of her. The reproduction was badly faded, splotchy, and gray, so that it was difficult to make out the face of the boy in the picture. He was either afflicted with a bulbous nose and tragically triple-chinned, or it was an unfortunate angle and even worse lighting. She decided it was likely the former, as a handsome suitor’s features would be discernible even in an abysmal photograph. As far as she was concerned, he was a dog just like the rest of them—all these princes and barons, aristocrats and lords, dukes and archdukes, and more counts than she could count. Total bow-wow, she thought with a naughty smirk. A collar would have been more appropriate than that ghastly ascot he wore. Her governess glared at her and rapped on the print with her finger. “Pay attention!”


“One would assume that Viscount Stewart would have been able to afford a better court photographer,” she finally said in a bored voice. Ronan was tired of all this. For weeks, her governess had been showing her various portraits of titled, single male aristocrats from Debrett’s International—that august and authoritative guide to the landed, titled, and moneyed in the empire—and quizzing her on their names, positions and hobbies. It was a special edition, with lavish full-color spreads of their country estates, not the usual roll-call listing of names and titles. And therefore, it was much more helpful for a striving American outsider. All morning, Ronan had dutifully parroted back the correct responses until she knew their names, titles, and interests better than her own.

This was to be her first London Season: a special privilege, as not many from across the sea were invited to court every year. Ronan had merited an invitation through a patron—an old friend of the family, one Lady Constance Grosvernor, who was a favorite of the queen. There were plenty of silly American girls who would jump at the chance to marry one of these fools, but Ronan was not one of them. At sixteen she had a restless, impatient quality that set her apart. It was the best and worst thing about her, depending on whom you asked.

“I believe the correct answer is Peregrine Randolph, Lord Stewart, as that is the proper ‘courtesy title’ of the eldest son of the Marquess of Hillshire,” Vera Bradford admonished. Her nanny was very particular about such details, and Ronan’s mother had chosen her precisely because Vera had served at several great houses abroad, and knew the names and habits of the important characters intimately. Too intimately, the rumors had it—but then, there were always rumors of lordlings and their pretty young governesses. If one believed all the rumors, then one believed that Vera’s son would have been the rightful heir of Salisbury, if not for the absence of a silly little thing like a marriage ceremony. Noble and royal bastards: the world was full of them, babies like strays with Devonshire noses and Aquitaine eyes.

Ronan wrinkled her own nose at the sight of the pudgy, squash-nosed boy in the picture. Peregrine Randolph, Lord Stewart was a handsome name wasted upon someone who was decidedly not. It was grossly unfair to think that she would be the one who would count herself lucky if he took a liking to her, and not the other way around. But as the heiress to a bankrupt house, with little access to the power of magic, such was her lot in life.

“Lord Stewart,” she said in a flat voice. “Hobbies: archery, still life, and discussing Plato.” More importantly, the Hillshire riches included a vast collection of rare and valuable amulets forged by the brotherhood of Merlin. They were said to bring the bearer good life, good fortune, and good luck—though obviously not good looks. She smiled, and supposed that was where she came into the picture.

The next photograph filled the whole page, which boded well for the wealth of the family of the aristocrat in question. This one was slightly cross-eyed and buck-toothed, but what did it matter if his family had a powerful enchanter at their disposal? Especially one who could make lands fertile and farms profitable. “Marcus Deveraux,” she said. “Or, as you prefer to call him, Charles Arthur Marcus Deveraux, Viscount Lisle. Hobbies include falconry, piano, and romantic poetry.” So pretentious. She bet he only knew that one line from Byron, the one everyone knew, about walking in beauty.

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.