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. 

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