Page 12 of Outcast

“Yes!” She popped the potato in her mouth.

“No!” My head reeled with the information. Why did people I’d only just met call me a trollop when Mom married rich, just like Blake’s mother? I shook my head. “What about Henry?”

“His family owns the Bournville department store.”

“Is that anything like Harrods?”

“Bigger. And the oldest department store in the world.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “His family also owns a quarter of the freeholds in central London.”

My gaze flickered to the blond, who whispered something into Edward’s ear. “He doesn’t look super-rich.”

“He’s the only one of the three who doesn’t flash his money about. They say he likes to be modest.”

“How do you know all this?”

She gave me a rueful smile. “It’s amazing what you can overhear in the back of the class when you’re quiet.”

I asked Rita about her life. She lived with her Mom in the English equivalent of the projects. Her dad was a Portuguese guitarist who died when she was five, and she was studying A Level Music, History of Art, Music Technology, and Portuguese. When I asked her about how she liked Mercia Academy, she clammed up. I dropped the subject, deciding to wait until we knew each other better before asking again.

Rita accepted two servings of apple crumble, something that reminded me of peach cobbler but looked a lot more grainy. I stirred my bowl of custard, soaking in the history of this room. At some point, King Henry V would have sat here as the honored guest of the Duke of Mercia, and now, I got the chance to dine here. It was a pity so many of the people I’d met had been dicks.

Rita whimpered and shrank into herself. I turned to see what had made her so distressed. Blake, Edward, and Henry stepped down from their dais and strolled across the room, eyes fixed on our table. My heart accelerated, and all the moisture in my mouth vanished. I swallowed, willing myself to forget everything Rita had said about them. They were just people. Even if they were handsome, rich, and well-connected, I wouldn’t act the fool and kiss their feet like Charlotte and her doppelgängers.

Edward took the lead. “You’re keeping odd company, trollop.”

“I enjoy hanging out with people who remember my name.” I shook my head at his nerve. Did he expect me to beg for a set at his feet?

“Here.” He threw a book in my dessert bowl, making custard splash on my blazer. “This should teach you how to address your betters.”

Nervous chuckles came from other tables, along with hushed and scandalized whispers. I stared down at the mess, nostrils flaring, anger searing through my veins. That was the kind of prank people stopped doing at elementary school. I picked up the book by its clean corner and stood. Edward straightened, his cold, blue eyes challenging me to make my next move. Blake grinned, and Henry stared at me as though I was a fascinating new species he hadn’t yet categorized.

I glanced at the cover. “Debrett's Guide to Etiquette and Modern Manners?”

Someone a few tables away choked with laughter, and one corner of Edward’s mouth lifted into a smile. “Memorize it from cover to cover on the plane back to America.”

I shoved the book, custard-first, into his chest. “It seems like you need its lessons more than me.”

A hush fell across the dining room. Edward dropped the book onto the floor and glowered down at his smeared blazer. “Very well,” he said, voice shaking with restrained anger. “I accept your declaration of war.”

Chapter 5

That night, I couldn’t help thinking about Edward and his dumb declaration. I lay in bed, eyes squeezed shut, haunted by those ocean-deep eyes looking through me and laying me bare. What did war mean, exactly? That they’d find a more hurtful thing to call me than trollop? Or would they post links to more trashy articles on the Mercia-Net?

I turned, pulling my comforter over my ears. I couldn’t see them resorting to sticks and stones, but what could be so bad that they hadn’t already said or dug up?

A sliver of moonlight flickered across my closed lids, and I snapped my eyes open and grabbed my smartphone. Four in the morning. Eleven at night in New York. Eight in the evening in California. Noelle had sent me a barrage of messages, demanding to know why I hadn’t given her a minute-by-minute accounting of my first day of school. I sent her a quick reply, explaining that the schedule had been heavy and that most of the people I had met had been assholes.

Mom hadn’t replied to my text, which was typical of her during the honeymoon phase of her marriages. Eventually, she would come back to earth and realize she had a daughter.

Dad had sent an email with pictures of his twins, Tamara and Tony. I tapped out a message, telling him the school grounds were unbelievably grand, and that I felt I was living in a fairytale. There was no need to specify that most of the original tales involved persecuted heroines. It would only worry him and set back his recovery.

When I eventually shut my eyes, the memory of Edward’s glare still lingered. Except in my dream, he was declaring something else instead of war.

The bell broke me out of my sleep. I opened bleary eyes and shuddered at the erotic nightmare I’d had of Edward’s eyes, Blake’s roving hands, and Henry’s body. What kind of sicko dreamed of the boys who were trying to make her life hell?

Rita was already dressed with her satchel of books over her shoulder. “Have a good day.” She twisted the doorknob and paused. “That’s strange.”

I sat up. “What?”