Page 60 of Revenge

“No, but it won’t take a genius to work out the identity of the unnamed female student. They’ve outlined everything. Did you know Mr. Frost organized it all? This is a confession.”

I scanned the article, throat drying with each revelation. Henry had arranged a way with Mr. Frost to access some of the Bourneville fortune before his majority of eighteen. Frost used his influence as a schoolteacher to persuade the housemaster of Elder House to arrange a school trip facilitated by a friend who ran an outward bound company. They planned to take Henry to a hideout and demand a ransom of five hundred thousand pounds in cash, but had to bring along a female student who had witnessed the kidnapping and had tried to raise the alarm.

The paper published the names and photographs of each person involved, including Henry, Mr. Frost, two of the assistants from the outward bound company, the dreadlocked photographer, and a handful of stoners from the squat.

“It said they subdued you with ketamine,” whispered Rita. “Is that true?”

Nausea slithered up my throat at the thought of such a powerful drug. “I don’t know what they injected into me.”

The article continued, stating that Henry had used the bulk of the funds to pay for the ailing Duke of Mercia’s medical expenses, but that the gang had colluded to place the blame on the unnamed female student, who spent a week incarcerated within the school and had been facing criminal charges. It damned Mr. and Mrs. Bourneville for extorting double the ransom money from the girl’s stepfather to drop the charges.

At the bottom of the article was another piece: CRIMINAL LATIN MASTER, which described how an intelligent boy who had gained a scholarship to study at Mercia Academy and then at Cambridge University had turned into a criminal mastermind. As a student, Paul Frost had supplied alcohol and marijuana to younger children and then returned to use his influence as a teacher to sell to the students. All the paper’s claims were either backed up with camera footage or messages posted on the Mercia-Net.

My vision blurred, and I ran my fingers through my hair. “They’re going to kill me.”

“Didn’t you read the first paragraph?” asked Rita. “It was Mr. Frost who confessed everything.”

“Why?”

“He says he wanted to set the record straight about the kidnapping being ordered by Henry and Edward. I’ll bet he thought he would be next in line to get the blame.”

Anger washed through my veins. Jackie had recordings of Henry admitting that he and other accomplices had organized the kidnapping. She had probably caught footage of Mr. Frost selling his wares at the Valentine’s party and blackmailed him into making a confession. “I’ll bet Mr. Frost told the others to pin the kidnapping on me if anything went wrong.”

Rita shrugged. “Probably. I’m guessing he thought his plan was watertight.”

I couldn’t look at the article anymore. It was a relief for all the evidence to be out there to clear my name, but the boys had treated me as though I had been disposable. Tears clouded my vision. Would Rudolph show it to Mom? She still hadn’t contacted me. I couldn’t ask Dad to call her. Ever since I was old enough to use a smartphone, Dad would call and email me directly instead of going through her, so they had lost touch.

“You should go down to the dining hall and hold your head up high,” said Rita. “This time when you leave, it will be with dignity, and they’ll be the ones in disgrace.”

I swung my legs out of bed. “There’s no point in going back to sleep. I couldn’t even if I’d wanted.”

* * *

As though Jackie had negotiated it beforehand, the tabloids immediately picked up the kidnapping story on the same day. Some focused on the Bourneville department store, minimizing Mr. Frost’s involvement to focus on their high prices, unfair employment practices, and their sale of real animal fur. The tabloids had even dredged up whatever negative press they could find about the Bourneville family, portraying them all as crooks. Others brought up the International House story, implying that Mr. Frost might have sold exam papers to students.

At breakfast, Blake was the only person sitting at the head table, looking forlorn without his friends.

I slid in the seat next to him. “Where’s Henry?”

“London. I’m not sure we’ll see him for a few days. Mother kept me out of the academy for a week when the Correspondent wrote an article about me.”

“Oh.” I stared down at my tea. “Are the tabloids leaving you alone?”

“A couple of reporters are suggesting Mr. Frost got me addicted to drugs and that’s why I started talking treason.” He blew out a long breath. “They’re desperate.”

“But you’re not even an addict.”

“Everyone who matters knows that, but it’s in the interest of national security that I make a slow recovery from addiction.” He said the last few words as though imitating an older woman. Then he took a long drag from his orange juice and sighed. “Otherwise, people might believe my stepfather will be a more pliable king, and something really will happen to the Prince of Wales.”

“This is just like how Henry’s kidnapping was blamed on me,” I said in a small voice.

“Well, that article has cleared your name.” The tone of his voice indicated his annoyance that Henry was now implicated in his own kidnapping.

“Not yet.” I picked up a slice of toast and put it on my plate. “The police might not want to re-examine the case and expunge my file.”

Blake didn’t answer. Most likely because he was too preoccupied with Henry’s troubles to care about mine.

Mr. Jenkins jogged into the dining room. “Miss Hobson! Two police officers are with the headmaster. They wish to see you immediately.”