Plots Schemes and Scandalous Means (World of Weyvar Book 1)
PLOTS, SCHEMES,
AND SCANDALOUS MEANS
by Becca Fogg
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Becca Fogg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: beccafoggauthor@gmail.com.
Copyedit by Melissa Frain Editorial, sensitivity reading by HKelleyB’s Editorial Service, and proofreading by
Norma’s Nook Proofreading.
First paperback edition June 2022
ISBN 979-8-9859087-3-2 (paperback)
ASIN B09GTVMLJX (ebook)
www.beccafogg.com
For those who need the courage to chase down big ideas.
Welcome to the World of Weyvar! This fantastical world is similar to the medieval realms we so often read about in high fantasy—there are kings and queens, swords and daggers, and all the political and socioeconomic strife you can sink your teeth into.
If you’re here from Duality, you’ll find this is a distinctly different place and style. I think you’ll like it regardless, but there’s no brash FMC word-vomiting her thoughts. Plenty of spice, plenty of twists and action, but the tone and themes reflect the setting.
—Thank you, yet again, for taking a chance on something new from me.—
This is a standalone, but I have other standalones in mind in the world. There are also five erotic novellas in my head for Weyvar. Stick around at the very end for the first chapter of the first novella, The Gem of Sykis. It publishes in late Summer, but will available earlier and for free to those who sign up for my newsletter.
Enjoy this sojourn into the world of Weyvar!
This book is fairly light, as far as my writing goes. The book contains graphic violence and on-page sex. Triggers include anxiety, lots of chasing (no dubcon or noncon), cursing/coarse language, depression, some blood, death, parental death (not on page), fire, murder, sexism/ misogyny, and pregnancy in the epilogue. It is firmly R-rated, but this is a fantasy- and romance-centered story.
This e-book is only legally available
from me, directly, or from Amazon, directly.
Piracy harms authors, directly.
It jeopardizes my ability to publish.
Please don’t.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
Trigger Warnings
A Note on Book Piracy
Pronunciation Guide
Prologue, The Queen
Chapter One, The Thief
Chapter Two, The Rabble
Chapter Three, The Queen
Chapter Four, The Duke
Chapter Five, The Thief
Chapter Six, The Rabble
Chapter Seven, The Queen
Chapter Eight, The Duke
Chapter Nine, The Thief
Chapter Ten, The Rabble
Chapter Eleven, The Queen
Chapter Twelve, The Duke
Chapter Thirteen, The Thief
Chapter Fourteen, The Rabble
Chapter Fifteen, The Queen
Chapter Sixteen, The Duke
Chapter Seventeen, The Thief
Chapter Eighteen, The Rabble
Chapter Nineteen, The Queen
Chapter Twenty, The Duke
Chapter Twenty-One, The Thief
Chapter Twenty-Two, The Rabble
Chapter Twenty-Three, The Queen
Epilogue, The Duke
Want More From Weyvar?
Acknowledgments
The Gem of Sykis, Chapter One
Weyvar: Way-vahr
Ilneah: Ill-nay-uh
Precipe: Press-ih-pee
Candon: Can-dun
Sykis: Sigh-kiss
Thyz: Theez
Pantho: Pan-thoh
Yez: Yehz
Aftin: Aft-in
Zint: like Mint
Farraway: Far-a-way
Piv: P-ih-v
Havershon: Have-er-shohn
Carmel: Car-mel
Nokrevelle (Nok): Nock-re-vel (Nock)
Dalia Emile Sencha Rune: Dah-lee-uh Em-eel Sen-sha Rune
Quintin de Alens: Quin-tin de Ah-lens
Roscoe Baethan: Ros-ko Bay-thin
Andra: An-drah
Pravis: Prav-is
Zana: Zan-ah
Harlowe: Har-low
Wingert: Win-gert
Kaghe: Cage
Meriet: Mer-eet
Adelard: Ad-el-ard
Gian Finn: Jahn Fin
Benton Vynse: Ben-ton Vince
Tunn: Tuhn
Six months ago
“What of him, Majesty?” Quintin asks and points to a stumbling man twice my age.
“Count Frederich? The man fell asleep at dinner.”
“Then you know he won’t get in your way.”
I huff at my first advisor, Count Quintin de Alens. Some of his conniving is truly incomprehensible.
“That kind of prince consort does more harm than good,” I reply.
“He owns all of the lamb farms in Precipe. That has to mean something.”
Precipe, our neighbor to the north and across the sea channel, has few natural resources. Mostly, they operate as the trade route through the mountains to the rest of the world and host some of the best craft artisans there are.
“What good are lamb farms to us? Our crops will recover. Give it time.”
Ilneah, my home and true love, is the very inverse of Precipe. Fertile lands rich with mines and timber. Broad pastures perfect for grazing animals. We’re the primary food supplier in this part of the world.
Or, at least, we used to be. For the last several years, there’s been a slew of misfortunes. Last year, a drought struck and our water stores dried up sooner than expected. The year before, warring in Candon to the south spilled over the border and cost us a quarter of the harvest.
Even this year, pirates have begun to menace the sea channel. We have no way to trade with Precipe otherwise, and we need access to the mountain passes.
There were a few carts of wheat lost to a rot infestation this last week, although thankfully it’s only a handful and we can get it under control. “You must pick someone, Dalia,” Q continues.
He’s right, of course.
It’s been seven long years since my coronation. Seven years to mourn my parents in private. Seven years to portray the leader my realm needed in public. They’ve been difficult years, and especially so as the only daughter—and unmarried at that—of a lost and beloved king and queen.
The announcement of my prince consort should have accompanied my ascension. I delayed, and deferred, until now I can’t put it off any longer. Dignitaries like Frederich have started to show up unannounced to throw themselves at me.
Even my own people are grumbling about the circumstances. You’d think they’d want me to find an appropriate match over any old match.
More unrest is the last thing I need. I’ve been hearing about a rebellion forming, going by the Unscrupules, although to what end I can’t imagine. We’ve done the best we can to manage the crises that have arisen. Adding a man to my dais won’t prevent the problems.
“Perhaps we can put a selection off until the winter,” I hedge.
“And have more like Frederich showing up whenever they please?” he asks in reply.
“Frederich is off the table. Permanently.”
Perhaps I can arrange a visit to Candon. We share the continent with them. King Volne has been generous in sending us aid through the problems, particularly extra shares of food whenever we need it.
We used to be able to send our surplus to Thyz, the little island nation on Candon’s southern border. Now we can barely feed ourselves.
Granted, Candon is known for its political maneuvering. Any suitor I find in King Volne’s court is as likely to undermine me as my enemies here.
Searching the room, I spy a broad set of shoulders in a tailored navy coat. The man is picking over my fruit and cheese spread, although I’ve never seen him before.
“What about him?” I ask.
“That’s Duke Roscoe Baethan of Pantho.”
“Pantho? What happened to Benedict?”
“His son. Benedict retired and passed his title. Baethan is here to be introduced at court. You signed the consent for the transfer and his arrival, Majesty.”
I flip through my memories, but nothing comes forward. Some days, it feels like all I do is sit at my desk to stamp and sign pages.
Baethan turns and leans against one of the marble columns in the royal ballroom. Thick, dark hair is swept to the side and matches decadent brown eyes. His masculine features are a bit severe but tempered by an easy smile as he scans the room.
His gaze finds mine watching, and the smile spreads to a grin. He tilts his head to me.
May I approach?
I nod an approval.
Duke Baethan bows low before me, holding the pose for several seconds longer than necessary.
“Duke Baethan,” I begin. “Please allow me to personally welcome you to Milne. I hope our capital city feels every bit as mu
ch like home as your country estate.”
His eyes skim over me in my embellished emerald dress. Green has become my signature color, both because it’s my favorite and because I love how it brings out the color in my eyes. The corset cinches my waist into a compact hourglass that Baethan clearly appreciates. Either that or he has an obsession with my necklace.
And, a small voice in the back of my mind hopes for the former and not the latter.
He’s too handsome for his own good or mine.
“The city’s overwhelming,” he replies, “but I’m finding there are some things worth risking.”
“It takes a confident man to admit he feels out of his depth.”
“Confidence is easy when you know your worth and abilities. I’d be glad to expand upon mine, perhaps with a dance?”
I smile back at him.
Smooth. Charismatic. He’d do.
“I regret to inform you that my poor, tired feet have had enough dancing for one night. Might I call you back for a lunch some time?”
“It would be my honor, Majesty. Call on me, for whatever you want or need.”
I hold out my hand so he can say an appropriate good-bye. He bows, taking my fingers and leaving a gentle kiss behind. Again, he holds the pose for too long, his face lingering over my hand as he peers up at me with obvious interest.
Watching him kiss my hand, seeing him bend low before me, blows a buzzing wind over my skin.
Most are too afraid of the great Queen Dalia Emile Sencha-Rune to be so forward. I should visit the country more often.
Baethan retreats, and Quintin clears his throat.
“He’ll do,” I announce.
Q smirks at me.
“Oh, don’t you start. It’s tactical. He’s new and hasn’t formed any alliances. Pantho is one of our most extensive and profitable estates.”
“And he kissed your hand as if asking to kiss something else.”
“If Andra were here, she’d slap you for that.”
Andra, my first lady-in-waiting and Quintin’s wife, is currently corralling the kitchen staff to bring out one of the Precipan desserts early. I told her not to bother, but the chef’s berry tart is her favorite.
“We should also discuss the Piv,” Q prompts.
There’s been a spate of fires in our warehouse district in the last few weeks. Several irate property owners have bemoaned to everyone, aside from me, how they believe the city’s protections failed and caused the loss. Yet another thing added to my already full plate.
“They have to petition if they want assistance. We’re not unilaterally paying for damage that we don’t know the source of.”
“It would help with the unrest.”
“It won’t help with our coffers.”
“The Piv is critical to the entire realm’s trade industry. If merchants believe you aren’t going to protect their livelihoods, they’ll go elsewhere.”
“We’re the primary trading port for the continent.”
“For now.”
I huff. “Fine, send a message prompting them to make the request. If they do, and submit the documentation, I’ll consider paying for the damage.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
On the other side of the room, Baethan approaches Duke Hensley’s wife and levels the same charming smile at her as he did to me. Her face pinkens, but she doesn’t turn him away.
“If Andra were here, she’d chide you for grinding your teeth like that,” Q says.
I deliver a scathing look to him.
Again, though, he’s correct. I literally just met the duke. I have no right to feel displeased that he’s run off to flirt with someone else.
“Baethan’s an unsuitable choice,” I tell him.
“Because he flirted with one married woman?”
Baethan excuses himself from his conversation, takes a wine glass from a passing tray, then slides beside one of Nicholas’s unmarried daughters. Whatever he says turns her a brighter red than a freshly picked strawberry.
Quinten harrumphs beside me.
“We’ll add a fidelity clause,” he says.
“Hmm?”
“To the marriage contract with Baethan. We’ll add a fidelity clause, his side only. Set the wedding date for six months away. Give him plenty of time to violate it. It will buy you time to find a decent match. Or, better yet, put the whole thing off for another year or two. The people will allow you a break if he breaks the clause.”
I’d rather not be pitied, but better pitied than married.
“Fine. If a wandering eye is the worst of it, then I’ll accept it. Invite him to the lunch and have the contract ready.”
Andra approaches, eating forkfuls of tart out of a tin hot enough she had to wrap it in a cloth.
“What did I miss?” she asks.
Present day
Two weeks before the wedding
The thin glass is too crusted with grime to see inside. I’ve attempted to surreptitiously scrape the layers of moss and crud for an entire week, but still the muck remains. I’ll have to go into the earl’s residence blind, which isn’t ideal, but time ticks with dangerous efficiency.
Do not ask my name. I don’t have one.
Do not ask what I do. You don’t want to know.
Here, crouched before the only ground-level, unbarred window of the Third Earl of Pravis, I am only a thief.
My charcoal bodysuit blends easily with the shadow of the hedge, hiding my position from the gas lamps in the carriage row and the earl’s common-side entry. I’m grateful I upgraded to heavier fabric; the night is cold, and thorny branches have stuck my ass for the better part of the ordeal. A matching hood-scarf keeps the wind from my neck and hides my braided hair. I could wear a full cloak, but it’d significantly detract from my agility.
Billowing cloaks are for ignorant stage plays; I have no room for such an error.
Some call me the Shadow, but not by my doing. It’s a mark of shame to be recognizable in my position.
I serve the Crown, which is to say I serve the people of Ilneah, with pride and dignified callousness.
I serve her purposes, at her discretion. Today, her purposes require that I invade the primary residence of the Third Earl of Pravis. Her discretion requires that I burn the house to ash.
The blend of hunter-green and pewter grease paint on my forearm smears on the windowsill. Even though I set it with powder, sweat blended in during the long night, but not much to be done about it now.
Much like the scarf, the paint covering my arms and neck is necessary to hide my presence from prying eyes.
I applied special face paint from the chin up, contoured so that shadowy shades of navy, iron, and pine obscure my features. The colors are selected specifically for each job. Between the face paint and the obsidian powder disguising my hair, most eyes would skip over me in the gloom.
The earl will not miss this home. Most nights, he stays at his mistress’s apartments in the Havershon District. His wife and children remain permanently affixed in their country home.
They can stand the Third Earl of Pravis about as much as his mistress will should he finally go bankrupt.
The earl only minimally staffs this residence, and none of them are live-in, partly because he isn’t here but also because he’s piss-poor at the cantershot tables.
He’ll even make a tidy sum on the bond for this property, thanks to my artful arson abilities.
His financial woes are exactly what brought him to my attention—and the attention of the enemies that must be heeled. This particular earl serves as a go-between for funding the Unscrupules and other resistance fighters that plague my country.
Resistance. Bah!
They barely resist a decent lager, let alone the Crown. A buzzing annoyance, yet one that must not escalate to a steady hum.
So, here I sit, the high moon come and gone, as I outlast the earl’s overzealous cook. She’s bustled about the kitchen all night, preparing the next week’s crusts and pies.
It’s not an ideal night for this escapade, but it cannot wait, and I want the house empty before I ignite it like a Solace crackler.
She finally shuffles out the door, waves for a passing hire, and is off down the street. I wait an extra half hour to be certain she hasn’t doubled back for some remembered task.