The Historian’s Novel

Vanridge Dowsinger. Amelia’s second least favorite suitor from The Historian’s novel. While Thompson Brown might have been the one to discover the princess, Vanridge had been the first man past the gate in using Grace’s past against her for profit. All because the bar owner who owned the pub Grace used to work at, would in the future, after having lost hold of his cash-cow, find himself with a significant amount of debt owed to a very notorious gentleman bandit.

Proficient in motivating his debtors to repay what they owed, it didn’t take long for Vanridge to connect the dots between the found princess, and a certain missing bar-maiden responsible for the golden goose of a drink he’d been after from the very beginning.

   With the royal family deciding to only announce that the Kingdom’s lost daughter had been found, without going into much detail, Vanridge went forth, and in a scene involving an imperial rose-garden and a princess in naught but her night-wear did he blackmail Grace with her upbringing. Earning for himself many a lucrative business opportunity, in addition to several one-on-one outings which Amelia was now very ashamed to remember.

   ‘I’ve lost a small fortune investing in that peculiar drink,’ Vanridge had told Grace, as he took her in an alley while his men stopped anyone from getting too close, ‘Would it not be apt, that the cause should help me get over my losses?’

   He’d really been too much for Amelia to fully support as a suitor. No matter how handsome or disarming his words might have read, his initial approach of Grace had always soured the steamier scenes which came after.

   Their relationship really had tread the fine line of dubious consent all the way. Though in person, she could see why the ladies might swoon, even if they knew what kind of man Vanridge was.

His ears were pierced with multiple obsidian studs, his dark hair was well kept and stylishly slicked to one side. While his eyes, like a curious hawk that had spotted its prey, kept a close watch on Amelia, making it difficult for her to look at his face without wondering what he could be thinking behind that confident smile.   

   Had he even fallen in love with the princess? Amelia, despite having a near eidetic memory, struggled to recall in the moment. She knew Vanridge approached the princess because he viewed her as a resource to exploit. Even during their ‘dates’, every move he made seemed to hide multiple layers of motivation. And he had only mellowed out after Grace stood up for him during a time when the mob boss found himself falsely accused of being behind the murders perpetrated by a different suitor of the princess’s: Martel Managing.

   Which meant, if Grace were right, Amelia needed to appeal to his desire for power.

   But why was he here? Vanridge and Thompson hardly interacted in The Historian’s novel. Their only similarities being they were both businessmen.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Vanridge asked, whistling in amusement when Amelia pushed his hand away from her face.

   The music broke off. Those present beginning to hover close-by upon realising something interesting had begun.

   “Where is Thompson Brown,” Amelia asked Vanridge, who twisted his face dramatically, as if her question had slapped him.

   “I’m afraid miss, that Thompson Brown has left for… greener pastures,” he said, to which the room responded with a dark murmur of chuckling laughter.

   Amelia couldn’t understand. Neither their reaction, nor why the mob boss destined to control the Kingdom’s underbelly would be in Thompson’s brokerage. Considering Vanridge’s nature, Amelia began to think there might be a darker reason behind his appearance. Had the mob boss decided a war would be the perfect moment to seize what he could? To solidify his power, then hunker down before deciding his next move?

   Her body shivered in fright. Not trusting in her legs to run fast enough, nor believing she could, Amelia reached into her dress for the only thing that could save her. Vanridge snapped his fingers. From the crowd leapt the same man who had brought her to the mob boss, ready to twist Amelia’s arm and forcefully press it against her back.

   “You’re m-making a mistake,” Amelia whimpered, as her fingers were pried loose. An attempt to hold on to the item she always kept with her, resulted in a slap to her face.

   Amelia’s grip slipped away as her head met the hard ground.

   “The only mistake I’m seeing,” Vanridge said, his voice enthusiastically pleasant, although his joviality never did reach his eyes, “is currently being made by a girl stupid enough to try pulling a weapon on me.”

   He put out his hand for his henchman to deliver the stolen object.

   “Uh… Boss… It’s not a weapon,” said the man, pressing his knee against Amelia’s back to stop her from moving, while he presented a golden ring that hung from its silver chain necklace.

   Whistling, at first impressed, Vanridge’s grin died when he raised the ring to a light and saw the signet etched into its metal. Just as any person of power would hesitate when confronted with the burning lion indicative of the Duke of Winchester’s might.

   “Where did you get this,” Vanridge asked, a gentle softness now lacing his words, that from the confused looks of those watching, was not commonly used.

   “It’s my mother’s. G-give it back,” Amelia said, unable to stop herself from moaning in pain when the man holding her still, twisted her arm further. 

   “That’s not up for you to decide —” said the man, his gloating cut short when Vanridge lashed out; sending a kick that sailed over Amelia’s head; rendering his own lackey unconscious, with a neck bent the wrong way.

   “Everyone out!” Vanridge yelled, a sweeping arm used to begin a rush of movement that collected the downed man, to then leave the room empty.

   “Amelia Strightsworth, I have wronged you,” Vanridge said, lowering himself to offer his forearm, “This is…. Not the type of space or circumstance I had envisioned us meeting under.”

   Amelia accepted his support, allowing the mob boss to carefully help her up and guide her to his own seat which he offered without reservation. His smoothness frightened Amelia. From his sudden change in attitude after having recognized her, to how he spoke, like they were destined to meet… It left her with no doubt that a take-over of Thompson Brown’s brokerage had occurred.

   Most likely of the hostile variety.

   A dread she might not be able to rely on The Historian’s novel the longer the ‘story’ went on, washed over her like a cold ocean wave. 

   No, never mind, that wasn’t her imagination, but the cold compress Vanridge had somehow produced to gently press against Amelia’s injured head. Carrying with it the faint smell of medicinal herbs.

   Vanridge let her hold the compress when she moved her hand up to take it. Before he returned to her other Ophelia’s ring. Amelia looked at him in a daze. Unable to help herself in thinking Vanridge did look regretful. She wondered whether she might be concussed when her first coherent thought considered letting bygones be bygones.

   Truly, beautiful people ought to be treated with caution.

   “I can overlook your mistake because of the poor lighting,” Amelia said, finding pretending much easier now that a half hundred eyes were no longer staring down at her. “However, I was under the impression I would be meeting a… Thompson Brown.”

   Vanridge put down a stool in front of Amelia’s couch. Sitting down on the small thing, as if to give off a harmless impression, the mob boss sighed deeply in shame.

   “Regrettably, even I do not know where Thompson has gone off to,” Vanridge said, bowing with both hands on his knees, “though I suppose I ought to have already introduced myself. I am Vanridge Dowsinger, the one chosen by our illustrious conglomerate’s board of merchant executives to take over dealings in his absence.”

   “Then why didn’t you know I was coming?” Amelia asked, needing to remind herself no, Vanridge spoke lies. Thompson had been clearly supplanted.

   Vanridge rubbed the side of his cheek, seemingly embarrassed by what he wanted to say next. “Yes, we did receive the letter announcing your visit. Only… I had been under the impression your arrival would be in a week’s time, and not the very day we got the letter.”

   Amelia blushed. Remembering that in the letter she had sent yesterday, late into the last day of a weekend, there had only been a mention of her intent to visit come the first day of the week.

   Which meant, if Vanridge had only received her letter this morning…

   She awkwardly coughed. Having never thought her eagerness to visit might have been seen as a promise to arrive in seven days time. Vanridge made no comment. Instead, he reached behind his back to impossibly retrieve two expensive fine-dining wine-glasses, along with a bottle of drink.

   The magician’s act clicked Amelia out of her stupor, for she remembered a passage from The Historian’s novel, when Vanridge at one point had entertained the princess by performing sleight of hand tricks.

   “Do you drink?” Vanridge asked. “I’ve no doubt the request you have is of the outmost importance. I would ask to have a moment of your time to discuss it in depth. Forget prices, for you I would resolve anything short of finding an elixir, for free.”

   Amelia’s neutral face cracked at the mention of elixir. A near mythical, obscure item once created by an ancient civilisation of which now only ruins were left. She knew all too well what Vanridge’s words meant. He really was promising to deliver on anything.

   Anything, excluding impossible demands.

   Offended by the man’s unmasked arrogance, Amelia found herself growing dizzy. He clearly thought his acting, along with his face, could get her to stay. But if she thought on it, did it really matter who fulfilled her request? If fate were real, then eventually their paths would cross once again when she brought Grace to the capital city. Which made it important to remain on Vanridge’s good side.

   Amelia could almost hear a small voice tell her no, she probably shouldn’t be tempted by the sexy black bellied underground mob boss. A girl like herself? He would play her for the fool in an instant.

   “Please, give me the chance to apologise,” Vanridge said, already pouring a glass which he offered. “I’m ashamed of my employee’s behavior. We might be on edge, what with the war, but there’s no excuse for him trying to impress me by treating you roughly. Rest assured; he will be punished.”

   Amelia struggled to reply. Astonished by the ease with which Vanridge pushed all responsibility onto his ‘employee’.  Remembering how quickly he had decided to kick the man unconscious; she decided it might be best to at least hear out the mob boss and avoid risking offence.

   “Well… We can at least get to know each other,” Amelia said, accepting the glass which she sipped lightly from. Its taste reminded her of Grace. Unsurprising, since the drink ended up being one of the princess’s creations.

   How exactly had the princess handled the mob boss’s affection?

   Right… by acting like a woman who knew her own status. Becoming a queen for a villain who soon found their positions reversed. What with Grace teaching Vanridge over time that he could get whatever his heart wanted so long as he pretended to recognize her as above him.

   And while Amelia refused to entertain the idea of how she might look wearing leather… There were enough other moments in The Historian’s Novel to draw inspiration from.

   “There will be no war,” Amelia said, doing her best to stare Vanridge down through the translucent edge of her glass, glad any rosiness on her cheeks could be explained away thanks to the wine, “My father will take fifty kilometers, and the Western barbarians will be obliged to explain to their people how they had no choice but to acquiesce.”

   The snake took her bait. Vanridge gave Amelia a white, beaming smile. And this time, she could almost swear there glimmered an obsessive light from behind his dead eyes.

   “Of course!” Vanridge said loudly, raising his glass to her words. “The dragon will no doubt, ignite the fires of industry and better the Barony with his soon acquired expansion. It doesn’t matter which amazing person got him invested in conquest, there is no doubt in my mind that soon, these lands will be richer than the capital city!”

   Amelia’s toes curled. She knew she wouldn’t be immune to flattery but hearing it from such a powerful man sure felt pretty good. She giggled, accidentally spilling a few drops of wine on her blouse. There a stain spread, which Amelia fustily frowned at, since the dress was one of her favorites.

   “May I?” Vanridge asked, a handkerchief in his hand.

   She looked at it. Confused as to whether he was asking to clean her himself.

   When her brain finally did get over its bubbly hiccup, Amelia snatched the handkerchief away to begin dabbing at her blouse. Trying wholeheartedly to pretend she hadn’t seen the carnivorous look that glinted through Vanridge’s façade when their hands met.

   Bad girl, she thought, reprimanding herself for having decided to stay. Knowing the wisest decision, would be leaving the mob boss to the princess, who could stick her hand into a snake’s den without getting bitten.

   “Thank you,” Amelia said, focusing on her drink to avoid further eye contact.

   “My pleasure,” Vanridge answered, his words tickling Amelia’s ears to the point she bit her lower lip to try and distract herself, “another glass?” he asked, showing off his own empty drink. “And again, I really do want you to know I am sorry for earlier. I’m not a bad person Amelia… even the girls you saw with me, it’s all just an act to present myself as someone my men can respect.”

   Oh no, Amelia thought, when again she found it reasonable to forgive him. Forget playing the temptress, Vanridge would eat her alive. If she didn’t get out soon, she would be no more than a fool!

“Tempting…” Amelia said, made extremely self conscious when her drunk words sounded more like a moan than a sentence,” However, I’ve a busy business day today so I ought to get going. What with my father wanting me to take a more active roll in managing… things?”

   In the end, she decided to clumsily bring an end to their meeting and run. Before the hot man could unbutton another level of his shirt and entrap her forever.

   “I’m sure you will be an excellent advisor.” Vanridge said, moving closer, "Could it be your request is meant to help you prepare for the role?”

Unsure of whether she should answer Vanridge truthfully, Amelia decided to not bring Grace into their conversation until the man had proved himself with a less risky request first.  “You’re quick on the uptake, I like that,” she said, not sure whether her words were coming out more slurry than saucy, “but you are right that I have a need. A need that needs to be met. I want information on a man. A certain, Gregory Rutherford.”

   Vanridge whistled, impressed by the tall order, “I recognize that name. Might I ask what sort of offense the son of a Marquess has committed against you?”

“He looks to my ring-finger with uncouth attention and is becoming a distraction,” Amelia said, pursing her lips to look offended at the very idea.

“How unprincipled,” Vanridge cooed, offering once more an arm to help Amelia, who was now very tipsy, stand up, “Please, expect an in-depth review. Such a matter sounds to be of… the utmost importance.”

“Also, why the bookstore on main street shut down,” Amelia added, only in her drunken state she accidentally stumbled over Vanridge’s foot. Except her face came to rest not on a floor, but upon the firm chest of a man who easily supported her with an arm that wrapped itself round the small of her waist. 

   “Careful princess,” Vanridge whispered, his silver tongue tickling Amelia’s senses with the idea to stay a while longer, “wouldn’t want you to never forgive me, would we?

   “My friend is waiting for me outside, goodbye!” Amelia said abruptly, pushing herself off from his chest with a brain on the fritz.

   “Take care,” Vanridge said, letting go, “would you like to be seen out?”

   “I’ll be fine on my own,” Amelia said, thankful that with the room empty of people, she could easily find the exit.

   Though when Amelia did make her way out, she couldn’t help but feel like a mouse, let loose by a cat that wanted to play with it more in the future. But what choice did Amelia have? The mouse chose to keep its mouth shut while it fled, only a tad regretful she hadn’t managed to meet Thompson Brown.

   How was she supposed to get the princess found now? Did she really have to make use of Vanridge? Also, why did the downstairs lobby appear completely deserted?

   “Erika? Are you there?” Amelia called, surprised she hadn’t passed a single person since having left Vanridge. Had the mob boss ordered his minions to give her wide berth? When? She could only guess how, a secret hand-signal perhaps?

   The only thing Amelia knew for a fact, was since finding out Vanridge’s current actions differed from those in The Historian’s novel, she couldn’t help but feel worried that soon the story train would completely lurch off its tracks.  

   Which gave Amelia the justification to at least see how fast the train could go before crashing, by checking on a thing she still thought suspicious. Taking off her shoes, Amelia quietly snuck down the lobby’s hallway in her socks, opened the large iron door Erika had stopped her from approaching, and descended a set of stairs leading into a basement.

   Whether the receptionist worked for Vanridge or not, the intensity in how Erika had reacted meant the area was off limits for a reason.

   Past barrels filled with who knows what liquor, Amelia found more dark iron doors waiting. With key racks between them; marking their status as cells. Putting herself up on her tiptoes, she peeked into the tiny square window of the door from which a faint groaning noise could be heard, to find a man tied in chains.

   Wounded, but his expression unbroken, the beaten black and blue missing merchant stared back at Amelia in surprise.

   No doubt about it. This time, The Historian’s character description was a perfect match.

   “Found you,” Amelia whispered with drunken glee.

   “Who? W-what?” Thompson Brown gasped. Coughing up blood.

   “My name’s Amelia,” said Amelia, removing the keys from their rack. “You might know my father, Havoc Strightsworth? Well, I’m here to ask whether you would be interested in helping me prove I’ve found the king’s long-lost daughter.”

   “What?!” Thompson said, opening his mouth like a fish. A fish that began nodding its head upon deciding it wanted to be thrown back in the water.

   Amelia couldn’t help but smile. Her rosy cheeks filling with such accomplishment that things might turn out swell and dandy after all.

   Thompson simply stared at the young woman who unlocked his cell in a mystified daze.