The thought of Lord Aaron and his love getting even stolen moments together lifts my spirits considerably, even if it is accompanied by a twinge of sadness lightly cloaked in jealousy. I don’t even feel too awful as I extract a pot of colorless Glitter gloss from the tiny reticule hanging on my wrist.
“I’m off to the ladies’ retiring room, my lord, to dabble in a spot of that most vulgar sport: trade,” I say with a smile—a joke about the society we mirror. One in which, despite its having been built on exorbitant wealth, it was rated uncouth for a woman to even know where money came from, much less how to generate it. Thankfully, such attitudes died with the dawning of the twentieth century, but we still don’t flaunt our sales in front of the court. It’s an attitude that works in my favor by helping to keep my operation low-key.
“And I’m off to feast with my eyes upon delicacies I would far rather sample with my mouth.”
“Naughty,” I whisper, but send him on his way. “An arm, Saber,” I say, lifting my hand without looking back.
“I’m sorry, what?” he asks as he steps beside me.
He’s like a puppy that needs training. “Your arm,” I repeat in a whisper. “Escort me?”
Luckily, he’s not a complete stranger in the palace and recovers quickly. With my fingers tight on his sleeve and my arm held carefully rigid, I manage to steer him about while looking as though I’m being led.
“When we reach the doorway, release me and bow, and then stand and wait. People will hand you money—act as though you know who they are,” I instruct in a whisper.
We reach the doorway, and I make a half-turn with a flourish of my skirts. Saber bows low and murmurs, “Your Grace,” before standing tall and even looking, if I dare to use the word, a touch regal.
“And for God’s sake remember to incline your head to anyone who approaches you,” I add in a hiss, needing to find something to criticize him about before gliding through the doors that open automatically as I approach.
The instant the doors close behind me, the ladies crowded into the room descend in a flurry of twittering. My lever staff is here, ready to be given a dozen pots each to distribute, and I empty half of both panniers in less than five minutes.
It’s quite clever, if I do say so myself. Owing to their intimate nature, M.A.R.I.E. has no eyes in the retiring rooms, and her ears will hear nothing but a discussion about cosmetics. It’s astounding how many relatively surveillance-light places I’ve found since embarking upon my illegal activities.
“Your Grace?”
I turn when I hear the low, nearly unmistakable voice of Duchess Ryka Darzi. She’s the crowning jewel of my clientèle. Her husband’s great-grandfather was given the very first dukedom by the founding King Wyndham, and the Darzis have maintained that coveted spot on the board ever since. Prior to marriage, the Duchess Darzi was a countess in her own right and has been Sonoma Inc.’s chief media officer for the last five years. She’ll be the second-ranking lady to me if I ever actually become Queen, and even then her influence at court will continue to outstrip mine.
My heart nearly stopped when I first gave her a complimentary pot of rouge a few weeks ago. My clientèle nearly tripled the week she requested her second.
I face her with my practiced smile and incline my head in a respectful bow, but inside I quake like gelatin. If she’s displeased, every woman in this room will run to spread the word, and rather than grow, my sales will drop.
Perhaps. I suppose at that point I’d discover which is stronger: addiction, or gossip.
“Are you certain you can’t accept account credits for your Glitter? It’d be so much more convenient,” the duchess says.
Not yet good or bad, but I don’t have the answer she wants. “I do wish I could, Your Grace. Certainly it would be easier for me as well. But you know how the French are. They’ll have nothing to do with our”—I look about, then lean forward in a show of secrecy, though I don’t lower my voice at all—“dirty money.”
“Indeed,” the duchess says, rolling her eyes. “I’m simply having trouble getting my hands on the cash. It’s not the funds, of course—Sonoma Inc. has had a banner year and bonuses this quarter were healthy. But I was lunching with His Grace, Duke Florentine—the CFO, you understand—and he commented that the palace bank has been exchanging euros for palace residents at a far higher rate than usual. He’s concerned that if it keeps up, they’ll have to raise the exchange rate. Certainly I wouldn’t want to be part of that problem.”