Glitter

  A light smattering of applause accompanies His Highness’ little act of amour, and the sound breaks the connection between me and Lady Cyn. His Highness preens at the attention, and with one last murderous look, Lady Cyn spins on her heel and clicks away.

  The King never sees her.

  “ISN’T HE DELICIOUS,” Lord Aaron says, leaning in close to my ear at the assembly that night.

  “He’s not for you,” I say, arching an eyebrow.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t observe,” Lord Aaron retorts, glancing over his shoulder to where Saber is treading two steps behind my ruffled train. I hadn’t intended to bring Saber out so soon, but His Highness himself sent me a com asking how my new toy was coming along. Considering the events of this afternoon, I had little choice but to bring him out of spite. “Much to my eternal disappointment, I’m not actually in a committed relationship and therefore have no reason to feel guilty for a roving eye.”

  “He’s a servant,” I press, appealing to Lord Aaron’s streak of snobbery instead.

  “All the better. Not going to expect me to marry him, is he?”

  “You’re all talk,” I say, whapping his shoulder lightly with my fan. “You wouldn’t step out on Sir Spencer for anything in the world and you know it.”

  “Yes, I do,” Lord Aaron says, smiling at the crowd with sadness in his eyes. “Unfortunately, you know it too; what fun is that? Speaking of,” he adds, taking my gloved hand and placing it on his arm while simultaneously tucking a rather considerable wad of folded bills into my palm, “Spence would like a bit more of the colorless.”

  “Spence?” I question, palming the money.

  “He likes to put it around his eyes. They have that gray touch to them, and the glimmering bits really heighten it.”

  “Spence?” I repeat, tilting my head in his direction to invite a confidence I’m hoping he’ll share.

  “Damnation, Your Grace, can’t a man speak intimately of his friends?” But he looks nervous, and Lord Aaron is never nervous.

  “You haven’t before. Nor have you ever fetched his order from me.”

  He looks so stiff and straight as he strides along wordlessly that I let nigh a minute pass in silence.

  “There’s been a development?” I ask, squeezing his arm as I make a guess.

  “I can’t say,” Lord Aaron says stiffly.

  “Aaron—”

  “Danica, I can’t say.” He turns to face me. “You know how this works. You, of all people.”

  He’s right, of course. “Then I’ll be happy for you, inferentially.”

  Finally a smile lifts one corner of Lord Aaron’s mouth. “You’ve always been quite good at inferring, Your Grace.”

  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.”

  My mouth is as dry as a desert and an ocean of blood roars in my ears. Without knowing of the scope of my business, the duchess can’t have put the pieces together—despite mentioning them in the same sentence—but my siphoning of over a million euros from the economy of Sonoman-Versailles has been noticed. It’s not enough to truly disrupt it—but even that notice makes my fingers tremble.

  I need to pull out an additional four million in the next month, and I’ve already attracted the CFO’s attention. This couldn’t even have happened if the exchange rate of credits hadn’t already been so damnably inflated, but that’s another problem entirely. In my mind I see my profits draining away, like ink splashed by water, trickling down the page. I cannot let this happen.

  But the duchess hasn’t finished. “Perhaps…perhaps you can
think of a way to solve this little dilemma. Merely until the market stabilizes, of course.” There’s an edge of desperation in her voice, a pleading in her eyes, and I realize exactly why she’s asking me.

  She’s hooked.

  The chill that engulfed me a moment ago ignites into a wave of heat so quickly I fear I might faint dead away.

  But the answer emerges with startling clarity as I remember my first attempt to raise money. I laugh casually, and before I’ve spoken at all, the mood around me lightens. It seems Duchess Darzi isn’t the only one paranoid about her ability to get her fix. “It’s ever so simple,” I say. “I used to do this as a child in Versailles, and I can’t imagine it would be any more difficult here. You’ve a secretary, no? Or a trusted maid?”

  “I do,” the duchess says, the hope shining in her eyes making a sickening sludge of shame well up in my belly.

  “Send her or him on an errand to Paris. And then give them a piece of jewelry you no longer want. There’re all sorts of shops in Paris that will buy used jewels. A decent diamond necklace would set you up for weeks, wouldn’t it? Surely the exchange rate will have settled by then.” I reach out to grasp her gloved hands and pull her a little closer. “Neither His Grace Duke Florentine nor His Grace your husband need ever know. And on top of that,” I add with a devious smile, “you can claim to have lost the piece and get your husband to buy you a new one, more suited to your tastes. Economic stimulation.”

  The duchess looks at me with wide eyes, and for a moment, I think she’s appalled. I freeze, holding very still as I will her to accept this rather underhanded method. Then she breaks into a grin and waggles her finger at me. “Shameless,” she says. “I absolutely adore it.”

  “And, of course,” I say, reaching into my pannier pocket, “I fully trust in your ability to carry out such an endeavor, so you may have double today, and pay me next week.”

  “Bien sûr!” she says, seriously now. “I’m always timely with my accounts.”

  “I would never think otherwise,” I say with a smile, my heart easing back toward its regular cadence. “That reminds me, I suppose you should all hear this,” I say, stepping back to allow all of the ladies present to join our tête-à-tête. “At any time, you may settle your account with my new man of affairs, Saber.”

  “Is that the luscious thing who’s been trailing you all evening?” I nearly blanch at Lady Cabral, who has stepped forward and looks rather…hungry.

  “Unless there’s a second man I’m unaware of,” I say stiffly.

  She doesn’t seem to notice. “What sort of staff is he?” she asks, plumping up her cleavage in the mirror.

  I’ve never liked Lady Cabral much, but I now find that I’m holding myself back to keep from flying at her, fingernails first. “He’s my secretary.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She turns and gives me a suggestive grin. “Is one allowed to partake?”

  What? “No! No, indeed not,” I snap. “You’re married,” I add softly, as though that were the substance of my dismay.

  “As though that matters. So you’re partaking exclusively?”

  “No. I—of course not.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Your Grace. We all do it. What good is having a handsome young man at your beck and call if you can’t have first dibs?” She straightens and twitches her skirts back into place. “Don’t let His Highness find out,” she says, plucking a pot of rouge from my hand and sweeping toward the door. “I think I’ll go settle up now.” About half of the inhabitants of the retiring room exit in a rush of whispers.

  Trying to salvage some scrap of my dignity, I edge closer to Duchess Darzi. “Clearly I’m new to all of this, but does everyone truly dally with their secretaries?”

  “Not everyone, of course, but it’s a centuries-old tradition, my dear. Surely even you can’t be surprised.” She turns to me. “I assumed you were trying to make a statement to His Highness. Were you not?”

  At my alarmed face, she lets out a low chuckle. Perhaps I should have realized, but I avoid thinking of Saber and the King in the same sphere whatsoever.

  “You’ve got some PR work to do, don’t you?”

  “Oh, goody,” I say under my breath as the duchess leaves the room and I have no choice but to follow.

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed making a fool out of me.”

  I nearly jump and crash into Saber when His Majesty ambushes me the moment I step from the retiring room. “Good lord, Justin, but I shall have to put a bell around your neck,” I say, trying not to look affected.

  “I’d like to put something else around yours.” I’m not sure how he maneuvered me up against the wall, but his body is nearly flush with mine and his hand spans my collarbones in a near-embrace sure to look romantic to passersby—and there are a good few of them. His lips brush the side of my neck and I turn my face away instinctively, only to find my eyes locking with Saber’s.

  My body stills and humiliation fills me from the toes up, but I can’t look away from his damning gaze. I’m too terrified to move, but everything within me wants to scream, to protest to Saber that I don’t want this. Don’t want him. That my life is a sham and what I really want is—

  I force my eyes shut. I can’t even let myself think it. Not with His Highness’ steaming breath on my skin and the heat from his body seeping through my clothes. Then, blessedly, the hand is gone and His Highness has pulled me from the wall and placed my hand in the crook of his elbow and is sweeping me into the Hall of Mirrors. “I don’t give a damn if it’s true or not, but you’d better convince all of them that it’s not.”

  “What?”

  “Your piece of eye candy back there. You want to keep him? I expect you to prove to everyone that you haven’t brought him in for the sole purpose of cuckolding me, which is precisely how it appears at the moment.”

  “I didn’t know,” I protest when he hands me a flute of champagne. “I had no idea there were rules and…and claims.”

  “I’ll fire him and toss him from the palace myself if the rumors don’t stop, and now.”

  “How in the world am I—”

  But he answers by pulling his arms tight around me, pressing his mouth hard on mine; I taste the brandy he’s been drinking and understand. If I’m to keep Saber, I’ll have to play the lovesick fool—the pretty bit of finery delighted to hang on the King’s arm. I wonder how much this fit of pique has to do with our encounter this afternoon. Whether he’s truly jealous.

  His face separates from mine and he raises his glass and shouts, “Her Grace!” The crowds around me raise their own glasses and return the toast. I smile until my cheeks hurt.

  I don’t dare look at Saber—can’t even glance in his direction. His Highness sweeps me off to the dance floor, and my feet pay for the audacity of bringing in such a handsome young secretary. I’m forced to dance for nearly an hour without pause before being unceremoniously escorted to a wall and left there, alone.

  I’m grateful for the moment, though—I need to compose myself and rid my skin of the crawling sensation of being near my fiancé.

  “Sorry to be so very tardy,” Molli says, sidling up beside me a few minutes later and linking her elbow with mine. “I’m afraid Mother isn’t feeling well tonight and I wanted to see her settled before I began getting ready. And you know how long that takes. So,” she says, hardly drawing a breath, “what have I missed?”

  IT TAKES A few days to satisfy my sleep deficit, but Saber turns out to be well accustomed to working into the small hours of the morning. Moreover, for all his grumbling, he seems to navigate the palace—and life within its walls—without serious incident.

  “Saber?” I call softly, knocking at the small door to his quarters.

  “Come in; I’m almost ready.”

  I clear my throat politely when the door opens to Saber tucking his shirt into his unbuttoned breeches, but he neither pauses nor hurries. Every motion is mechanically precise, like a clock ticking along, one task after the next. Art
less, but efficient almost to the point of choreography. It’s the same when he’s mixing product; perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that he dresses in such a manner as well.

  Still, it’s not until his waistcoat is buttoned and his jacket pulled snugly over the whole ensemble that I find myself drawing regular breaths.

  “Can you help me with this thing or do I need to call one of those bots in here?” He holds up a crisply pressed cravat. “I can tie a full Windsor in ten seconds, but this? This is impossible.”

  Windsor? I have no idea what he’s talking about. Sadly, I also have no idea how to tie a cravat, never having been sufficiently intimate with a man to necessitate such a skill. Nor do I have time to search for a tutorial on my Lens. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to toss away the opportunity to lay my hands on Saber’s neck.

  “I think perhaps like this?” I say, working out something resembling a bow, with the ends puffed out to look like the loops, before loosening the knot and trying again. I fiddle with it for several minutes before tilting my head to the side and deciding I’ve done a worthy enough job. “What do you think?” I ask, gesturing to a small vanity mirror affixed to the wall. The knot is perhaps not traditional, but it’s simple and has a nice symmetry, if I do say so myself. “I can call the bots to redo it,” I offer when he scrutinizes the white linen for longer than seems strictly necessary.

  “No, no, I think this is fine.” He straightens and meets my eyes for a moment, then looks away, seeming to dislike—or perhaps disapprove of—what he finds there. “Honestly, having your bots do it creeps me out. Ironing clothes is one thing, dressing me is something else. I haven’t needed help dressing since I was a child, and certainly not from a machine.”

  That provokes a laugh. “You, sir, are clearly accustomed to clothing that’s even possible to don without help. I’ve had to have bots dressing me since I began wearing full gowns. I find bots far more comfortable than humans, having now experienced both.”