Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(57)

“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.