The Cogsmith's Daughter (Desertera #1)(76)
Aya raised her eyebrows. “On whose tab?”
“Lord Varick’s, if you like. Or I can use His Majesty’s again—if you are sure he will not mind.”
Aya certainly did not want to owe Lord Varick another cent. And perhaps using the king’s account would reassure him of her confidence in their relationship.
“The king’s, please. I know he will allow it.”
“Yes, Miss Wellman.” The server grinned. “Now, what can I get for you?”
“Do you have anything sweeter than what I had the other day?” Aya grimaced at the memory of the tea. “And something to eat, a scone, maybe?”
“Leave it to me.” The server gave her a small pat on the shoulder and went behind the counter. Aya watched him approach another server and whisper something to her—probably news of Aya’s financial decision—which resulted in her taking a peek at Aya over her shoulder. Undisturbed, Aya looked back out the window. Let them talk about her affair with the king and even her worn pink dress. In a few days, she would be a hero and escape the palace forever.
“Miss Wellman, you are the punctual one, aren’t you?”
Aya looked up to see Miss Collingwood and two other ladies standing over the table. Miss Collingwood had her brown hair pulled back into a low braid with loose tendrils hanging around her face. Aya wondered if the comparative wildness of her hair was to distract from her eyes. The other two ladies, one plump with red hair and one rail-thin with black hair, stood silent. Aya gave her cheeriest smile. “I think punctuality is a virtue, don’t you, Miss Collingwood?”
“Yes, of course.”
Miss Collingwood’s companions sat down at the table on either side of Aya. Miss Collingwood stayed standing a moment longer, watching Aya with her crooked eyes. Aya realized that Miss Collingwood wanted the seat Aya had chosen. It was the one in which she had been sitting when Aya first met her.
A smirk crept across Aya’s face. “Miss Collingwood, you look a little pale. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Miss Collingwood opened her mouth to speak but then closed it and sat in the chair across from Aya. She busied herself with tugging off her white gloves and placing them in her lap. When she finally looked up, her face was smooth and untroubled, as if she had never wanted to sit anywhere else. Aya struggled not to chuckle.
Three servers came to the table, each attending to a different lady. The women placed their orders, each confidently naming an account for her beverage to be charged to.
Before her server walked away, Miss Collingwood glanced across the table at Aya. “Oh, Miss Wellman, how rude of us.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Would you like me to place an order for you on my father’s account?”
Before Aya could answer, her server reappeared with a steaming mug of dark brown liquid and a fluffy yellow pastry. “Miss Wellman is covered. Thank you, Miss Collingwood.”
Miss Collingwood shooed her server away and fiddled with the tablecloth.
“Thank you.” Aya tried to convey the double meaning with her eyes.
Her server nodded, giving his mustache another elaborate twirl. “A mug of hot cocoa, from the palace greenhouse’s private beans, and a wedge of lemon cake made from fresh lemons and Bowtown’s finest field crops.”
Miss Collingwood’s eyes bulged, and the other two ladies shared skeptical glances.
“Thank you,” Aya repeated. “You have chosen wonderfully.”
In truth, she had no idea if she would like this hot cocoa—though it couldn’t be any worse than tea—and she had only ever experienced lemons in her bath oil. But she wasn’t about to let Miss Collingwood and her entourage know all of that.
“Only the best for you, Miss Wellman.” The server bowed. “Please let me know if you desire anything else.”
Aya replied that she would, and the server left.
“My, my, Miss Wellman.” Miss Collingwood tutted. “Lord Varick’s purse will be quite stretched, will it not? I would have felt much better if you had put such treats on my father’s account.”
Aya smiled, thinking back to all the times she had used Dellwyn’s name to dip into Lord Collingwood’s pocket. “I can assure you, Miss Collingwood, Lord Varick’s purse shall weather the storm. And I would never dream of using a prestigious name such as Lord Collingwood’s to my advantage.”
Miss Collingwood squinted.
“Speaking of names,” Aya continued, “you have not introduced me to your friends.”
Miss Collingwood straightened in her seat. “How rude of me! The lady to your left is Miss Aster, daughter of Lord Aster, Duke of the Starboard.”
Miss Aster inclined her head to Aya, and she returned the gesture. Even though she knew nothing about this Miss Aster, Aya liked the look of her. She had a bright smile nestled in a face smattered with brown freckles. The spots could have been inherited, but Aya liked to think that Miss Aster might have actually spent a few days in the sun—even if only for recreation.
“The lady on your right is Miss Frieson, daughter of Viscount Frieson.”
Unlike Miss Aster, Miss Frieson did not look warm. She held herself rigidly with a cold detachment to those around her. She barely gave Aya a nod, which Aya chose not to return.
Aya wondered if the palace ladies ever grew exhausted of being defined by their fathers’ titles. She knew from experience that being linked to one’s father could bring a distinct kind of pride, but if fortunes turned awry, as hers had, it could also bring sadness and shame. Being a woman was difficult enough without having one’s fate inextricably linked to the man who’d helped create her, even after his death.