She had, in truth, been braced for something to go wrong. Something always did. Someone would mortally offend someone else, a duel would break out, one of the bottles of wine would have gone to vinegar, a minor noble would have an allergic reaction to one of the perfumes and need to be rushed to the healer.
But so far nothing had gone wrong. It was almost uncanny. Marguerite didn’t trust it. Sure, her feet ached from the shoes, which added three inches to her height and took three years off the lifespan of her ankles. Sure, her hair had been scraped and teased into a confection with multiple combs that made her scalp feel as if it was caught in a vise. Sure, she had smelled Grace’s perfume selections so many times that she could no longer detect any of them, and her commentary was based on having memorized the color of the paper strips.
But she had expected all that. It was the lack of the unexpected that was throwing her.
One of the people who had refused the invitation had shown up anyway. She suspected that his previous engagement had proved dull. Unfortunately, he proved even duller. After admiring his latest medal and listening to an interminable tale of how he’d acquired it, she crossed him off her mental list. There were operatives who worked by being stultifyingly boring, but his was clearly an impressive natural talent. She eventually excused herself to speak to one of the cloth merchants from Baiir, not without a certain relief.
“Lovely,” said Fenella, as Marguerite approached. Her shawl was embroidered in a hundred colors, like a peacock’s tail, and she was making distinct inroads on the wine. “Simply a lovely selection, Mistress Florian. We’ll certainly want to place orders.”
“You are too kind,” said Marguerite warmly.
“Lovely gathering, too,” Fenella said. “Such handsome men at Court, and you’ve invited so many of them.” She winked at Marguerite, who laughed.
“I fear that reflects more to the Court’s credit than mine, madam.”
“Bollock—” She coughed. “I mean, balderdash. Look at that fellow over there. Do you think he’s available?”
Marguerite followed Fenella’s gaze and coughed. “I fear that is my bodyguard, madam.”
“Oho!” Fenella nudged her in the ribs. “Wouldn’t mind him guarding my body. I don’t suppose he’s available too?”
“Sadly, it’s only the perfumes.”
“Ah, well.” Fenella lifted her wineglass in salute. “I’d probably break him anyway.”
“I don’t doubt it in the slightest.” Fenella was clearly slightly tipsy. Too clearly? Marguerite had no reason to suspect her, except that she suspected everyone.
“Oh my,” the other woman said suddenly, “now where’s he going?”
Marguerite turned and saw Shane stalking across the room with the heavy tread of a man bent on mayhem. Oh, hell. I knew everything was going too well. She followed his gaze and found that Baron Maltrevor had cornered Wren and was breathing heavily in her direction.
People got out of the way of a man in armor. They did not get out of the way of Marguerite, but she was a great deal closer. She slid between the Baron and his victim and said, with feigned delight,
“Why, Baron Maltrevor! You come to my party and don’t even greet your host?”
Maltrevor turned, startled. His eyes focused on her, dropped immediately to her cleavage, and stuck there. “Marguerite! My dear, how long has it been?”
“Far too long,” said Marguerite warmly. “Three years, at least. I’m so pleased that you could make time for my little event.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Wren mouthed thank you over Maltrevor’s shoulder and slipped away. Marguerite hooked her arm through the Baron’s and positioned herself between him and Shane. Shane stopped. Marguerite shot him a quelling look, then turned her attention back to Maltrevor. “Now, you must tell me exactly what you think of these new scents. I know that a man of your sophistication will know which is most suitable for a lady.”
“Oh, certainly. And perhaps someday soon, you could give me your opinion on the most marvelous little clockwork baubles I’ve been collecting…” The Baron closed his hand over hers, still talking, and rubbed it in what he probably thought was an erotic fashion. Maltrevor was lecherous to the core, and while Marguerite knew several extremely charming lechers, he was not among them. Unfortunately he was also wealthy and well-connected, and she was at pains to cultivate his goodwill. At least this is a problem that I know how to handle. She steered the man toward the closest perfumes, scattering light flirtations like caltrops around him. When she was finally able to disentangle herself, her arm was damp where he’d been clasping it.
She kept an eye on the Baron for the rest of the evening. She only had to intervene once, and then, to her eternal gratitude, Fenella wandered into his orbit and distracted him with a discussion of the trade routes that passed through the Maltrevor lands. Marguerite made a mental note to give her a very, very good deal on the perfume order.
Finally, mercifully, it was over. She thanked the few stragglers as they left—Maltrevor breathed heavily in her ear and she manufactured a giggle—and then there was no one left but the servants that she hired to serve wine and clean up. Marguerite made her way swiftly between them, pressing coins into hands and gratitude into words, and finally reached the doorway where Shane waited.
“Are you as tired as I am?” she asked, as he fell into step beside her.
“Likely not. I only stood there, I was not required to talk.”
“There’s that.” She rolled her shoulders. “It went well, anyway.”
His expression soured. “You should have let me throw Maltrevor out on his ear.”
“That would have caused an incident. We are trying to avoid incidents.”
“He deserved it.”
“I’m sure he did, but we’re here for a very specific reason, and that reason does not involve policing the behavior of lecherous nobles.”
“I am willing to expand the scope of our mission,” he said, absolutely deadpan.
Marguerite narrowed her eyes. I still can’t always tell when he’s joking. Dammit.
“We’ll come back next year and make a point of it,” she promised. He inclined his head.
They reached their rooms and Marguerite was very glad when the door closed behind them. She let her shoulders sag and yanked off her shoes. “Oof.”
“Tell me about it,” said Wren, who was lounging barefoot in front of the fire. “I haven’t had blisters like this since my first forced march.”
“Are you all right?” Marguerite asked, collapsing into a chair. “Apart from the blisters, I mean.”
“I’m fine,” Wren said. “The perfume gave me something to talk about, even if I was mostly just gushing that my vassal was a genius.”
“Good. I was a little worried when Maltrevor cornered you.”
“Oh, he tried to grab my ass,” said Wren cheerfully.
Shane, who had been sitting, stood up again. Marguerite groaned and put her hand over her eyes.
“Sit down, brother. I said tried. He got a very nice handful of tablecloth for his pains. Then he just panted on me for a while.” Wren rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why, there were plenty of other women there.”