Margaret flew down the hallway as she finished tightening the last bindings on her kirtle. “I’m leaving, Papa!” she called once she reached the foyer. Just a few more steps, and she could leave without a lecture…again.
“Hold!” her father boomed from his library.
Reluctantly stopping before her hand hit the door handle, Margaret turned to the direction he’d be coming from. “Yes, Papa?” she asked innocently.
“Where are you going?”
“Annalise and the others have asked me to walk the market with them,” Margaret told him, voice pregnant with excitement.
Her father raised his brows, folding his arms over his chest. “Aren’t they the ones who call you a parvenue?”
Deflating slightly, she nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
“Then why are you spending time with them?”
“Because they’re my friends, Papa, and Mama likes them.”
Her father sucked something off an eye tooth, looking his daughter over critically. “Don’t let your Mama choose whom you spend time with, Margaret—especially if they make you unhappy. Your position at court is secure, no matter who you’re friends with, despite what your Mama thinks.”
Margaret looked down. She wasn’t so sure he was right. She had seen the way the women behaved at court and how those women swayed their husbands one way or the other based on petty rivalries. “Yes, Papa. May I go now?”
Sighing, her father pulled out a coin purse and handed it to her. “Please be careful, Margaret, and don’t be afraid to leave early if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”
Margaret turned her nose at the coin purse. “I don’t need money. We have receipts sent to the house to be paid.”
“The Doremises always carry money,” her father scolded, putting the purse in her hand.
She clutched tightly to the leather pouch. “I don’t have any pockets.”
“I happen to know very well, all the seamstresses we use are told to put pockets in your dresses, Margaret. Put it in your pocket.”
Margaret’s knuckles went white holding the coin purse. “I can’t. I sewed them shut.”
Her father inhaled deeply before responding. “Why would you do that, Margaret?”
“I don’t want to give them another reason to call us parvenus, Papa!” Margaret looked at him desperately. “They still think us farmers who were lucky enough to catch the eye of the king.”
Sighing, her father held out his hand for the coin purse. “Very well. Have your bills sent here.”
“Thank you, Papa!” She flashed a bright grin and dropped the money in his hand before darting from the house.
Margaret made her way to the market without an escort. At fourteen, with her rank, she should have one, but her father had never found one for her. It was just another way that showed she had not grown up in the social hierarchy her friends had, that she was what they called her. And they were right: she was new money. She had only been a count’s daughter for eight years, having been raised on a tobacco farm before that.
Her father had built his green empire from the ground up, amassing a fortune to rival any of the noblemen who’d held titles for more than four hundred years. The king had thought to make her father an ally to the crown and sought also to receive a portion of his wealth in taxes. The king granted Margaret’s father the title of count, making her mother a countess, giving them an estate in the capital city of Jalmar. All the lands he owned would be known as Dorcia, and he would need to produce an heir to inherit them or name one, according to the Laws of Inheritance. Margaret was only six at the time and had been immensely happy at the prospect of a younger brother. As a count, her father would owe the king ten percent of his profit to add to the royal coffers.
It would be no great loss to their own wealth, hardly even enough to notice; tobacco was in such a high demand with nobles and commoners alike that Margaret and her mother wore only the finest silks colored with the highest quality dyes money could buy. At times, they even dressed better than the queen. Margaret’s mother only let her associate within the highest circles. Her family had been invited on a regular basis to attend the king’s private dinners with only the wealthiest and most prestigious of families.
Margaret smoothed her skirts as she reached Fasch Street, preparing for the onslaught of vendors waving their goods in her face. She was to meet her friends in the fabrics. They only ever seemed to shop for fabrics, or flowers, with her. It seemed to Margaret they only thought themselves capable of arranging a fine bouquet or finding fabric for their newest dress. Margaret doubted they would ever be able to survive without the aid of a father or husband. There was no pragmatism in their lives, though Margaret knew they never thought they needed it. In their world, money bought everything, and they had a lot of it—or, at least, their fathers did—with no care of how much was spent. Her father had taught her the basics of managing money and how to stick to a household budget to ensure she never lived outside her means.
Eventually, the fine fabrics came into view. It was odd to Margaret that fabrics, especially ones of high quality, would be sold in the public market instead of in an indoor shop so there was no chance to be damaged, but it was fully covered with tents and always full of ladies wanting to buy. She shrugged; less work for the vendors, she supposed.
“Lady Margaret!” Lady Clairissa Beauchamp called out to her, waving a delicate hand nearly invisible under the lace of her sleeve.
Waving back, Margaret smiled.
“Take care behind you!” a deep voice yelled.
Margaret turned in time to be shoved aside, her arm smashing into the wooden frame of a vendor’s tent. A man raced past her, followed by one of the city guardsmen.
“Stop, thief!” the uniformed man yelled. “In the king’s name, I command you to stop!”
Margaret pushed herself off the frame of the tent, letting out a small cry as her arm smarted. She cradled it against her chest, examining her injury. Her forearm was red where it had been hit; no doubt it would turn dark by the morning. Margaret made a face at it—she’d surely hear about this from her mother until it went away.
The sound of several pounding feet echoed off the buildings, and she turned to see more city guardsmen slow to a halt. One came to her side. “My lady, have you been injured?”
“Not terribly so, sir.”
He motioned toward the arm she still cradled. “Do you know who has done this?”
Margaret shook her head. “I heard a man yell to take care, and when I turned around, I was shoved aside before I could see what was happening.”
Lady Ingrid came to Margaret’s side. She nodded to the guard speaking to Margaret—any time there was a man around, Ingrid needed to be there. “My dear Lady Margaret, what has happened to your arm?”
“It’s only a bruise,” she commented, raising a brow at Ingrid. She had never used that tone with Margaret before, and she was sure it was due to the guardsman being decently handsome. “I’ll join you in a moment, Lady Ingrid.”
Ingrid moved closer, putting a hand to her breasts and widening her eyes. “Do you think that terrible man will come back?”
Color dusted the guardsman’s cheeks, his eyes drawn to her hands. “No, my lady. Our Liam will outrun him, and we will add bringing harm unto persons of the peerage to his list of crimes.”
The other three ladies joined them. Ingrid barely acknowledged them, while Margaret lifted her hand in a silent hello.
“Even so,” Ingrid mused, moving closer still, “it has given us all quite a fright, hasn’t it, Margaret?”
Margaret resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Ingrid’s blatant flirting. She shouldn’t even be flirting—at fourteen, they were far too young for these men. “Quite a fright, indeed,” she monotoned.
Smile still plastered on her face, Ingrid’s eyes turned gelid while looking at Margaret. “Perhaps then, sir, you might escort us all to the safety of our homes?”
“It would be our pleasure, my lady.” He bowed before offering his arm. “Third, we will be escorting these ladies home after the fright the thief and Private Fulton have given them.”
The men of the Third came forward and offered arms to Elise, Clairissa, and Annalise. Margaret sighed. She always came last when her friends were around, even with those who did not know the Doremises had the newest title in the entire country.
Finally, the last of the Third, a sour-looking gentleman with gray blooming at his temples, offered his arm to Margaret. “Where shall I escort you, my lady?”
“To Cerule House, sir.”