“I’m sure we’ll meet again, Herzer,” Carson said, holding out his hand. “Try to enjoy yourself at the ball. I understand that the cream of Washan’s lovelier ladies will be there as well.”
“I’ve already got the loveliest girl at the ball,” Herzer replied with a grin.
“You look absolutely lovely, Megan,” Mirta said, taking a last tuck in the councilwoman’s dress.
Megan frowned at the mirror and opened her mouth, then cut off the comment. She couldn’t say she hated the dress because Mirta had made it and, honestly, it was beautiful. And she couldn’t comment on her hair with Shanea putting the final touches on it. Finally she grimaced and shook her head, lightly.
“I’ve got a spot developing on my nose,” she snapped.
“It’s impossible to see,” Mirta replied sharply. “Take a deep breath. You killed Paul; facing these people is a minor inconvenience. Your dress is lovely and beyond the height of fashion. It’s going to set the fashion for at least the next year. Your hair is lovely and it’s going to set a fashion. Your makeup is lovely. You are lovely. Meredith is fully dialed in on everything you’re going to achieve this evening and she is lovely but just a shade less lovely than you. You are absolutely going to slay them. Don’t you always?”
“I think this will hold even in the humidity,” Shanea said, teasing Megan’s hair up and spraying a stray strand into place. “You’ll look great at the ball. I wish I was going instead of Meredith.”
“There will be other balls, Shanea,” Megan said, smiling. Shanea was a dear but she had the brains of a gnat, and the Foundation Ball would be attended by all the highest of society. Which meant that more deals would be made and more bills finalized than in all the committee meetings in the next month. Which in turn meant that it would be a vicious political dogfight taking place over cakes and champagne. Taking Shanea into that was out of the question.
Megan stood up and allowed Shanea and Mirta to help her into the dress. She could easily do it herself and would have preferred to, but the two, along with a few others, had attached themselves to her like limpets and, honestly, they were far more capable of this sort of thing than she was. She nodded as Meredith came into the vanity room and smiled.
“You look like Athena, Meredith,” Megan said.
“Thank you.” Meredith Amado Tillou was a tall, exquisite brunette dressed, like Megan, in a dress that was backless with a high collar and cut low at the front. Hers was not cut quite as low as Megan’s and it lacked the slits on the side that teasingly revealed long legs. She was not going to the ball to be noticed. Quite the opposite. If she had a choice in her manner of dress it would be a full coverage dress and a hooded cloak.
Her expression was much the same as it had been for four years in Paul Bowman’s harem, blank. But the eyes were different. While in the harem she had participated in one of the two revolts against Paul’s bondage and, when unsuccessful, she had been brain locked and kept as an imbecilic brood mare for Paul’s “breeding group.” When Megan killed Paul it released the bond, and the memories of four years of unwilling bondage, of the things that had been done to her and of the things she did. Now she viewed the world through eyes that were as cold as an iceberg and for all the world as deadly.
As Megan had quickly learned, the mind that had been released was at least as good as her own. Behind that blank mask was a brain like a computer with a virtually perfect memory and a phenomenal ability to synthesize information, making connections where others did not see them. For all that she had, apparently, no ambitions for greater power. She had become Megan’s political aide and would be attending the ball in that position.
As Mirta was fastening the last catch, Ashly walked in the room, frowning.
“Megan, there’s been a change,” she said, unhappily. “You were supposed to go to a late meeting with Duke Dehnavi and his wife after the ball. I just got word that he’s planning on bringing… someone other than his wife.”
“Cancel it,” Megan snapped. “I’m not going to be seen in public with him and his latest doxie!”
“He’s a key vote in the Intelligence Joint Subcommittee,” Meredith said, evenly. “Your father will need his support for the new funding bill. Especially if he wants to increase the size of the agent training program. The meeting will not cinch it but canceling it would inevitably cause him to view anything brought up by a Travante through a negative light. He has openly boasted of having managed to arrange it. He is also involved in the Agriculture Committee which will be looking at bills related to military food support over the next six months. Various other political items come to mind since he is a quiet power in the Corporate Party. Which is why Ashly arranged the meeting.”
Megan sighed and grimaced.
“Careful,” Mirta said, “don’t break the makeup.”
“Mirta, analysis, please?”
“Okay,” the older woman said, sighing. Mirta looked as if she was in her late teens, one of the reasons Paul Bowman had picked her up along with the others. In fact she was well over a hundred and besides being Megan’s seamstress acted in the role of socio-political advisor. Ashly handled the social planning but Mirta advised on who could and should be graced with the presence of the newest, and youngest, and prettiest, Key-holder in the increasingly political climate of the United Free States capital.
“Short term, you gain,” Mirta said. “You need the vote to get the bill out of committee without having it gutted. Long term… you’re giving support to the cookie eaters. That means all the wives will really get their knives out for you. If you were married to Herzer, he wouldn’t dare try this. But he thinks since Herzer’s your fiancé, and you’re assumed to be…”
“Carrying on relations,” Meredith continued for her.
“Yes. That. Since you’re carrying on regardless, he thinks he can score points and make it more acceptable for him to trot out his cookies. Since his wife is a rhino, politically, it’s actually better for him to attend with his cookies, believe it or not. But…”
“Herzer won’t want to come, anyway,” Megan muttered. “Ashly: Send a message to the duke telling him that I will be unattended by my… fiancé… and since it would be imbalanced, etc.”
“Good call,” Ashly said, relieved.
“Public, Ashly,” Megan snapped. “Very much public. A male aide, fine. I’ll have Meredith with me. A doxie, no.”
“Will do,” Ashly muttered. “De Funcha. Very new, very hip, brightly lit, I know the maitre d’ so getting you a good table at the last moment won’t be a problem, not that it ever is—”
“Handle it,” Megan said. “Meredith, let’s go.”
“The Honorable Jasper Thornton!” the majordomo at the top of the steps cried over the buzz of voices in the ballroom. “Mrs. Jasper Thornton.”
“Her name is Amelia, for God’s sake,” Megan muttered angrily.
“Smile for the cameras,” Herzer muttered as they stepped forward. “Although, I really hope he doesn’t screw up and call me ‘Mr. Megan Travante.’ ”
“Countess Megan Samantha Travante!” the functionary said without a glance at the card Herzer handed him. “Major Herzer Herrick!”
The low buzz of conversation stopped and the group broke into apparently spontaneous applause as a chemical flash caught the couple standing hand in hand. It would probably make the morning edition of the Washan Times, society page if not the front, and be in Lasang in no more than two weeks by courier.