The other highborn stared at her dress, half jealous, half grumbling that her clothes too closely resembled last year’s fashions. Her tailors had been clever, though, expertly tying together the trends. The bodice of her backless dress hardly covered her breasts, and the silken skirts barely brushed her skin. The slit had been cut as high as was proper, allowing for a delightful breeze between her legs. She’d balked at the matching gossamer coat, but it might have been woven by magical spiders, for it didn’t stifle her in the slightest.
With her dark hair set in tumbling waves and her makeup perfectly applied, she looked a great deal less like a militia chief and more like the eldest heir to one of the richest and most powerful families in New Bristol, and perhaps all of Saxony.
Which she was. Sort of. Only fifteen women in each generation could call themselves heirs in each family, all standing in line to become the next chairwoman. The current matron’s eldest daughter stood first among them. Despite being the prime heir by birthright, Lila had traded away her spot a decade ago in order to join the Randolph militia. She shouldn’t have been allowed on the silver carpet at all. Instead of an heir, she should only rank as a highborn.
Her mother would never suffer such an outrage, though. The Randolph family had only fourteen official heirs, but everyone understood who held the fifteenth spot, no matter how often Lila resisted the implication. And under the pretense of sparing her younger sister Jewel from failure on the New Bristol High Council of Judges, her mother had declared Lila the family’s emissary, forcing her to sit on a council made up of matrons and prime heirs.
The fact that Lila had never officially accepted her position as heir rankled the others.
The fact that everyone accepted it for her rankled Lila.
It also made everything about her annoyingly fuzzy—except her place in the auction house line. Only matrons and primes could skip them at highborn functions. As an heir, even an unofficial one, she had to wait, just like the others.
But waiting in line had been part of Lila’s plan, for it allowed her to study the LeBeau militia. She counted six blackcoats on the roof while another half-dozen kept the front secure. Lila couldn’t tell if the LeBeau chief had reinforced the alley, but Shirley watched from a neighboring building. The old woman had a keen eye, and an even keener mind for trouble. She’d let Tristan know the moment she found it.
Toxic would too. Lila had hacked the auction house security cameras. Toxic now watched every feed, including the ones Lila had looped and fed back to the LeBeau militia. Unfortunately, Lila couldn’t check them herself. She’d hidden her palm computer in her clutch, and she couldn’t remove the device while she tarried in line. Not around the nosy highborn heirs.
With the way the afternoon had unfolded, the heist might be over before she even got into position. Too many heirs had shown up later than usual to escape the heat, tying her up outside when she should already be inside.
Until then, Tristan and his people were on their own, and that was never a good idea.
“Chief Randolph?” came an overly cheery voice on the opposite side of the stanchions. The voice belonged to a pale, slender blonde in an off-the-rack dress, holding a worn palm.
Lila tried not to frown. Every heir knew Marion Carpenter, a leading journalist for the New Bristol Times, and every journalist knew that Lila Randolph didn’t give interviews. Giving one meant that Lila had officially taken up her role as heir, and, more importantly, it meant any news outlet could run her photo without consequence. Lila enjoyed her anonymity far too much to destroy it. She also enjoyed the gaping loophole it created. The Randolph militia chief was completely off-limits to the press. No photos. No videos. Not even a sound bite.
“An unofficial word,” Ms. Carpenter pleaded.
Lila gripped her clutch tighter and motioned her forward. It was good for the Randolphs to court the local press, officially or unofficially.
Ms. Carpenter hopped the rope and rushed over. “You look quite healthy, chief.”
“I feel healthy.”
“So there’s no truth to the rumor that Peter Kruger shot you in the chest last Friday?”
“I’m wearing a backless dress, Ms. Carpenter. I think you’d notice the bullet hole.”
The journalist’s gaze dipped to the low bodice of Lila’s gown. “There were reports you were taken to Randolph General.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, conflicting reports. I heard you were shot. I also heard you were in a motorcycle accident. Care to elaborate?”
“Perhaps it was both. Perhaps I’m a fast healer.” Lila smirked, glad it had only been a tranq that had felled her, rather than a bullet. “Perhaps you rely too heavily on your sources.”
Ms. Carpenter bit her lip. “How does it feel to acquire the Wilson estate so early? Unofficially, of course.”
Lila recalled the exact words her mother had beaten into her head at breakfast. “While the Randolphs obviously regret the fall of any highborn family, on occasion, one must step aside so that another can join our ranks.”
“You feel regret for the Wilson family? The same Wilsons who rioted throughout the family’s compound the night Celeste Wilson and her son were taken into custody? The same family who killed a Bullstow militiaman during their tantrum?” Ms. Carpenter crinkled her nose. The highborn did not express violence; it just wasn’t done. Even the poorer classes avoided it like a young child copying its elders. “The woman defrauded her own family and tried to do business with our enemies. Her son tried to make a deal with the Roman Emperor, promising to return his long-lost nephew for a pile of riches and safe haven. They rioted and killed for that, yet you feel regret?”
“I sincerely hope that the men of Bullstow will see justice for their fallen brother,” Lila said carefully. “I also feel pity for anyone betrayed by Celeste and Patrick Wilson, regardless of their bloodline. I hope the next matron will not be so careless with the futures of her family and those who serve it.”
“You sit on the New Bristol High Council. The rumor is you’ll discuss candidates for the next matron soon. Which lowborn family will you support?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Bullshit. You could. You just won’t. Give me a name, chief. Will it be the Parks? Everyone says it will be the Parks. Just confirm it for me. Unofficially.”