The Guest Everyone Wanted

“I sent an invitation hoping she might grace our garden party this time, and yet there hasn't been a word from her for days now.”

“Don't get your hopes up. The Marchioness of Zacherete has always been this way. I thought I'd try hosting a soirée myself and sent one out as well—she didn't so much as blink.”

“It is troubling, isn't it. If the rumors hold true, she's to be the next Grand Duchess, and yet she so disdains high society…. Tsk, tsk. Money-making is all she truly cares about.”

The ladies spoke with faces full of concern, as though they were genuinely worried about her.

Doresa swallowed a laugh.

They should be worrying about the right people.

They were all laboring under a misconception at the moment. With one voice, they whined that the Marchioness had snubbed their invitations, ignored them, slighted them—but…

She isn't some marchioness's wife to be summoned at will. She holds a title in her own right. Inviting a Marquis into one's little circle in the first place—that's hardly proper etiquette.

And by that measure, Doresa herself was no better.

Come to think of it, it made no sense for her—a mere viscountess—to be sitting among these ladies at all.

Not a single person here had noticed, though.

That was how genuinely, how innocently, they looked down on her.

A woman who inherited a title and runs her family's affairs? In their eyes, she's no different from the rest of us. Lesser, even.

Truly, these were people she could not bring herself to like.

“Honestly, what could the Grand Duke possibly see in such a dull woman?”

“Perhaps those rumors are true, after all. You know the one—that the Marchioness set her sights on His Highness deliberately, all for the sake of her business.”

“Ah, you mean the story about her getting pregnant with the Grand Duke's child and threatening him into taking responsibility? Oh my, was that actually true? I heard it too, but I never knew.”

“You're talking about the article from the Evening Bell, aren't you? By that reporter, Reka Valexi. Best to take anything that person writes with a grain of salt. She prints the most outlandish nonsense.”

“Still! Where there's smoke, there's fire, no? The story circulates because there must be something to it.”

“Oh, certainly. Of course.”

At Doresa's sensible suggestion that they all exercise a little restraint, the noblewomen snapped back at her as if she'd thrown cold water on their fun.

Doresa offered an awkward smile and changed the subject.

“Oh, that reminds me—I'm planning to rent a venue and hold a little party this weekend. A modest afternoon tea, with a charity drive on the side. Nothing grand, you understand….”

“Oh dear, my apologies. I already have a prior engagement that day.”

“As do I. As it happens, I've been invited to another tea party on the very same day. Ho ho.”

The ladies refused in perfect unison, as though they had rehearsed it.

Of course they did. What else would I expect from these people.

Doresa was smiling bitterly and fading back into the background when—

“Pardon the interruption, my lady. It seems there's urgent news.”

Doresa's secretary stepped into the lounge.

At the servant's appearance, every lady present wore her displeasure openly—as though a laborer had barged into their private sanctuary.

That lasted only a moment.

“What is it?”

“A reply has arrived from the Marquisate of Zacherete.”

“What?”

“Oh my—did you just say Zacherete? The Marchioness of Zacherete?”

At the appearance of that familiar name, the noblewomen who had been eyeing the secretary with contempt burst into a flurry.

“Read it quickly, Baroness.”

“Yes, quickly!”

Dazed, Doresa broke the seal and read the letter.

“What does the Marchioness say?”

“Well… it seems she will be attending the party this weekend….”

“Oh my, Baroness. You know the Marchioness of Zacherete personally? Why would a woman who has refused every invitation until now—”

“It's not as though we're close. She simply did me a favor regarding some business matters a while back, that's all….”

“Well, you should have said so sooner! I suppose that's what happens when a woman actually works for a living—you two simply speak the same language, don't you?”

“Exactly. Ho ho.”

One and all, the noblewomen turned glowing faces toward Doresa—eyes warm with affection where contempt had been only moments before.

“So, this weekend, you said? Let's hope the weather holds.”

“My lady, didn't you say you had a prior engagement that day?”

“On second thought, I find I'm perfectly free after all. It was a charity drive, wasn't it? One mustn't miss the chance to take part in a good cause.”

“Me too. Good works are best done in company.”

The noblewomen suddenly acted familiar, cooing with warmth.

Watching them practically beg for an invitation of their own, Doresa let out a hollow laugh. Their motives were transparent as glass.

Well. I suppose it's only natural.

The Marchioness—a rumored candidate for Grand Duchess—had been in seclusion, avoiding all contact with society. And now, at last, she would show her face in public.

And she declined every other lady's invitation, but accepted mine.

Doresa's gaze swept over the noblewomen, shoulders bobbing with excitement.

Soon, the corners of her mouth curled up.

This might actually be fun.

I really can't get used to this.

If I had to name the things I disliked most in this world, parties would sit squarely near the top of the list.

From lavish balls all the way down to little tea gatherings like this one.

To be precise, it wasn't the drinking of tea I minded—it was these social affairs in general, sitting around trading pointless barbs disguised as pleasantries.

But I sell tea leaves for a living. I can hardly skip every one of these. Nowhere is fashion and gossip fresher than at a society table.

So despite my loathing, I made a point of attending at least a few such gatherings each year.

And not simply because nobles made up my primary customer base.

Aristocratic culture had always been the object of commoners' longing.

Luxury goods and precious metals at eye-watering prices might be beyond imitation, but habits—like what one ate and drank—were easily copied.

Right. Which is to say, what I'm trying to tell myself is:

This is work. Endure it. Erna Zacherete, you are on the clock right now.

Having reasoned that far, I smoothed my expression and lifted my teacup.

I could feel every eye tracking my every movement.

Gazes that sized me up like merchandise at market. Gazes brimming with curiosity. And gazes shot through with jealousy and spite….

This is maddening.

“So then, Marchioness?”

“….”

“Might we ask what exactly things are between you and His Highness the Grand Duke?”

A young lady seated at the far end of the long table asked in a voice that bordered on rude.

I froze for a beat, then set my teacup back down.

Hah.

Wherever you go, there's always one person with no sense of the room.

No—before that…

Why on earth are there so many people? I could have sworn this was supposed to be a small charity event.

Frowning slightly, I looked around at the hundreds of eyes fixed on me.

Small, my foot. I should have seen this coming when the venue changed.

The event, originally to be held elsewhere, had been moved barely days ago to the rooftop garden of the Eldbrel Hotel.

Calling it a tea party was generous—the scale was such that it would be no exaggeration to say nearly every noblewoman and young lady in the Imperial Capital had turned out.

“I do apologize. It seems word spread that Your Ladyship would be attending our little gathering, and everyone insisted on coming…. It's been quite the commotion.”

So spoke the hostess of today's affair, Baroness Doresa Evrel, wearing a face of practiced helplessness.

The smug little twitch at the corners of her mouth is in plain view, you know.

According to the rumors drifting about, the baroness had wielded the excuse of “capacity limits” and sent out the invitations first to those who purchased annual memberships at the hotel.

Which meant the noblewomen of the capital had been all but forced to buy annual memberships just to receive an invitation.

“Baroness Evrel is every bit the merchant you are, my lady. She's clearly making the most of this situation. But—are you truly going through with it?”

Laura had worried over me right up until the moment I stepped out of the mansion, and she'd been right to.

And truthfully, I thought the same.

She might suit me better than I expected.

There was a good ten years between us, but given our circumstances and positions, I judged she could make a capable ally.

In fact, the exclusive tea contract mentioned in her letter had been settled without a hitch before the party, so I'd already come away with a gain.

Now then, back to the matter at hand.

“Marchioness? Why aren't you saying anything? I asked what exactly you are to His Highness.”

“She's right. Is that rumor all true? However did you snare His Highness?”

The young ladies at the end of the table—girls my own age—pressed me almost accusingly.

“Oh my, young lady. 'Snare,' really? You mustn't use such vulgar, classless language. She is the Marchioness, after all.”

Right. So you do know. You do remember I'm the Marchioness.

But the reprimanded young lady spared me a glance, noted the four or five years' difference between us, and carried on brazenly, as if it were no concern of hers.

The lady who had done the correcting, meanwhile, simply smiled, apparently content to savor the spectacle.

“Hmph. Seducing a priest, of all things.”

The young lady's eyes reddened as she spat the words out like a curse.

Out of some lingering pretense of decorum, she'd left a great deal unsaid—but even so, the message came through clearly.

What she truly wanted to say was: How dare you cheapen yourself by seducing the holy priest.

“Of course, that would make you the sworn enemy of every lady in Orden. The enemy of all womankind, so to speak.”

Ah. So that's what Laura meant back then.