Madam Cordon's tea party took place within a week of Count Graye's ball.
(No doubt she wanted to hit the gossip while it was hot. As a gossip girl, myself, I could only commend her brazenness.)
I chose a much simpler dress this time—one of my usuals. It was light blue with elbow-length sleeves and just a few touches of lace.
"I've hired a carriage for us, My Lady," Marissa explained as she tied the matching bonnet neatly under my chin. "And one to pick us up as well, exactly one hour from now."
"Perfect," I complimented her. "You understand your assignment during the party, correct?"
"Yes, as always, I will eavesdrop on conversations you can't hear and take discreet notes," she nodded.
"You really are the best maid in the entire world," I beamed, reaching for my purse.
Marissa was used to these sorts of unusual duties, and she was incredibly good at them. (Though, she did charge a pretty penny for anything outside of ordinary maid wor—actually, she charged a pretty penny for every kind of work.)
After locking up the townhouse that served as my office and home, we boarded the carriage and headed out of the city toward the Cordons' lovely estate.
We arrived right in the middle of the pack of guests, which meant fewer ogling eyes (and we could get away with renting a cheaper carriage). Various sorts of other women clambered out of their carriages around us, their maids faithfully following.
Some of the dresses I saw were rather frilly, but most were similar to mine. You see, while the goal of ballroom attire is to show off wealth through extravagance, the goal of tea party attire is to show off both wealth and taste through simple-yet-expensive accessories.
Personally, I only kept a few pieces that fell into that category in my wardrobe. Luxurious enough to fit in at these parties, but unremarkable enough for nobody to realize I wore the same simple bracelet and earrings every time.
Marissa followed behind me as I strolled into the back garden where the party was taking place. Rather than everyone being seated at one large table, there were four smaller tables set up. Seating assignment was (obviously) based on standing. Not formal nobility standing, but the made-up, invisible snobby standing. It had to do with your reputation, how much the hostess personally liked or disliked you, and your entertainment value.
For people like me, attending my first and most likely my last tea party—only invited because of passing curiosity—my entertainment value was remarkably high. Therefore, I was seated at the table with Madam Cordon herself.
"Hello, Lady Opaline." Madam Cordon greeted me with a smile, remaining in her seat as I approached the table.
She was dressed in a yellow gown with long bell sleeves and a pearl jewelry set.
"Thank you for your invitation," I curtseyed before taking my assigned seat. It wasn't right next to Madam Cordon, but nearly opposite her. The perfect spot for her to observe me, I suppose.
On either side of me were the wives of high-ranking noblemen. Next to them were other prestigious women, and, to my delight, Madam Macaron. She looked radiant in her pink dress and matching feather hat. Of all the people at this party, she was the only one I had to make a favorable impression on. After all, she was the wife of the Baron Macaron—aka the owner of Sweet Heaven.
(But it wouldn't hurt to make good impressions on all the women present. I mean, it is rich, frustrated women that keep my business booming.)
Some pleasantries and small talk floated around the table as the tea and confectionaries were brought out. Similar conversations reached my ears from the other tables.
"Let's get down to business," Madam Cordon suddenly turned serious, setting her teacup back on its plate. She laced her fingers under her chin, staring me down. "Tell us, Lady Opaline, what is your relationship with Count Auden Graye?"
How bold. Though, I guess when you're rich and powerful and basically at the top of the social food chain, you can ask anything you want.
Planning ahead, I had already practiced my answer to that question.
"I hardly know him, Madam," I explained. "We simply share a mutual acquaintance. The Count was gentlemanly enough to ask me to dance while we discussed that acquaintance."
Perfect. It technically wasn't a lie, either. I could easily be talking about Lady Abigail.
"Hmm I see." As expected of a veteran gossip sniffer, Madam Cordon was rather unsatisfied. "And may I ask how the two of you came to have a mutual acquaintance?"
Now, don't go getting upset at Madam Cordon's rather passive aggressive remark here. I'd be asking the same question if I were in her position. (Which, unironically, is why I had an answer for this prepared as well.)
"Nothing exciting, unfortunately," I smiled. "It's simply someone we both met through business."
-really, someone I met through my scandal making business and I have no idea how he met. But it's close enough to the truth.
"Business?" Madam Cordon raised her eyebrows.
But it wasn't just her reaction I was waiting for. I glanced over to see how Madam Macaron had responded to my explanation. Her husband and Count Graye also seemed to be acquainted through business (or, business I should say, depending on whether Count Graye was an investor in Sweet Heaven or an accomplice to something going on behind the pastry shop's innocent-looking doors).
Madam Macaron was listening to me politely but not over attentively and seemed to have no serious reaction to my comment about 'business'.
But that didn't mean it hadn't triggered an idea in her.
"Ah, my husband is bedridden, but he has a proxy who still handles much of his business for him," I began. "I happened to meet Count Graye's acquaintance during an investment meeting and formed a connection."
There. It was a sufficient explanation that implied I was involved with my husband's business (as I hoped would appeal to Madam Macaron) but not overly involved in it (as I hoped would satisfy the rest of the women.)
"I see," Madam Cordon reached for her teacup again. "So nothing terribly interesting then."
"I'm afraid not, Madam," I offered, taking a sip of my own tea.
It was a gray tea scented with rose and absolutely delightful.
"Well then," another woman at the table spoke up. She was wearing a poofy dress that did nothing for her stocky figure, her auburn hair curled in perfect ringlets. "What of your relationship with the Marquess Wulfstan?"
"That's right! I've never seen him on the dance floor before," another lady piped in with a wild look in her eyes. She was practically salivating, waiting for some juicy gossip to come out of my mouth.
But, again, I was prepared with a perfectly unexciting answer.