With intense dryness, Sylvie said, “I don’t think he intended you to insert a comma into that sentence.”
“It’s an inevitable personality clash, I suppose. You have a sense of humor. You appear to be open to life’s possibilities. And he’s . . .” Mariana swatched a line of fuchsia pink on the back of her hand. “Dominic. But perhaps I’m not being totally fair. He does have his good points beyond those arms and the magic things he does with chocolate.”
“He gave her a present today,” a passing crew member translated.
Zack bounced through the door like Tigger arriving at Pooh Corner and leaned across Mariana to pluck a different lipstick from the display. “Try the Color Me Coral.” Turning, he cast an expert eye over Sylvie. “For you, definitely a rose. Two swipes of Bloomin’ Marvelous, and boom. Greta Garbo.”
“And I thought my work involved magical illusions.”
“Is my favorite former contestant excited about the new series?” Zack asked, ignoring that interjection. He held two bottles of foundation against her neck and put one down.
No, but she owed enough to the show and cared enough about these people to at least lie with perkiness. “Nervous, but yes.”
“It’s nice to see some enthusiasm.” He pulled a face. His own makeup was gorgeous. Precision of a neurosurgeon when it came to eyeliner. “Especially after the mug on Dominic. Someone needs to tell him that the perpetual glare can drop a bloke who’s a solid nine down to a borderline three. And believe me, over the breadth of those six points is a whole lot less sex.” He started dabbing primer onto Sylvie’s cheekbones. “You’d think he was here for a ritual disemboweling, not to be paid my annual salary for a few weeks of part-time work. All he has to do is stand there and tell people they’re failing to live up to their potential. My mum’s been doing it my whole life for free.”
Biting back a grin, Sylvie reached down to her bag when her phone buzzed with another text, trying to keep her head steady for his busy blending. She held it up to read the message and excitement surged in her stomach.
“Yes.”
“Good news?” Mariana lowered the iPad she’d extracted from her own bag. There was a paper silhouette of her distinctive head tucked into the lilac case.
“Official press release from the palace.” Sylvie followed the link in Jay’s text to the actual announcement. “‘The Duke and Duchess of Albany are pleased to announce the engagement of Her Royal Highness Princess Rose to Mr. John Marchmont. The wedding will take place in the spring, in London. Further details to follow.’”
As usual, Jay was right on the money.
“Oh.” Mariana frowned without much interest. Famously not a royalist. “Remind me. Princess Rose is—”
“Daughter of the king’s middle son,” Zack said admonishingly. “Especially popular with the under-thirty demographic. Fab fashion sense—like a young Morticia Addams—but she’d retain a spot in my top three favorite royals just for that interview as a teen where she compared her ghastly uncle to a codpiece.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “God, I love a royal wedding.”
“So do I,” Sylvie murmured meaningfully, flipping through to the news sites and clicking on the first link. The press release had been out for almost twenty minutes, so naturally the media had already thrown around names for everything from the dress designer to the supplier of napkin holders.
She scissored her fingers, enlarging the official engagement shot of the couple smiling into one another’s eyes. The bride’s sleek dark hair was smoothed into an unusually restrained knot, but she’d stuck to her guns with the heavy black eyeliner. Her lacy black dress was a little funereal, but clearly a compromise between her own preference for Victoriana and the palace’s idea of appropriate styling for a photo shoot that would make the history books. The groom was wearing a pink shirt, and his curls were fluffy.
It was like a grown-up Emily the Strange marrying Bertie Wooster.
The smiles were natural, the body language extremely affectionate, but their knuckles were white. Nerves or tension?
Sylvie studied the cover shot for a few more seconds, then scrolled down to the article. The journalist would have had a lot of the copy sitting ready to go. This had been on the rumor mill since their first joint public appearance. The union between the king’s eldest granddaughter and the youngest son of a baronet, who, according to this tabloid, had inherited neither land nor brain cells from his parents.
The overgrown Goth princess and a stuttering social climber with all the poise and sophistication of a golden retriever.
Charming.
A page-long summary of Rose’s past romances and flings followed, basically an illustrated guide to the art of slut-shaming.
Did the editors of the Daily Spin actually advertise for their writers or just draw symbols on the ground and summon them from the underworld?
Sylvie zeroed in on the column she was interested in. At least twelve fashion houses had been mooted for the gown. Only one name in connection with the cake. Even the tabloids considered this a done deal.
If Dominic had also seen the breaking news, he was probably out there right now, putting the finishing touches on a sketch for an exquisitely rendered snooze of a fruitcake.
Zack read her mind. “I suppose De Vere’s is doing the cake. First royal wedding in years. Dominic’s probably a shoo-in. His grandad had the honor in the past. De Vere Senior was the king’s pet baker. His Majesty was very fond of their Battenberg.” Mariana looked at him, and he shrugged. “Fact of the day on the Royal Stans blog.”
Mariana’s attention returned to Sylvie. She was observing her cannily. “Is that just the slightest touch of scheming criminal mastermind I see?”
Zack made a noise like an overexcited chicken. “Are you going after the royal wedding contract? Literally the cake of the year?” He hauled Sylvie’s chair around and leaned close. She widened her eyes at him innocently, and he clapped his hands together, a booming slap that made her jump. “Oh, hells yeah. Judge versus judge. Neighbor pitted against neighbor. The kitten taking on the lion.” Sylvie’s eyes narrowed again. Zack gave another wriggly little hop. “I do love me some drama. Bring it on, dollface.”
Kitten, her arse. This was for her people’s future job security. And it was a bake that would be preserved in perpetuity, a part of history. She’d probably have phrased it differently, but—what the hell.
Bring it on, dollface.
Chapter Four
October
De Vere’s
Favored establishment of His Majesty the King and his fondness for Battenberg.
Status: As expected, invited to submit a tender for the royal wedding cake.
“Literally the cake of the year.”
—Zack Romero, underpaid Operation Cake makeup artist
With a flick of his fingers, Dominic sent the fifth and final tier of the cake spinning onto the upper dowels. Each layer was a clean, crisp white. Marzipan over rich Vienna cream icing, edged with sugar lace, a delicate spidery web of lines, the perfect allusion of the bobbin lace that Princess Rose liked to weave. Or at least claimed she wove as a useful anecdote. His notes stated that she gave biannual speeches as patron of the City of London Arts and Crafts Guild.