Page 19 of Princess of Thieves

I picked out a sleeveless dress in mint with a matching bow holding back the short front pieces of my hair that can barely be called bangs, plus some wedge heels and a swipe of makeup that just...appeared in my bathroom.

So I know what I look like. And honestly, I don’t mind playing dress-up, even if I tell myself it’s just a disguise to keep myself safe.

Guy motions for me to join him, and I slowly make my way across the patio, weaving through party guests, pretending I don’t hear their murmurs and stares as I go. I have no doubt that Guy put it out to whoever he invited here that Richard De Mornay’s long-lost, abused, orphaned daughter was under his wing now.

And that, in itself, is noteworthy for the gossips of Sherwood.

That, and the fact that I look hot as shit, and I know it.

“Maren,” Guy says, and his hand finds the small of my back to guide me into place. He indicates his conversation partner. “Tobin Anderson the Third.”

“You don’t know me,” the jowly guy says, “but I knew your daddy. Fine man, that Richard.”

“Thank you,” I say, nodding.

“And a loyal customer,” Mr. Anderson goes on, guffawing in a way that sets the red flesh of his face bouncing.

Something about the phrasing sends a jolt down my spine, which I hide, for whatever reason. It makes me think of Rob because my dad was, technically speaking, a loyal customer of his too.

“Mr. Anderson is president of Sherwood National Bank,” Guy explains.

“Oh,” I say and paint a smile on my face with a slight nod. “Of course.”

“RetiringPresident Anderson,” he corrects. “Just another two weeks, and I’ll be free as a bird.” He puffs his chest out a little. “I’m going to sail around the world with the wife.”

“Well, congratulations,” Guy says. “Shame you’ll miss the Fourth of July to-do in town.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” Anderson says, patting his considerable stomach. “Certainly not the barbecue. You’ll be there, I take it?” His eyes go from Guy to me.

I do some quick mental math. The Fourth of July is about when my birth certificate should be in. If I don’thaveto be in Sherwood, I won’t. But it seems easier just to go along with whatever, at least for this conversation. So I nod.

“Looking forward to it.”

“Oh, we’ll be there,” Guy says, flashing a look at me that barely confirms that I’ve registered anything, let alone affirmed as much. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

We?I think.

“Well,youcan’t now, can you?” Mr. Anderson says, ribbing Guy. “Now that you’re going for this prominent position.”

“Indeed,” Guy smiles ruefully. “Lots of shaking hands and kissing babies to do.” Both of them chuckle.

I feel my stomach growl and wish there was something more for me to eat. There are all kinds of nice little appetizers circulating on platters, but for some reason, the waitstaff always seems to be just out of reach when I approach. I eye a waiter with a tray of pigs in a blanket lustfully.

“It’s a necessary evil, my friend,” says Mr. Anderson. “Fortunately, you’ve got lovely company.” He nods at me.

My mind spins. “Oh yes, I’m just, uh...”

“A family friend,” Guy finishes for me. “I’ve known the de Mornays for ages.”

“Of course,” Mr. Anderson says.

“Though I have to admit,” Guy goes on, “I do enjoy a good parade. There’s something about the way life’s supposed to be in a Fourth of July parade—you know, honoring our heritage, our first responders, our local community organizations.”

“Spoken like a true politician,” Mr. Anderson says, chuckling into his glass. I snort a little myself. “So, not participating in any of the mountain man games then?” he says, looking at Guy.

“The what?” I ask.

Guy scoffs. “He’s joking. He’s referring to all the sporting events sponsored by the Fox Hunt Club. You know, an actual fox hunt, some equestrian events, the archery tournament.”

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