Sons of Liberty (22 page)

She sent one of the servants to summon Wayne, then headed down into the office. A handful of files lay on the desk, reminding her that she had to read them at some point; she scowled as she realised she would have to do rather more paperwork than she liked to do, just to keep her files in order. But then, when was she supposed to find the time? There just weren't enough hours in the day to train the sorcerers, let alone fill out their paperwork ...

“
My Lady,” Wayne said. “The blighter got away?”

“
I’m afraid so,” Gwen said. She hoped he wouldn't hold it against her, but it was probably a forlorn hope. Maybe she should have risked something nastier than Charm. “He’s a Mover of great skill, I think. Much better than either of the brothers.”

Wayne frowned. “Better than you?”

“
He has more awareness of his talent,” Gwen said, reluctantly. Any single-talent magician would be more familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of his power than one who had access to all the talents. “And he has a great deal of raw power too.”

She cursed under her breath. The rogue was a complete unknown. If he dumped his cloak and mask in the nearest dustbin, he could just stride off with her none the wiser. Or maybe he’d just hopped into a passing carriage and threatened the driver to take him halfway across the city. In that case, there was probably a dead cabbie somewhere in the city, murdered after he had outlived his usefulness. And someone with that sort of raw power could easily get into the Viceregal Palace and assassinate the Viceroy ...

“
I’ve been summoned to the Palace,” she said, instead. “Keep them training, as much as you can. I have a feeling it’s bad news.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said.

Gwen watched him leave the office, then picked up her cane and hurried back to the waiting room. Bruce was reading one of the books the hall’s former inhabitants had left behind, a tacky romance featuring handsome aristocratic men, beautiful aristocratic girls and almost as many social mishaps and misunderstandings as happened in real life. Men might sneer at how the women in the books treated the question of marriage as a matter of life or death, but to them it was a matter of life or death. The wrong husband would doom them to a hellish existence they would be fortunate indeed to escape.

“
My Lady,” Bruce said. “Shall we go?”

“Of course,” Gwen said.

She allowed him to lead her to the carriage, thinking rapidly. The French, whatever their other flaws, didn't tend to take the risk of assassinating British politicians. There would be certain retaliation, after all; Britain might survive losing a king or even a dynasty, but would the Bourbons feel the same way? The only thing that held France and Spain together, save for mutual hatred of the British, was the House of Bourbon. If King Louis and his heir were to die, what would happen to their empire?

But the Americans - if the rogue was an American - might think differently. Viceroy Rochester wasn't a king. If he died, London would have to send out a new Viceroy, one who would have to learn the ropes under a great deal of pressure. He’d make mistakes, Gwen thought; offend the wrong people, alienate his natural allies ... the Sons of Liberty might make great gains if they murdered the Viceroy. But, at the same time, they’d also weaken the defences of British North America. The French might gain control of the colonies without a major struggle.

“
I was surprised to hear that you weren't in the hall,” Bruce said, as the carriage jolted into motion. “Why did you leave?”

“
I’ll explain that to your father,” Gwen said. What was she supposed to do about the rogue magician? He was very definitely powerful and experienced enough to break into the Viceregal Palace and assassinate the Viceroy, but she didn’t have the manpower to provide additional bodyguards. “It's a long story.”

She looked him in the eye. “Why the sudden summons?”

“
I don’t know,” Bruce said. He shrugged in a manner David had been fond of using before their father beat it out of him. “Father ordered me to go to the hall and bring you back to the palace.”

“
Something must have happened,” Gwen said. She felt a cold pit of fear deep in her chest; a rogue magician, one powerful enough to evade her, and now an urgent summons. It boded ill for the future. “Did he say nothing?”

“
He was sending out other messengers too,” Bruce said. “I don’t think it’s another ball.”

Gwen felt her lips thin in irritation. Another ball? She was supposed to work with the Viceroy, but if he’d dragged her away from her duties so she could attend another ball ... she was going to give him a piece of her mind. Girl or not, she had a job to do and she was going to do it. But it was unlikely, she told herself firmly. The local aristocracy would complain, loudly, if the Viceroy held two balls in such quick succession. No one else would have a chance to host a ball for themselves.

“
Tell me something,” she said. “What do you want to do with your life?”

Bruce shrugged, indolently. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said, dryly. “I certainly can't hope to match my father.”

That, Gwen knew, was probably true. Viceroyalties did not run in families. Spain had experimented with making the Viceroy of Mexico a hereditary post, only to discover that the viceroys had begun to think of themselves as kings, rather than the king’s servants. Bruce would be a landed aristocrat, when his father died, but he would never be a Viceroy. He would never wield the autocratic powers of his family ...

“
You could join the army,” she said, instead. His family would certainly be able to buy him a commission, although the Duke of India would probably insist on some training before Bruce tried to take command of a regiment. Too many wealthy incompetents bought their commissions and then tried to take command in the middle of a battle. “You could certainly carve out a name for yourself.”

She smiled. “Or you could join the navy,” she added. “You might just make captain before the end of the war.”

Her smile grew wider. Captains - successful captains - were stars. Men admired them, women threw themselves at them, children wanted to grow up to be them. A captain like Lord Nelson commanded more respect than King George! There was something about a successful warship commander that spoke to the British seafaring soul. Maybe the introduction of ironclad warships would change that, but she doubted it. The navy was the core of Britain’s greatness.

“Too much like hard work,” Bruce said.

Gwen stared at him. “You just want to sit around and do nothing?”

“
Why not?” Bruce asked. “What would I gain if I did anything else?”

Gwen pursed her lips. “Self-respect?”

Bruce merely snorted.

Gwen shook her head in disbelief. She’d spent the first eighteen years of her life wanting to do something with her magic, to make something of her life. Bruce was a young man in the prime of his life, with enough connections to ensure that he could enter almost any trade at a very high level, yet he wanted to do nothing? She’d known too many aristocratic young men who’d just wasted their lives, but this ...? Bruce’s children would be lucky if their father left them any lands, when he finally shuffled off the mortal coil.

But he can never live up to his father, she thought, feeling an unwilling stab of sympathy for the young man. Any more than I can ever live up to mine - or Master Thomas.

She leaned back in her seat and watched as the carriage passed through the palace gates. A dozen soldiers were on duty, outside the gates; twenty more were inside, digging defences and sitting weapons. She caught sight of a pair of repeating guns being placed inside a trench before the carriage cantered past and came to a halt, outside the main doors. Five more soldiers were standing guard, their weapons at the ready. It was clear the Viceroy was expecting trouble.

Then we’d better go and see what it is, Gwen thought, as Bruce opened the door. The invasion might have finally begun.

Chapter Eighteen

“
Lady Irene,” Lady Summer said. “And Lady Raechel! It has been far too long.”

Raechel kept her face impassive as the door closed behind them, despite feeling as though she’d been basted with sauce and thrown to the lions. Lady Summer might be their host, but she’d invited a dozen other society madams from New York to the party. Any hope of a private chat with their host had faded before they’d even entered the building.

“
It is a great pleasure to see you in your natural habitat,” Irene said, playing the middle-aged woman for all it was worth. “We barely had the chance to chat at the ball.”

Raechel fought hard to keep her thoughts under control. Lady Summer had spent hours talking to Irene at the ball - and if she’d wanted to talk to Irene privately, she could have refrained from inviting so many witnesses. Besides, if this was Lady Summer’s natural environment, she was damned if she was marrying into her family. The woman was far too fond of expensive golden knick-knacks for her tastes. A dark-skinned maid poured the tea as Irene and Raechel sat down, then retreated through the door. Raechel wished, devoutly, that she could go with her.

And this is just the first party, she reminded herself, numbly. Her mother had taken her to a few, when she’d been younger, but she hadn't been expected to stay for very long. Even her aunt had known better than to force Raechel to attend for more than a couple of hours. We have a dozen more to attend over the next two weeks.

“
My husband is quite interested in opening negotiations,” Lady Summer continued, as she passed Irene a cup of tea. “He feels there is something to be gained by a formal alliance.”

“
It would need to be confirmed by Raechel’s guardians,” Irene said, casually. It was almost as if Raechel wasn't there at all. “But they would be interested to hear your offer.”

Raechel smiled, inwardly. Irene had made her research Lady Summer and what she’d turned up had not been inviting. The Summer family - or at least the American branch - was short on both money and common sense. Lady Summer’s husband had massive debts and nothing to pay them with, save for selling off the thousands of slaves who worked his land. Given the near-certainty of a slave revolt when the French came over the borders, Raechel couldn't help thinking that his investment was worth less than nothing.

“
Very good,” Lady Summer said. She looked at Raechel. “My daughter and a handful of her friends are downstairs, having their own party. Would you care to join them?”

Irene leaned forward. “Are they chaperoned?”

“
My daughter has strict orders not to allow any young man to join them,” Lady Summer said, blithely. She didn't sound the type to suspect her daughter of anything more than mild disobedience. “My son is with his regiment and my husband is currently attending on the Viceroy.”

Begging for money, Raechel thought, nastily.

“
Then she may go,” Irene said, grandly. “Raechel, you are not to leave this building without my permission.”

Raechel scowled as she rose. She knew Irene was playing a role, she knew the discussions concerning her marriage would come to nothing ... but it still hurt to be so casually reminded of her formal status. Irene was right, she thought, as Lady Summer rang for the maid and ordered her to escort Raechel to the playroom. It would be so much easier if she gave up her former life and just created and discarded identities at need.

She followed the maid down the corridor and into the playroom. The name would have made her smile, under other circumstances; the room looked more like a cosy sitting room than a place for children to play. No doubt Lady Summer still thought of her daughter as a child, even though she was two years older than Raechel or Gwen. Poor Alison Summer would have real problems getting married too, Raechel suspected. Her husband would be unwilling to take on his father-in-law’s debts.

“
Raechel,” Jane called. “I was hoping you’d make it! How are you?”

“
Fine, thank you,” Raechel said. There was something about Jane’s enthusiasm that made her smile. “Are you going to introduce me?”

“
Of course,” Jane said. She waved a hand at the four other girls in the room. “Alison Summer, our host; Rebecca Fielding, Georgina Blyton and Susan Falcon.”

“
Welcome,” Alison said. She gave Raechel a slightly-strained smile. “Are you going to marry my brother?”

“
I’ve never met your brother,” Raechel said. If Peter Summer had been at the ball, she’d missed him. “But I don’t think I’m going to marry your brother.”

“
How terrible,” Jane said. She gave Raechel another brilliant smile. “But you can still be friends.”

“
We can try,” Alison said. She rose. “Would you like some tea before we go out?”

Raechel blinked. “Go out? Go out where?”

“
There’s a meeting being held not too far away,” Jane said. A funny tingle ran through Raechel’s mind. “We thought you might like to attend.”

“
A meeting,” Raechel repeated. “And we can attend without being caught?”

“
They’ll be in discussions for hours,” Alison said, with the same blithe confidence her mother had shown. “Long enough for us to get there and get back.”

“
It’s really just across the road,” Rebecca said. “May will tell us if they’re breaking up earlier.”

Raechel felt the tingle for a second time and swore, inwardly. If Irene hadn’t worked her so hard, forcing her to develop her mental shields, she would have missed it completely. A Talker! There was a mind-reader in the room. She kept her shields in place, hoping the illusion of a naive young girl would be convincing. The probe didn't feel anything like as powerful as Irene’s probes, but that didn’t mean it wasn't dangerous. Irene had told her that a weak Charmer could actually be far more effective than a strong one.