Sons of Liberty (27 page)

“We should have gone by sea,” Jackson muttered, “but there are too many complications.”

“
French raiders,” Gwen muttered back. She could have fought to defend the convoy, but the French probably knew what had happened to their first raiding force. It had been talked about endlessly in New York. “Or is there another problem?”

“
Mines,” Jackson said. “A warship hit one last night and went down with all hands. The French have been busy.”

Gwen cursed under her breath as Wayne escorted the sorcerers to their carriage. The French had definitely been busy. They knew just how strong the Royal Navy was, so they were working hard to find ways to offset Britain’s advantages. Ironclad warships, submarines, mines ... each new innovation changed the face of warfare, constantly giving Britain’s admirals new problems to worry about. Even basic mines could do a great deal of damage if they scored a hit ... and if they didn't, they’d still give the admirals fits. The mere threat of a minefield would be enough to keep a mighty fleet out of action.

Jackson raised his voice. “You’ve all been assigned to Coach Two,” he said. “There are beds and supplies inside, suitable for your ranks.”

“
Thank you,” Gwen said. “Where will you be?”

“
Coach One,” Jackson said. “You are welcome to join me for dinner, if you like.”

Gwen smiled, then turned to look at the coaches. It looked, very much, as though the army had commandeered a set of luxury coaches for the use of the senior staff. Gwen had ridden in a couple, after she’d become the Royal Sorceress, and she had to admit they were quite fancy, even though the lower-class passengers were packed in like cattle. She hoped that the small army of servants had been left behind, no matter how much the officers wanted to enjoy themselves on the trip. It wouldn't impress any of the common soldiers if their superiors rode in luxury.

And it won’t impress the Duke of India either, she thought, as she followed Wayne into the coach. The sleeping berths were larger than she'd expected and the beds more comfortable, although each tiny compartment barely had enough room to swing a cat. He was fond of insisting that officers should march, eat and sleep with the men.

“
There isn't anything to do here,” Vernon protested, loudly. “Are we meant to sleep for five days?”

“
Be grateful if you can,” Wayne said, before Gwen could say a word. “When you go on campaign, sleep is a priceless luxury.”

Gwen agreed, wholeheartedly. She’d slept in worse places, particularly during the trip to Russia, but the coaches would grow claustrophobic over the coming days. Wayne had packed a number of books, at her suggestion, yet she had no idea how many of her half-trained sorcerers could actually read. It wasn't a fashionable skill in far too many places. Perhaps they could spend some of the time actually teaching the magicians how to read. She’d helped Olivia, after all.

She felt a stab of guilt as she recalled how they’d slowly fallen out of that habit, as the paperwork and other demands of her office had mounted up. And then Olivia had been kidnapped ...

“
Settle down here,” Wayne added. “We’ll see about what else we can do on the trip once we’re on the way.”

Gwen nodded, then hurried back to her tiny cabin. Someone had clearly put some thought into her requirements - she needed a private room - but she knew she’d go crazy if she had to spend an entire week in the compartment. Her bag was already on the bed, waiting for her, while the remainder of her supplies were being loaded towards the rear of the train. She had to smile at the thought of just what her mother would say, if she saw how little Gwen was actually taking to war. If she was going to stay at a friend’s, for the night, Lady Mary took at least two trunks, crammed with clothes.

There’s no room for dresses on a battlefield, Gwen thought. It was an amusing idea - she’d seen far too many newspaper drawings of her defeating the French, wearing a ballroom gown - but any halfway decent dress would be in rags before the battle was done. And the clothes I wear can be worn time and time again without needing a wash.

Her lips quirked at the thought of what her mother would say to that, then she looked up as she heard another carriage canter up to the open door. Bruce Rochester jumped out, landing with surprising agility for someone so indolent, and waved cheerfully to her. Gwen felt a flicker of irritation, which she rapidly suppressed. It was easy to understand why the Viceroy wanted his son out of the city, but did she have to take him? She was not a nanny.

And he wouldn't listen to me if I was, she added, coldly. David had been a right little terror to his governess, if Lady Mary was to be believed. Gwen had problems accepting it - her brother had always struck her as a bit of a stuffed shirt - but he had been a young man once upon a time. Bruce might rebel against me just because he can.

Shaking her head, she watched as Bruce stepped into the coach. His two servants - who wouldn't be joining him in his cabin, she rather suspected - were unloading several trunks, each one seemingly heavy. Gwen rolled her eyes in irritation - Bruce seemed intent on carrying as much clothing as Lady Mary - and intercepted him before he could walk into the main compartment. Wayne had started a game of cards to keep the other magicians occupied.

“
We need to talk,” she snapped. Behind him, his servants were carrying his trunks towards the rear of the train. “Now.”

Bruce blinked at her, owlishly. She wondered, in a fit of dark amusement, if he were hungover. She knew more than she wanted to know about the late night habits of young men, particularly if they were leaving the city and going to war the following morning. No doubt Bruce had spent the evening with a prostitute, if he hadn't been able to convince one of the aristocratic girls to sleep with him. Telling her that he was off to war would probably be enough, Gwen suspected. She knew sorcerers who’d gotten young women into trouble through that exact line.

She pulled him into the next compartment, cursing the requirements of decency under her breath. There was little true privacy on the train - and even if there had been, being alone with him would have been used against her at some later date. But she needed to talk with him privately or else it would just cause more problems.

“
I don’t know what your father thinks you can do here,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could. “We’re going to war. Do you do anything remotely warlike?”

“
I shoot,” Bruce said. He sounded mildly offended by her words. “I'm quite a good shot.”

“
Glad to hear it,” Gwen said. Some of the best British snipers were aristocrats who had been shooting birds since they were very young, although that hadn't saved them from gruesome fates when they were overrun and captured by enemy soldiers. “You’ll have your chance to take pot-shots at French soldiers soon.”

She drew in her breath, wondering if she dared try to Charm him. It would make life so much easier, but the Viceroy would explode with rage when - if - he found out. After what she’d already done, to Major Shaw, it would destroy her career ...

“
Understand this,” she said. “I am in charge of the sorcerers. You are just an observer, nothing more. If you try to interfere with my duties, I will tie you up and feed you bread and water until I can ship you back to your father. If I hear one word about you meddling in any way, I’ll throw you to the French personally. Stay out of the way!”

“
I can always stay here,” Bruce said. He didn't seem particularly concerned by her threats, she noted. He probably thought they were empty. “Father wouldn't mind, I am sure.”

“
I’m not,” Gwen said. She glared at him, willing the young fool to understand. “There’s a rogue magician on the loose, you idiot! He could kill you as easily as you could stamp on a spider.”

“
I can defend myself,” Bruce said. His hand dropped to his belt, revealing a fancy pistol half-hidden in the frills. “I’m armed ...”

“
And a Mover could deflect the bullets with ease.” Gwen said. She resisted the urge, barely, to shake him with her magic, just to show him what a Mover could do. “There will be no further warnings. If you cause me any problems, you’ll spend the rest of the trip in irons.”

She glared at him one final time, then turned and strode back to her cabin as a whistle blew loudly. The train lurched to life seconds later, dull shudders running through the coach as the engine started to haul the convoy out of the station. Gwen felt a thrill of excitement, mixed with fear. They were finally on their way south ...

And when we get there, she thought, we might find that we had arrived too late.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Raechel felt sick.

She stood naked in front of the mirror, recalling everything Irene had said over the last four days. If she was exposed as a spy, she would be unlikely to survive. Irene had gone into graphic detail of precisely what she could expect, from a quick death to slow torture and rape, perhaps even brainwashing. If the Sons of Liberty had a Charmer, as well as a Mover and a Talker, Raechel might find herself twisted into their servant. The agreements that protected prisoners of war, such as they were, didn't apply to spies.

Irene had already sent out the invitations, she knew. Society madams like Lady Sofia had probably already guessed what they meant, particularly as Irene - in Raechel’s name - had declined a number of invitations over the last two days. If it had been real, she knew, the countdown to the end of her unmarried life would have already begun. Instead, she felt sick with worry and fear. Irene could play a role effortlessly, on stage, but Raechel wasn't so sure she could be a rebel for weeks or months without slipping.

“
That’s because you are a noblewoman,” Irene had said, when she’d admitted her fears to her mentor. “You’re not really acting.”

She studied her body for a long moment. Irene’s little exercises had expanded her muscles, although she was nowhere near as muscular as the washerwoman who cleaned their clothes or the cook who produced their food. She’d shaved everywhere below the neck, choosing to run the risk of being branded a scarlet woman, and washed herself thoroughly. Bracing herself, she opened the wardrobe and pulled out her costume. The dress looked no different from any of the countless others she had worn, over the years, but it had been carefully tailored to allow her to move freely. She pulled on her underwear, remembering all the times she’d allowed a man to reach under her clothes and into her privates, then donned the dress and checked her appearance in the mirror. The blue dress looked a little odd, set against her hair, but Irene had assured her that unfamiliarity was good. If she got too comfortable, all hell was likely to break loose.

And concentrate on keeping the mental layers in place, she reminded herself. It was odd - she had to both believe her own lies and at the same time recognise that they were lies - but she thought she understood it. Getting caught up in one’s role was a very definite advantage when building a mental shield. Jane cannot be allowed to see below the illusions.

There was a knock at the door. Raechel allowed herself a little twirl, admiring how the material shimmered around her, then turned and opened the door. Irene was standing there, her face impassive. The long dress she wore was designed to suggest both wealth and power, she’d insisted, although it was surprisingly understudied. Raechel couldn’t help thinking that it was the kind of dress that would be worn by a middleman, but she had a feeling that was the point. Irene was a middleman as far as her marriage was concerned.

“
You look decent,” Irene said, finally. “This is pretty much your last chance to back out.”

“
I’m doing it,” Raechel said. Why did everyone seem intent on giving her chances to change her mind? She knew the dangers - her heart was thumping madly, no matter how hard she tried to calm herself - but she’d accepted them. “It isn't as if I’m going to be engaged to Bryon Campbell, is it?”

“We could always claim it was just a small tea party,” Irene said, wryly.

She met Raechel’s eyes for a long moment, testing her shields one final time. Raechel held them firmly in place, concentrating on projecting the impression she wanted - needed - to be seen. Irene nodded slowly, then turned and led the way down the stairs. The servants had spent the entire morning getting the parlour ready for the party, piling up enough cakes and teapots to give Lady Sofia a heart attack. Raechel felt oddly calm, as she sat down and rested her hands in her lap. The die was quite definitely cast.

“
I’ll follow you as soon as I can,” Irene said. “But remember everything I told you. Do not assume there will be any help when you need it.”

Raechel nodded.

There was a loud knock at the door. The maid opened it, her voice echoing down the corridor. Raechel heard Lady Sofia bossing the maid around, long before she stepped into the parlour and kissed Irene on both cheeks. She was followed by a young girl Raechel didn't recognise, a girl who had to be no older than ten. Raechel couldn't help thinking that she was surprisingly young to be introduced to the ton.

“
My sister’s child, sent up from Philadelphia,” Lady Sofia said, by way of introduction. “I’m showing the poor girl around New York while we wait for news.”

Raechel hid her amusement with an effort. The French were still hundreds of miles from Amherst, let alone Philadelphia. Sending the poor girl to New York was rather like tossing her into the fire, when she wasn't even in the frying pan! It hadn't escaped her notice, either, that Lady Sofia had neglected to introduce the girl. Clearly, her sister had married beneath her and Lady Sofia had never forgiven it.