Sons of Liberty (47 page)

“
We’ll have time together later,” she promised, keeping her voice low. She had planned to take Bruce to Sorcerer’s Hall, if only to show him the training rooms. “But now, we have to be careful.”

“
I know,” Bruce said. He drew back from her, his eyes conveying disappointment mingled with determination. “I’ll see you soon.”

“
We’ll go down the stairs together,” Gwen promised. She saw Irene walking towards them and sighed, inwardly. “That should start a few tongues wagging before the end of the dancing.”

Irene cleared her throat. “Before you go, did you hear anything from Raechel?”

“
I sent a message, asking ... asking one of the officers to send her back to New York,” Bruce said. “As yet, there hasn't been a reply. But she isn't in any real danger.”

***

Raechel ground her teeth in frustration as she looked up and down the street. She’d had the impression that she could just jump into a passing cab, but there wasn’t a cab to be seen in either direction. She wasn't even sure where she was, relative to the Viceregal Palace. She’d looked at a map, back when she’d first arrived in New York, yet she hadn't memorised more than a bare outline. In truth, she wasn't entirely sure they were in Manhattan. Adam had been careful to keep her inside as the barge made its slow way down the river. He could easily have had them stop on the other side of the Hudson ...

She forced herself to think through it, recalling what little she did know. The main dockyards were to the lower end of Manhattan, to the east; logically, the Viceregal Palace was to the west, further into the city. But she wasn't sure which way was east or west ... and then she looked at the sun, sinking slowly towards the horizon. It sank in the west, if she recalled correctly, which meant the opposite direction was the east. Silently grateful she wasn't wearing a skirt, she started to run.

The streets weren't quite empty, she realised, as she ran as fast as she could. There was no traffic on the streets, but there were quite a few men on the streets. Some of them glanced at her running past, their faces either bemused or lustful. She did her best to ignore them as the sun vanished behind the tenements, hoping she could make it to the palace before it was too late. Manhattan wasn't that large, was it? Irene and she hadn't taken that long to explore parts of the island. But the further she ran, the harder it became to keep going and eventually she sagged to a stop, breathing heavily. Irene had made her exercise, but she hadn't kept up with it once they’d left London.

I should have kept running, she told herself, cursing her own foolishness. She could have taken a bottle of water or other supplies from the apartment, but she hadn't thought of it before she’d started to scream. Irene would be so disappointed in me.

The thought nagged at her mind as she forced herself to start moving again, as quickly as she could. She was a failure as a spy. Adam had known what she was from the moment she’d entered the camp, perhaps earlier. No, she hadn't fooled Jane at all. Irene had been so proud of her logic, so convinced that the Sons would have to take her ... and yet she’d been played for a fool. They’d both been played for a fool. Adam could have tied her up, or killed her as easily as he’d killed Jane, but he’d seen no harm in merely using his Charm to keep her under control. He just hadn't taken her seriously.

And he’s probably already there, she thought, numbly. Adam had been gone for at least half an hour before she’d managed to escape - and he’d probably hired a horse-drawn carriage to get to the palace. It might already be too late.

Raechel gritted her teeth and ran harder, despite the growing stitch in her side. She had to get to the palace before it was too late. Adam could not be allowed to assassinate the Viceroy, no matter what else happened. He wouldn't have a chance to program her, to turn her into an unwilling agent, yet the mere act alone might be enough to trigger the civil war. No matter what she said, to Gwen or anyone else, the war would destroy British America. And then the French would walk in and take over.

She heard a whistle and slowed to a walk as she saw a cabbie, stopping outside a tenement block. It was his home, she realised; there was a stable round the back for the horse and carriage. His shift had probably come to an end, but she needed him. A horse could get her there before Adam made his move. She stumbled over to the Cabbie as he fed the horse tiny pieces of sugar, stroking the beast’s mane.

“
I need help,” Raechel gasped. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak normally. “I need you to drive me to the palace.”

The cabbie looked her up and down, then leered. It struck her, suddenly, just what a sight she had to be, wearing tight clothes and sweating like a pig. She fought the urge to step backwards, hoping he would help her. There didn't seem to be many other options ...”

“
Money?” He grunted, finally. “Do you have money?”

Raechel cursed. She had nothing ... in hindsight, she should have taken money as well as food and drink. But then, she hadn't seen any money ...

“
You’ll be paid when we get there,” she said, knowing it wouldn't be enough to convince him. She didn't look like a respectable person. There was no way he’d believe she had any influence, let alone money. “The guards will have money.”

The cabbie snorted. “That’ll be the day,” he said. He let go of the horse and unzipped his pants, allowing his manhood to escape. “You want a ride? Suck this first.”

Raechel stared, feeling horror and a wave of burning rage, directed at him and her younger self. She’d thought she was being a brave rebel when she’d gone to the club, when she’d played with men .... she looked back on her younger self and wondered just why she’d been so foolish. There were far braver acts than crossing lines where her aunt couldn't see her ...

“
Suck this and I’ll take you wherever you like,” the cabbie offered. He stroked his manhood, taunting her. She couldn't take her eyes off it as a plan formed in her mind. “I’ll even take you to heaven and ...”

Raechel kicked him square in the groin. He doubled over, bellowing in pain, as she caught hold of the reins and pulled herself up into the saddle. She heard someone shouting behind her, but ignored it as she dug in her feet, forcing the horse forward. The shouting grew louder - it sounded female, making her wonder if she’d just got the cabbie into trouble with his wife - as she searched for the emergency release. She pulled it as soon as she found it, releasing the cab and sending it crashing behind her. The horse lunged forward, trying to throw her, but she kept it under control. She’d had nastier horses when she’d been a child.

And now all I have to do is keep heading east, she thought, as the shouting died away behind her. She felt a flicker of guilt, then reminded herself that the cabbie had tried to molest her instead of helping. If I keep moving, I should reach the park - and the palace.

It wasn't much of a plan, she admitted privately, but it was all she had.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“
You look stunning,” Bruce whispered, as they met at the top of the stairs. “I can't believe no one was ever interested in you.”

“
They were frightened,” Gwen admitted. Bruce wasn't scared, but then he had similar magic to hers. “They saw me as dangerous.”

“
Idiots,” Bruce muttered. He held out a hand and she took it, delicately. “Shall we go?”

The announcer cleared his throat. “The Honourable Bruce Rochester and Lady Gwendolyn Crichton, Royal Sorceress,” he said.

Gwen descended the staircase slowly, reminding herself not to orientate herself on Bruce. It was far from uncommon for a young man to escort a young woman to a dance - the entire room would be their chaperone - but she didn't have a history of being invited to balls by anyone. There was no way to keep tongues from wagging, even though there were no clues to suggest that Bruce and her were doing anything more than scratching the surface of a relationship. She kept her face under tight control as the crowds - thinner than she recalled - turned to stare at them. The slightest misstep would keep the gossips gossiping for years to come.

The band struck up a merry tune as the next couple appeared at the top of the stairs. Bruce pulled her onto the dance floor, then led her around the room as the music grew louder. He was a better dancer than she’d thought, she realised; in hindsight, the first time they’d danced together he’d clearly been worried about concealing his abilities. She relaxed, slightly, as more and more couples appeared on the dance floor. There would be time to worry about politics later.

“
We could dance in the air,” Bruce suggested, so quietly no one else had a hope of hearing him over the music. “Or on the ceiling.”

Gwen had to suppress the urge to do exactly as he suggested. It wouldn't cause any harm - she’d taken care to wear trousers under her gown - but it would cause comment, a great deal of comment. And while she would normally not have cared, she knew her mother - and Bruce’s father - would care a great deal.

“
It would be a bit too revealing,” she whispered back. “I thought you were going to keep your powers a secret.”

“
Just for now,” Bruce said. “It all depends on how matters shake themselves out.”

Gwen nodded as they continued to dance, the room slowly filling up with the great and the good. She spotted Lord Tarleton and his son - the former heading for the Viceroy while the latter led a girl onto the dance floor - and wondered just what they’d said to one another, now the younger man’s double life had been revealed. Viceroy Rochester had taken the news calmly, better than Gwen had dared hope, but she knew other families would not be so forgiving. She kept a wary eye out for Jane - the Talker was a potential headache - yet there was no sign of the young girl. Perhaps her family were keeping her at home until they knew how matters had settled down.

Poor girl, Gwen thought, feeling a stab of sympathy. A Talker would be a great boon to her family, but Jane had kept her abilities a secret. Her parents would not be pleased, if only because they’d be wondering just how many times she’d read their minds. I’ll have to look her up, after the dance, and see what I can do for her.

The dances grew more complex as the evening wore on, but Bruce showed no sign of slowing down. Gwen had never had the time to master the more complicated dances, so she allowed Bruce to lead her through the motions as she kept an eye on the newcomers. There was an uneasy muttering in the air, something that worried her. The creation of an American Parliament would please the Sons - and everyone who had chafed under the Viceroy’s rule - but it would also put a great many noses out of joint. People who had been winners under the old system would become losers under the new, if they failed to adapt in time.

“
Lady Gwen,” a gruff voice said, as the dance came to an end. “Can we have a word?”

Gwen blinked in surprise as she saw Lord Jackson, looking rather angry. It was clear he’d drunk quite a bit before coming to the ballroom. She had no trouble recognising the signs of drunkenness, or that Lord Jackson would be an angry drunk. Gritting her teeth, she nodded to Bruce and allowed Lord Jackson to lead her over to the wall. Bruce followed, keeping a steady distance. It was what a normal escort would have done.

I should have asked for a dance card, Gwen thought, although they didn't seem to be in fashion in America. He could have marked me off for every dance.

“
This is quite intolerable,” Lord Jackson said. He waved to a passing server without taking his eyes off Gwen. “The Viceroy proposes to end slavery!”

Gwen lifted her eyebrows. The Sons would want to end slavery, if Bruce was any guide, but she hadn’t heard the Viceroy making any public statement for or against the slave trade. It was quite possible he’d been testing the waters, trying to see just how far he could go, yet she had no way to know for sure.

“
I spent thousands of pounds on my slaves,” Lord Jackson continued, without waiting for her to say a word. “The government cannot just take them from me!”

“
The French already have,” Bruce commented. “I rather doubt the government can legislate to force the French to return them.”

Lord Jackson took a glass of wine from the server as he glared at Bruce. “Your father cannot steal my property!”

Bruce’s expression hardened. Gwen spoke before Bruce could say something he probably wouldn't regret, later.

“
The French have freed countless slaves in the south,” she said, quietly. “And thousands more have escaped, running south to meet the French. They have tasted freedom! If they were somehow returned to you, would you want them back?”

She scowled, recalling how she’d been treated when she’d been posing as a maid. If she’d lived that life for years, then escaped ... there was no way she’d want to go back. A maid had few rights - she could have been beaten to within an inch of her life for spilling soup or speaking out of turn - and a slave had none. Even if the slaves were returned, there was no way they could be trusted. Leaving them with the French seemed the kindest option.

“
They’re my property,” Lord Jackson insisted. “They’re mine!”

“
And now they are free,” Bruce taunted. Gwen shot him a warning look. “Turn your back on them for a second and you might find a knife in it.”

Gwen sighed. “The Viceroy is merely recognising a reality,” she said. It was unpleasant, but she had no doubt that Lord Jackson could buy new slaves, if he had the funds. How much of his money had been tied up in the escaped slaves? “And that reality is that the slaves have made their escape. Let the French have them.”