The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) (29 page)

“Maybe,” Gwen said. “We need to talk about your duties – but I have something I need to ask you first. How did Howell even find out about your engagement?”

Lady Elizabeth frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, slowly. “No one knew.”

Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “
No one
knew?”

“Well, I knew,” Lady Elizabeth said, crossly. “My parents knew; Sir Travis knew... but I don’t think that there were many others. There were a couple of witnesses... they wouldn’t have told anyone, would they?”

“Not if they were sworn to secrecy,” Gwen said. A marriage had to be announced in public – the banns had to be formally read – before it could take place. The contract, on the other hand, could have been kept secret indefinitely. “So how did Howell know that you were engaged?”

She couldn’t fault the blackmailer’s timing. An engagement made a girl’s reputation all the more important – and she would do whatever it took to preserve it, even if it cost her much of her fortune. But Howell had demanded an impossibly high sum... surely he’d
known
that Lady Elizabeth couldn’t pay. Or had he intended to bargain?

“I don’t know,” Lady Elizabeth insisted. “Who could have told him?”

“That might solve part of the mystery if we actually knew,” Gwen muttered. David had known, Sir Charles had known... she would have to ask them both if they’d shared the information with anyone else. Perhaps someone
had
intended to court Lady Elizabeth and one of the witnesses had quietly told him that she was already engaged. “Did your servants know? Your maid?”

“I never tell Janet anything,” Lady Elizabeth said. Her face reddened, suddenly. “Do you realise that she spied on me for ten
years
? She was never
my
servant.”

Gwen felt a moment of sympathy. A servant, particularly a serving maid, was in a good position to know
everything
about her mistress, even the details that would normally remain strictly private. Gwen’s maids had been too terrified of her to stay long, but Lady Elizabeth wouldn’t have that advantage. Her maid would have reported her to Lady Bracknell if she’d done anything even remotely questionable.

“I wonder if your father told someone,” Gwen mused. She would have to ask – or, more practically, arrange for David to ask. “Does he have an assistant?”

She pushed the whole issue aside a moment later. “Let me show you your office,” she said, standing up. “And introduce you to the clerks.”

“Mother will have another fit,” Lady Elizabeth observed, glumly. “I’ll be
working
for my pay.”

“At least you’ll
get
pay,” Gwen reminded her. Girls rarely had any money of their own, or even control over their trust funds. “You’ll be free to spend it as you wish.”

She took Lady Elizabeth to the office Doctor Norwell had opened up for her and started to go through the correspondence the Royal Sorceress received. “Separate them out for me,” she explained. “Anything concerning future deployments for trained magicians can go to Mr. Norton – he’ll take care of it, as long as the magicians don’t leave the country. Hints of new magic should be forwarded to Doctor Norwell; he’s charged with organising their investigation.”

The memory made her scowl. Only one new kind of magic had been discovered in a decade – and it hadn’t been the Royal College that had discovered it. Gwen had a private suspicion that allowing more researchers to share in the knowledge the Royal College hoarded would lead to new kinds of magic, but it was unlikely that the Committee would agree to share. She couldn’t really blame them either. Anything shared widely enough would reach the enemies of the realm within a week.

“And hate mail can just be dumped in the fire,” she finished. She smiled at Lady Elizabeth’s expression. No one had ever sent her hate mail in her life, no doubt. She’d seemed practically perfect in every way. “I don’t bother to reply to that sort of junk.”

While Lady Elizabeth practised with the latest intake of letters, Gwen picked up a sheet of paper and dashed off a quick note to Sir Charles. Tomorrow, she would go with him to the Golden Turk... and she was looking forward to seeing him. And who cared if the rest of Polite Society disapproved?

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
t’s nice to see you again, Lady Gwen,” Sir Charles said, as she climbed into the carriage.

“You too,” Gwen said. She took the seat facing him and forced herself to relax. The carriage lurched into life a moment later. “We need to go to the Golden Turk, I am afraid.”

“It isn’t the sort of place I would bring a normal young lady,” Sir Charles said. “But you’re a very extraordinary young lady.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Gwen said, with a smile. To her surprise, he smiled back. “But I have to go there, if only to see what Sir Travis owed – and who backed him.”

“It wasn’t me,” Sir Charles said, quickly. The carriage rocked as the coachman turned a corner. “I don’t have the money to back up gambling debts.”

Gwen considered asking him about his family, before realising that it was likely to be a sore subject. She didn’t like talking about her family either. Besides, Sir Charles had created a reputation that was all his own, unlike many others of nobler birth. There was only so far one’s family name could take someone.

“Four thousand pounds, according to the demand note,” Gwen said. “And they want it paid at once.”

Sir Charles frowned. “Gambling debts have always been tricky things,” he said. “Sometimes they get passed down to the heir, sometimes they disappear when the debtor dies... but four thousand pounds couldn’t be written off so easily. The Golden Turk will be out of pocket, at the very least.”

“And at worst, there will be a chain reaction of debt,” Gwen said. Her father had made David study the South Seas Bubble of 1720, where the sudden collapse in share prices had ruined countless investors, many of whom had only had a vague link to the South Seas Company. If the gambling debt was written off, the Golden Turk might be unable to meet its own commitments and go out of business – and that might take out other businesses. “No wonder they’re demanding immediate repayment.”

She’d forwarded the demand note to Norton for his attention, but as far as she knew the executor had around a year to carry out his duties. However, the Mortimer Family weren’t being patient – and as Lady Mortimer had died less than a year ago, the legal web was more tangled than anything Gwen had seen. No doubt they would argue that Sir Travis’s will overrode his mother’s, leaving Polly’s jewels in the hands of Lady Mortimer’s niece.

“They might not be able to wait,” Sir Charles said. He gave her a sharp look. “Are you armed?”

Gwen had to giggle. “How many girls have you asked
that
question?”

“It’s a wise precaution in India,” Sir Charles said, not in the least abashed. “You never know what will happen, particularly if you live outside the cities.”

“I’ve got my magic,” Gwen reminded him. Master Thomas had believed in carrying concealed weapons – and ordered Irene to teach Gwen how to conceal some on her own person – but he’d also warned her never to discuss them with anyone. “Are
you
armed?”

“I brought my service revolver,” Sir Charles said. “The Golden Turk is meant to be safe – even if the young bloods do think that going there gives them a hint of roguish dealings – but you’re going to tell them that it might be a while before they see their money.”

“If they ever do,” Gwen said.

The Golden Turk was situated at the outskirts of London’s dockyards, not too far from the Rookery. Gwen couldn’t help noticing that there were a surprising number of Turkish immigrants in the area, including a handful who looked quite well off. Lord Mycroft had told her that the last change of power in the Ottoman Empire had sent hundreds of corrupt officials scurrying out of Turkey – not unlike Lord Blackburn going
into
Turkey, she had to acknowledge – and quite a few of them had ended up in Britain. The troubles with France had somehow made Turkish food fashionable, giving some of them a chance to make money and renovate the area. Given time, it might end up looking like Istanbul.

“Most of the Turks who came here were upper class,” Sir Charles said, softly. “They didn’t take coming here well, but it beats having their heads removed by the new Sultan.”

Gwen nodded.

The Golden Turk was a large building, unmarked save for a single crested image out of Turkish mythology. Gwen recognised it as a genie, an entity who would grant three wishes to anyone who gained possession of its lamp, but would often twist the wishes until the unlucky person would throw the lamp away. The discovery of magic had started a search for magical artefacts, even though no one had ever encountered a genie or any other supernatural creature in recorded history. Gwen suspected that the Royal College had quietly encouraged the search in order to trick Britain’s enemies into wasting time.

She led the way through the main door and found herself standing on a balcony, overlooking a gambling hall. Dozens of men were sitting at tables, throwing dice, spinning wheels or playing with cards, while women wearing wisps of clothing moved from table to table, whispering encouragement in male ears. Gwen had to force herself to look away from one dark-haired beauty whose clothes concealed absolutely nothing. She couldn’t
imagine
wearing such a revealing outfit anywhere, even in the privacy of her own home.

“Those tables are minor,” Sir Charles explained, as they made their way around the balcony towards the office. “It’s unlikely that anyone will win or lose more than fifty or so pounds.”

Gwen gave him a puzzled look. Fifty pounds could keep someone alive for weeks on the streets – if they were allowed to keep it.

“Gambling is addictive,” Sir Charles added. “The richer men down there will be urged to join the senior games, the ones that are by invitation only. Once there, they will begin gambling for
real
money.” He pointed to golden coins on the tables. “Those are made of wood – most gamblers hand in their money to the cashier and exchange it for gambling chips, which are useless outside the building. Then they take their winnings and exchange them for cash.”

“Real money,” Gwen repeated. “Don’t they know that fifty pounds is
real
money?”

“Of course not,” Sir Charles said. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. “Most of the people with regular tabs here don’t actually sully their hands
earning
money.”

He leaned over until he was whispering in her ear. “And in many of the games, the odds are slanted in favour of the house,” he added. “Smart gamblers know better than to play
those
games – and yet I don’t see any empty tables. Do you?”

Gwen shook her head. She’d never learned how to gamble and couldn’t follow what the players were doing, but it didn’t look as if many of them were winning. If they wanted to just give away their money, there was no shortage of charities – and the hospitals were always looking for donations from wealthy aristocrats. Or maybe she was simply unable to follow what was going on. The ones who looked like losers might be winners.

They reached the booth at the far end, manned by a dark-skinned girl who gave them both a warm smile. “Good morning, Gentlemen,” she said, in oddly-accented English. “What would you like to play today?”

“I am here to see the manager,” Gwen said, passing the girl her card.

The girl jumped, clearly not having realised that Gwen was female.

“I shall have you shown to his office,” the girl said, quickly. She glanced at the card, turned and called out several words in a foreign language to someone out of sight, and then looked back at Gwen. “A guide will be here in a moment.”

“She called you a witch,” Sir Charles whispered in Gwen’s ear. “I don’t think she likes you.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Gwen reminded him.

A side door opened, revealing a young girl of indeterminate age wearing a thin sari that covered her body, but concealed almost nothing. Gwen shook her head in disbelief as the girl pressed her hands together, gave her a half-bow and then beckoned for them to come through the door and into a darkened staircase. Like Cavendish Hall and most aristocratic residencies, the Golden Turk was honey-combed with corridors and stairwells intended for the staff, keeping them out of sight. The girl led them up two flights of stairs and into an office that overlooked a set of smaller rooms. Gwen looked down and realised that each one had a table and a handful of men sitting around it, gambling.

“The more formal games,” Sir Charles said, quietly. “Down there, entire fortunes are moving from hand to hand – and the house always takes its cut. Or other things are being gambled – I knew a man who tried to gamble away his wife.”

Gwen stared at him. “That
can’t
be legal,” she protested. “You can’t sell a wife.”

“It wasn’t,” Sir Charles said. “But he still tried. The laws, such as they are, don’t always apply here.”

“Royal Sorceress,” an accented voice said. “I confess that I have no idea of how to address a Royal Sorceress. How does one address you without causing offence?”

Gwen looked up. A light-skinned man was standing there, wearing long white robes decorated with golden strands and a simple white skullcap. His beard was neatly trimmed; Gwen couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to have spent more time on personal grooming than any other man she knew. He wore a curved blade at his belt, ready to be drawn and used in a fight, although she had no idea how well he could use it. His robes didn’t hide the fact that he was considerably overweight.

“Lady Gwen is sufficient,” she said. She wasn’t going to let herself be called
Mistress
Gwen, even though it was the feminine version of Master Thomas’s title. “I am currently serving as the executor of Sir Travis Mortimer’s will.”

“Ah,” the Turk said. “I am Abdullah Bey Defterdar, owner and manager of this fine establishment. Welcome to the Golden Turk, a little piece of our home for us poor exiles.”

His face shifted into a sombre mask. “It is customary among our people to chatter about nothing first,” he said, as he led them into his office. “But you English are a hasty folk – and I am minded to be hasty too. Please, be seated.”