It was hard to see anything clearly. The battlefield was swathed in smoke. Flames were rising from the nearby woodland, suggesting that someone was trying to burn out the defenders. Explosions flickered and flared where shells landed. A burning airship drifted into view, her crew fighting desperately to keep her in the air even though it was futile; she hit the ground and exploded into a massive fireball. Gwen couldn't help feeling a flicker of contempt. Both sides had plenty of reason to know, by now, that airships just couldn't survive anywhere near Blazers ...
And the hussars were mounting a charge against the French lines.
She felt her heart drop into her boots as the charge picked up speed. The French were battered, yes, but they weren't broken. As she watched, they formed a square and greeted the hussars with canisters of grapeshot. Gwen tried to think of something - anything - she could do, but there was nothing. The hussars were brave men. They didn't break, they didn't run, but it hardly mattered. The last of them fell from his horse and died well before reaching the French lines.
I gave them no orders, Gwen thought, as she dropped down towards her command tent. Who sent them out to die?
“Lady Gwen,” Major Shaw said. He sounded impossibly cheerful. Beside him, a pair of staff officers, wearing fancy uniforms, were smoking. “I ...”
Gwen cut him off. “The hussars are dead,” she snapped. The urge to tear him apart rose up within her. Two hundred men, most of them aristocrats, were dead. “What have you done?”
“I saw an opportunity and I took it,” Major Shaw said. He didn't sound apologetic. “I did what I thought needed to be done.”
“Tell me,” Gwen ordered, lacing her voice with Charm. “What were you thinking?”
“I did what you would have done, if you were not hampered by your sex,” Major Shaw said, sounding rather perplexed. He didn't seem bright enough, Gwen noted, to realise he was being Charmed. His cronies made no attempt to hide their amusement. “One must take decisive action on the battlefield ...”
Gwen felt her temper snap. The hussars had been thrown into battle and slaughtered, for nothing. There was nothing wrong with taking decisive action, but the moment had been wrong. And he had felt he could disobey her because she was a woman ...?
She reached out with her magic, with the talent she’d discovered in Russia, and caught hold of his mind. “Stay here,” she snarled. He let out an odd little gasp, as if she’d pricked him with a pin. “Sit down. Issue no further orders. Keep your mouth shut!”
Major Shaw sat down, his entire body shaking with ... something. Gwen barely noticed, just as she barely noticed the two cronies who were backing away from her. She had to fight to keep from ripping his mind to shreds. It would be so easy ...
Instead, she turned her back and walked back to the war.
Chapter Two
London felt ... eerie.
Raechel Slater-Standish walked slowly down Pall Mall, feeling alone in the middle of a teeming city. The streets, normally full to bursting with cabs, carts and thousands upon thousands of hawkers, traders and pedestrians, were deserted. She couldn't help feeling as if the entire population had just vanished, stolen away in the middle of the night, even though she knew it was absurd. The Lord Mayor had warned the population to stay indoors and keep out of the way, particularly if the French laid siege to the city. She sensed, more than saw, hidden eyes peeking at her as she picked up speed. They had to be wondering who she was and why she was out on the streets. No young woman should be out and about with the French breathing down their necks.
I have a pass, she thought, feeling the sheaf of papers in her bag. And somewhere to go.
She shivered, despite herself. Her aunt had never really grasped just how many times Raechel had slipped out of the house, despite ordering the maids to keep a sharp eye on the young mistress. And yet, Raechel knew she’d never really gone into Greater London, beyond the bright lights and safety of the richest part of the city. There were footpads out there, men who would steal from a young woman - or do worse, if they thought the young woman had no one who would avenge her. But she’d seen worse in Russia, she reminded herself. The undead had almost killed her ...
A horse cantered up beside her, the mounted policeman looking down at her with cold suspicious eyes. Raechel felt a flicker of surprise, then told herself not to be stupid. She looked respectable - the dress she wore marked her out as middle-class, rather than the finery she normally wore - but she shouldn't be on the streets at all. The policeman had no reason to believe she wasn't anything more than a merchant’s daughter.
“Your papers, Miss,” he said.
Raechel produced one of the pieces of paper she’d been given, after her brief interview with a government official, and held it out to the policeman. His eyes went very wide - the permit authorised her to go anywhere, save for the red zones surrounding the city - and he passed it back hastily, as if he feared it would burn him. Raechel gave him a cheeky smile, then folded the paper up and put it back in her bag. He doffed his hat to her and cantered off.
It could have been worse, she thought, as she watched the policeman ride off into the distance. He could have tried to insist on escorting me to my destination.
She shook her head as she turned the corner and headed down, past a long line of houses she knew to be both expensive and exclusive, even though they were relatively small. Her uncle had often bemoaned the simple fact that even he couldn't afford more than one, despite his great wealth and political standing. Raechel had pointed out, rather dryly, that there weren’t enough of them to go around, driving the price upwards sharply. Her uncle hadn't been impressed. He’d merely ordered her to go back to learning ladylike arts while waiting for a suitable husband.
Her lips quirked at the thought. Her uncle’s idea of what made a suitable husband and hers were unlikely to agree, even slightly. And if he’d known just how far she’d gone, in some of the hidden places for younger members of the aristocracy, he’d have disowned her on the spot ... unless, of course, keeping the money from her father’s legacy was more important to him. It probably was. Ambassador Standish needed money and connections to promote himself in the corridors of power.
She stopped outside a simple black door and hesitated, feeling - again - unseen eyes peering at her. Lady Gwen had told her that she’d put Raechel’s name forward for training, but warned her that it was going to be hard, very hard. Being a secret government agent was always hard, particularly if one happened to have spent the first eighteen years of her life as a spoilt brat. Raechel hadn't liked the implication, but she had to admit that Lady Gwen had a point. Sneaking out for furtive kisses - and more - wasn't anything like as dangerous as fighting the undead in Russia.
And you wanted to make something of yourself, she told herself. It would be easy to wait until her father’s legacy passed to her, then spend the rest of her life partying, but she wanted something more. This is the way forward.
Taking a breath, she stepped forward and tapped on the door.
There was a long pause, then the door swung open of its own accord. The corridor beyond, illuminated by gaslights hanging from the walls, was empty. A chill ran down her spine as she recalled all the stories of haunted houses, where vengeful ghosts lay in wait for their prey ... and then she shook her head, firmly. A magician could easily have opened the door for her, even from a distance. Moments later, she felt a gentle force tugging at her, inviting her inside. She could have turned and run, but instead she walked forward, into the house. The door closed behind her as soon as she was inside. Ahead of her, another door gaped open invitingly. Raechel scowled - did they really need all the theatrics - and then walked onwards, through the door. The room was empty, save for a young woman standing against the far wall. Raechel felt an odd tingle at the back of her mind as the young woman looked up at her.
They studied each other in silence for a long moment. The woman was older than Raechel, she thought, probably at least twenty-five.
Her face was very pale, a natural paleness Raechel knew she’d never be able to emulate, no matter how much cream and dust she piled on her face. It was framed by short dark hair that gave her an impish look, although the way she held herself suggested she was used to much longer hair. And while she wore a simple white dress, Raechel had no doubt the woman was from the aristocracy. No commoner could hope to maintain that sort of poise.
“You are wrong, I’m afraid,” the woman said. She spoke in the genteel tones of the aristocracy, just like Lady Standish, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice that Raechel’s aunt would never have allowed herself. “I was not born to the aristocracy.”
Raechel stared at her in shock. How the hell had she ...?
Understanding clicked. “Get out of my mind!”
The woman - the Talker - smiled. “Learn how to stop me,” she challenged. “Anyone can, with enough effort.”
Raechel glared at her, then tried to recall Gwen’s lessons. She wasn't given to contemplation, not like her aunt. It was hard to organise her thoughts, then shield them against questing probes from a Talker. Every time she thought she had it, she felt that accused tingle at the back of her mind ...
“We will need to work on that,” the Talker said. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I have a better idea,” Raechel said, sullenly. The damned woman could at least have told Raechel her name. “Why don’t you tell me about myself?”
“As you wish,” the Talker said. “My name is Irene, by the way.”
She paused, closing her eyes thoughtfully. “Your name is Raechel Slater, or so you think of yourself. Officially, as the ward of Lord Standish, you are Raechel Slater-Standish. You are eighteen pushing eighty” - her lips curved into a thin smile - “and have been rebelling against your aunt for the last two years, mainly by going to dubious parties and having sexual relationships with junior scions of the aristocracy. The danger of finding yourself pregnant never really occurred to you, as your paramours promised to pull out before it was too late and they lost control. Which, incidentally, is not a reliable method of birth control.”
Raechel blushed, furiously. Memories rose unbidden to the forefront of her mind. Young men, handsome enough to make her heart flutter, rakish enough that she knew her aunt would never approve of them ... some good at giving her pleasure, some only interested in themselves. And Irene, if that was her real name, had seen everything in her mind ...
She cringed in embarrassment, but Irene went on.
“You went to Russia because your guardians feared to leave you in London alone,” she continued. “There you met the Royal Sorceress, who was posing as your maid at the time; Lady Gwen set you straight and convinced you that you could be something more than just another brainless beauty. You requested a post at the Royal College. Lady Gwen promised to ensure an introduction, instead, to the covert branch of British Intelligence. After a brief interview, you were given an address and told to come here. To me.”
Raechel nodded, shortly.
“You are impulsive,” Irene concluded. “There is no doubt that you are smart, but you are often driven forward by your emotions rather than common sense. You are very lucky indeed not to wind up pregnant, which would have been hard to explain to your guardians, not least because you wouldn't be sure just who fathered the brat. Lady Gwen was capable of playing your maid long enough to get to Russia and carry out her mission. Can you do the same?”
“Yes,” Raechel said.
Irene gave her a long look. “Very well,” she said, finally. “You will be trained. I will train you. If at any moment you want to leave you may do so, but there will be no second chance to shine. You can stay in London with your money and look for a suitable husband.”
“I’d rather die,” Raechel said, surprising herself.
“That may be an option,” Irene warned. “Covert work is never played by the rules. An agent who gets into deep trouble may wind up dead, or worse. And very few people will know how you died and why.”
“I understand,” Raechel said.
Irene nodded. “You will do everything, and I mean everything, I tell you to do,” she added, sternly. “Again, if you want to leave you may leave ...”
“But there will be no second chance,” Raechel said, irritated. She was no maid who needed the same orders repeated time and time again before she understood, no rake who needed to be told no twice before he backed off. “I understand.”
“Good,” Irene said. She reached around the back of her neck and undid her dress. It fell to the ground, pooling around her feet. “Undress.”
“What?”
“Undress,” Irene repeated. There was no give in her voice. “Undress or leave.”
Raechel hesitated. She had never been naked in front of anyone, save for her maids, since she was a very young girl. Even her liaisons at the club had involved nothing more than hauling up her dress to allow her paramours entry. To be naked in front of someone on the same social level as herself was wrong, against everything she’d been taught. Even her husband shouldn't be allowed to look at her naked body. And yet ...
Gritting her teeth, she unbuttoned the dress and allowed it to fall to the ground. The undershirt followed, allowing her breasts to bobble free. They were larger than Irene’s, she noted with a flicker of vindictive glee. The older women who talked about thinness clearly hadn't realised just how much men enjoyed large breasts, although that was wanton behaviour and not ladylike. She hesitated before removing her drawers, but Irene was relentless. Slowly, she pushed the underclothes down to her feet and stepped out of them, leaving her clothes on the floor. She found it hard to repress a giggle. She was naked!
Irene studied her carefully, her eyes examining every trace of Raechel’s body. Raechel looked back, noting with some amusement that Irene shaved everywhere. It was a sign of wanton behaviour, she recalled being told by one of the maids. Only lower-class women shaved everywhere. And yet, she’d considered doing it for herself in pursuit of pleasure. If she hadn't been sure the maids would have told her aunt ...
“Men like it that way,” Irene said, shortly.
Raechel coloured, again. “Stop reading my mind.”
“Learn how to keep me out,” Irene repeated. “You think I’m the only mind-reader you’re likely to encounter?”
“No,” Raechel said. Gwen had been worried about a French Talker, hadn't she? “But it’s hard ...”
“Try being an opera singer sometime,” Irene said. “You’ll find it much harder than you think.”
“I can't sing to save my life,” Raechel said. Was Irene an opera singer? It would make excellent cover for her activities, wouldn't it? “Do I have to learn?”
“If you have the talent, you might as well make use of it,” Irene pointed out. She reached out and poked at Raechel’s arms, then gently turned her around. “Do you know how to fire a gun? Fight to defend yourself?”
Raechel snorted. “I fought in Russia,” she said, “but no one ever taught me how to fight.”
“I will,” Irene said. “Come with me.”
She turned and walked out of the door. Raechel followed, feeling cool air drifting against her naked skin. Downwards, deeper into the house, a man was standing, watching both women with cold eyes. Raechel yelped and covered herself hastily, stumbling backwards in shock and horror. No man had entered her bedchamber, not even her father or the butler. The thought of them seeing her naked ...
“Come on,” Irene said. She seemed unbothered by the man’s presence. “And keep your hands by your side.”
Raechel glared at her, seriously considering simply recovering her dress and running for her life. To expose herself so blatantly to a man’s gaze ... it just wasn't done. And yet, Irene seemed completely unconcerned. Had she exposed herself - or worse - in the course of her duties? She might well have done ...
Stubbornly, Raechel forced her legs to move and follow Irene down the corridor, even though the man was s
taring at her. Irene gave her a mischievous smile as they reached another door, then led the way inside. Raechel sagged in relief as soon as the door was closed behind her. She was shaking, either in embarrassment or rage. Angrily, she banished the feeling and looked around. The room was crammed with wardrobes, just like the ones she used at home.
“You’ll go through worse,” Irene said, bluntly. “Trust me on this. The sooner you abandon society’s conventions, the better.”
“Oh,” Raechel said. She found it hard not to snap at the older woman. “And have you done that yourself?”
“The rules are different, depending on where you go and what role you play,” Irene said, wryly. Her lips crinkled with amusement. “A French noblewoman, for example, has far more freedom than a British noblewoman. She will often have affairs with other noblemen, although she will be careful not to fall pregnant. Her husband, of course, will feel the same way. But a British noblewoman who is caught having an affair will be disgraced and banished to the country, if she’s lucky. You have heard of the marriage of Lady Seymour Dorothy Fleming and Sir Richard Worsley?”
Sons of Liberty Page 2
