“Yes,” she said, shortly. There was little point in trying to conceal anything from the older woman. “Fought a battle, won a battle, fell in love ...”
“Lost your virginity,” Irene said. Gwen felt her eyes widen in surprise. “It’s a good thing Jane isn't here, Gwen. Your emotions are all too recognisable.”
Gwen swallowed a curse. She trusted Irene not to tell anyone, but Jane ...? Maybe Bruce could talk her into keeping her mouth shut. She was a Son, after all.
“Keep your shields in place, but don’t lean towards Bruce when you’re dancing,” Irene added, warningly. “Your body language will betray you even if your thoughts don’t.”
She met Gwen’s eyes. “Are you sure of him?”
“I think so,” Gwen said. There were a number of questions she wanted to ask the more experienced woman, but she wasn’t sure she dared. “We click.”
“Marriage isn't just about romantic feelings,” Irene reminded her. “And if you are pregnant, someone’s going to count backwards on their fingers and realise the truth.”
Gwen looked at her. “Can it be undone?”
“Of course not,” Irene said. “But you have to be prepared for problems.”
Gwen shrugged, then started to brush her hair. It was still shorter than normal, for an unmarried girl, but people would make allowances. She was the Royal Sorceress, after all, and long hair got in her way when she flew. The repetitive motion calmed her, despite the churning feeling in her stomach. Tonight, the Viceroy was going to announce the American Parliament ... and her engagement to Bruce.
“My parents gave their approval,” she said. It had been nearly a day before her parents had replied to her message, long enough to make her think that Lord Mycroft had stuck his oar in somewhere. Her mother had noted that she wanted a formal ceremony in London, even if Gwen was legally married in New York, yet she’d raised no other objections. “And I don’t care about anyone else.”
She nodded to the papers on the table. “How does that sound for a draft?”
Irene picked up the papers and read them with practiced skill. “You’re clearly not a legal expert,” she said, dryly. “This is far too easy to understand.”
Gwen snorted. “A terrible oversight.”
She shook her head. David was the one with legal training, not her. She’d seen enough documents to take a guess at the form, but in the end she’d kept the marriage contract as blunt and basic as possible. Bruce would have most of the rights of a traditionalist husband, she’d determined, yet he would have no claim to her money and no right to object to her relationship with Olivia. Not that he’d raised any objections, when she’d mentioned her adopted daughter to him, but it was an issue that needed to be covered. And he wouldn't have any right to object to her work.
“You do realise that the final two clauses may well be illegal?” Irene asked. “I’d check those with a lawyer beforehand.”
Gwen sighed. A man had the right to keep his wife in the home, if he wished, and treat her as nothing more than his property, but she was damned if she was accepting such treatment for herself. She was the Royal Sorceress, not some brainless piece of fluff who couldn't even get dressed without help. And she had a career, one she wasn't going to throw away because she was married. Bruce would just have to learn to live with it.
And he might want to join the corps himself, she thought, although she knew that was going to cause problems. They’ll be looking to him to overrule me.
“It’s astonishing what you can get away with if you try,” she said. “If he signs the contract, doesn’t it make the contract binding?”
“Depends,” Irene said. She shrugged. “I don’t think you can force someone to honour a contracted obligation to do something illegal. You’d probably end up wasting a great deal of money on lawyers, if the case went to court. If you could take it to court in the first place.”
Gwen sighed. An emancipated woman could take a man to court, but a married woman was not emancipated by definition. A woman couldn't sue her husband, any more than the cow could sue the farmer. Reserving all the rights - and duties - of an emancipated woman to herself in the contract might be technically illegal, even though it was what she’d told him she wanted. But then, it wasn't as if she couldn't escape, if marrying Bruce proved to be the worst mistake of her life. She had more than enough power to vanish overseas ...
And some money hidden away in the funds, she thought. Master Thomas had been a paranoid man and, as far as she knew, she was the only person who knew that money existed, let alone withdraw it. I wouldn't be penniless if I had to run.
“Make sure you get a lawyer to look at it,” Irene said. “I dare say you could get an exemption, if you tried. Lord Mycroft would probably be happy to oblige.”
“I will,” Gwen said. At least she didn't need her father’s approval for the marriage contract, although she knew she should probably run it past him before it was signed. “But I’ll see what the lawyer has to say first.”
There was a tap at the door. “Bruce,” Irene muttered. “You want me to stay here?”
“I think you have to,” Gwen said, crossly. The real answer was no, but she knew there was no choice. The moment their engagement was announced, everyone would be looking at Bruce and she with gimlet eyes, trying to catch them out. Society dames loved embarrassing younger women, particularly ones who ranked higher than them. “We can't be alone together.”
She raised her voice. “Come in!”
Bruce entered, followed by his cousin. “Gwen,” he said. “And Lady Irene.”
“Try not to do anything I would have to report to your father,” Irene said, a hint of ice entering her tone. She hadn't been amused when she’d found out about Bruce, particularly after having been so close to him and picking up nothing. “Please.”
Bruce nodded, then waited for Irene to lead Arielle to the other side of the room. “I heard the news,” he said, quietly. “Your parents agreed?”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “I’m afraid my mother does want a big wedding in London, even if we’re married here beforehand. You’ll have to come meet my father.”
Bruce shuddered. “Is he going to hate me on sight?”
“Probably,” Gwen said. “But I don’t think he’ll take out a shotgun and open fire.”
She smiled at the thought, then sobered. There was no way to hide from the fact that they were in for a very rough ride, despite countless special circumstances. Normally, both sets of parents would have discussed the marriage prospects carefully, perhaps before the happy couple ever knew they were going to get married. Everything would be sorted out, definitely, before the outside world heard about it. But she’d practically presented the whole affair to Bruce’s father - and her own parents - as a fait accompli. She couldn't blame them for being more than a little concerned.
“That’s a relief,” Bruce said. “Do you think I’ll be welcome in England?”
“Once they hear about your heroism, probably,” Gwen said. England hadn't exactly welcomed Benedict Arnold, but Bruce was hardly on the same level. “You’ll be just like Lord Nelson, beating admirers off with sticks.”
She nodded towards Arielle. “How’s she taking it?”
“She still wants to be a bridesmaid,” Bruce said. “I trust your parents won’t object?”
“As long as she’s in England,” Gwen said. Traditionally, bridesmaids were drawn from the family or close friends of the bride, but she had no sisters and only a couple of distant cousins who had been too afraid of her magic to talk to her. No doubt there would be hundreds of applicants, if the wedding turned into a circus, yet Arielle would definitely be on the list. “I can make sure of it.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Bruce said. “My father warned me that it might be a political wedding.”
And that’s what I told him, Gwen thought.
“There’s thirty minutes until the ball is due to begin,” she said, looking him up and down. He
might have worn a nice suit, but it was crumpled, as if he were slipping back into his rich fop persona. “Are you planning to go like that?”
“I could,” Bruce said. “Should I?”
“No,” Gwen said. She poked a finger at him. “Wear something that doesn't make you look like a tramp.”
Bruce smirked, then nodded. “Of course, My Lady,” he said. “Your every wish is my command.”
“A splendid attitude,” Irene called. “Just make sure you stick to it.”
“We could go flying tonight, afterwards,” Bruce added, lowering his voice. “Leaving the palace won’t be hard.”
Gwen was tempted, more than she cared to admit, but she knew it wasn't possible. Irene would let her sneak out, she was sure, yet she wasn't the only pair of watchful eyes in the palace. Arielle wouldn't turn the other cheek and the maids ... she was morbidly sure they’d report any lapse on her part to their master, even if they thought she could turn them into frogs. She knew, all too well, that maids had eyes and minds. And Viceroy Rochester was not a bad master. They’d do more than the bare minimum for him.
“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-Ei
ght
“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.
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