The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “It seems that Lady Mortimer’s jewels were taken by her cousin,” Lestrade said. If the change in subject threw him, he didn’t show it. “They ignored what it said in the will.”

  Gwen nodded, sourly. She would have a few sharp words with whoever had served as Lady Mortimer’s executor. The terms of a will could not be set aside at the behest of a relative, certainly not unless they proved that Lady Mortimer had been mentally unsound before she died. And there had been nothing to suggest that was the case.

  She stood up. “I’m going back to Cavendish Hall,” she said. “Please let me know if anything changes.”

  “You’ve got his journal and a few other papers,” Lestrade reminded her. “The rest of his documents seem fairly straightforward, so I’ll forward them to you along with a report when I’ve finished. However, I haven’t located anything that relate to gambling debts – or Howell.”

  “They don’t get written down very often,” Gwen said. Lady Mary had told her that much, back when she’d been trying to hammer housekeeping into Gwen’s head. Some financial matters were never written down, or simply left with a coded title so that anyone else wouldn’t recognise them for what they were. “I’ll go through the journal and then tell you if I come across anything that might be important.”

  She stood up and allowed Polly to escort her back to the entrance. There were several police carriages out there and she could have used one, but instead she chose to walk back to Cavendish Hall. She needed time to think.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Doctor Norwell had once told her that if she was perplexed, it was better to think about something else for a while and then return to the original subject with a fresh mind. Gwen tried to think about personal assignments instead of the murder investigation, but her mind refused to cooperate; she couldn’t help wondering just what Howell had on her mother that had terrified her so much. What had she done?

  Lady Mary’s greatest shame was no secret, Gwen knew; everyone in Polite Society knew about her daughter, the devil-child. Howell could hardly blackmail her with something that was already public knowledge; she would have laughed in his face. But what else could there be? It was impossible to imagine her staid mother doing anything like Lady Elizabeth...

  Or could it have something to do with me? She thought. What if I did come from the farms?

  Jack had been shocked by the realisation that his family wasn’t his real family – and he’d eventually turned against the Establishment, leading a revolution that had almost brought the British Empire to its knees. If Master Thomas had arranged for her to go to an aristocratic family, he would have made sure that Gwen never found out the truth. But how would he have known that she had magic before she used it when she was six years old? It was very rare to sense magic in a child...

  But he had too many secrets, she reminded herself. What if he had one for locating magicians from birth?

  She could ask her mother... but Lady Mary would refuse to discuss it, just as she refused to discuss anything that was even slightly improper. And Howell... could it be that he’d already started to pressure Lady Mary into trying to convince Gwen to leave him alone? No, that couldn’t be possible; the timing simply didn’t work.

  But who could have killed Sir Travis?

  She was sure that David hadn’t killed him; he had nothing to gain and a great deal to lose. Ambassador Talleyrand had nothing to gain either... and even though he might escape punishment, murdering Sir Travis would almost certainly start a war. And Howell... he didn’t seem to be the murderous type. He preferred to assassinate someone’s character from a safe distance. If he’d fought with Sir Travis...

  And yet he’d been alive afterwards, with no signs of a real struggle.

  Polly was locked up until morning, Gwen thought. She couldn’t have killed him; it was clear that the body had been dead for hours before it was recovered. And besides, I Charmed her; she couldn’t have lied to me. She didn’t kill him.

  She shook her head, wearily. Maybe Lord Bracknell had hired a killer... but the Bracknell family didn’t benefit either. They were wealthy enough not to need anything from Sir Travis ... could it be that they didn’t want her married off? But if that was the case, why would they agree to the contract at all? They could just have refused to grant permission for Lady Elizabeth to marry him.

  The happy couple might have already planned to elope to Scotland and marry there. But why would they bother? They already had a signed agreement that they would marry. The only motive for a quick marriage that made sense was pregnancy – it was known to happen, even in Polite Society - but Lady Elizabeth hadn’t been allowed enough latitude to get pregnant.

  And if she were pregnant, that would be a cause for an immediate marriage, not murder, she told herself. And they could have married at once with her parents’ permission...

  She scowled. The more she thought about it, the less it seemed to make sense.

  Howell goes to Sir Travis, intending to reveal Lady Elizabeth’s secret... and Sir Travis is alive afterwards, she thought. Nothing happens to reveal her secret before the news gets out that Sir Travis is dead. Why doesn’t Howell tell the world?

  The blackmailer had told Gwen that he’d gone to Sir Travis and offered him a loan, rather than blackmail. That was probably a lie, Gwen decided... she almost swore out loud as she realised that it hadn’t been the only lie Howell had told her. Keeping her at a distance ensured that her rudimentary Sensitivity wouldn’t be able to pick up on a lie. No doubt he’d faked his illness just to ensure that Gwen stayed back. The semi-darkness had even helped to muffle her senses.

  But he’d talked about a loan – and Sir Travis, who was in debt to the tune of four thousand pounds, might have needed one. And he was an up-and-coming government servant. Gwen had seen enough of Master Thomas’s patronage network to see the value of having contacts in all walks of life. Howell could have offered Sir Travis a loan and then insisted on being repaid in information, rather than money...

  Gwen stopped and stared down at her hands. Could it all be a wild coincidence?

  That can’t be right, she told herself, after a moment. Coincidences did happen, Mycroft’s brother had told her, but the more unlikely they were, the less likely it was that they were a coincidence. Howell would have to have visited both Lady Elizabeth and Sir Travis on different matters within a few days... no, it didn’t seem likely. The odds were that there was a connection there somewhere. She made a mental note to find out exactly what Howell had said to Lady Elizabeth – he’d clearly known about her impending wedding, even if Polite Society as a whole hadn’t known – before going to visit her intended.

  And yet none of it answered the real question. Who had killed Sir Travis?

  She reached Cavendish Hall and stepped through the gatehouse, walking up into the main hall. Doctor Norwell came out of his office and waved frantically to Gwen, as if he’d expected her to just ignore him. Sighing inwardly, she allowed him to lead her into his cramped office and took one of the few visible chairs. The others were buried under piles of books and paperwork.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” he said, before she could say anything. “You do realise that hiring Lady Elizabeth is unprecedented?”

  Gwen blinked in surprise, then realised that Doctor Norwell was worried about his job. As a non-magician, his position at Cavendish Hall was never truly secure, no matter how long he’d served as a theoretical magician and researcher. He could be fussy and pedantic, but she rather liked the old goat. Besides, he wasn’t spending half of his time trying to undermine her position.

  “You’ve had problems opening some of my letters,” Gwen reminded him. It was absurd – no one sent romantic notes to her at any time, let alone under her official title – but men were often silly. “Lady Elizabeth will work as my personal assistant rather than anything more... general.”

  “Her presence has already caused comment,” Doctor Norwell warned her. “The Head of Movers was complaining about her at some
length.”

  Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “Is there anything I can do, short of finding a male Master and resigning in his favour, that will please His Lordship?”

  Doctor Norwell gave her an odd little smile. “Probably not,” he admitted. “I suppose you could just vote in his favour at Committee meetings...”

  “Which would annoy all of the other Heads,” Gwen pointed out. “I think I have reached the point where I will try to have him replaced by another Mover...”

  “That might be unwise,” Doctor Norwell said. “Lord Brockton has a great many influential friends. Colonel Sebastian did not. If Lord Brockton happened to leave, he could do a great deal more to damage your position than writing nasty letters about you to The Times.”

  Gwen shrugged. He was right, but there were always options. If the Airship Treaty passed, someone would have to go to Istanbul to help the Turks set up their own magical school – and who better than Lord Brockton? How could the Turks not take him seriously? He was related to some of the foremost peers of the realm. With a little work, Gwen might even be able to create an impression that he was going against her will...

  “Never mind that,” she said, after a moment. “How is Sir James working out?”

  “He seems capable of keeping Lord Brockton reasonably pacified,” Doctor Norwell said. “The only other person to have complained is Earl Amherst, apparently on the grounds that Charmers are poorly represented in Merlin and therefore Sir James cannot be trusted to keep the balance between the various talents.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said. “And how did Sir James take that?”

  “Offered to create more posts in combat teams if there were more Charmer volunteers,” Doctor Norwell said. “The Earl shut up after Sir James invited him to try out for another team.”

  Gwen hid a smile. She’d only met a couple of Charmers who weren’t physical cowards.

  “But there’s another matter I wished to discuss with you,” Doctor Norwell said. He looked oddly embarrassed. “You were seen eating with Sir Charles.”

  Gwen kept her face under tight control. What made him think that it was his business?

  She knew the answer to that a moment later. Everyone considered her business their business.

  “Indeed,” she said, flatly.

  Doctor Norwell seemed unable to meet her eyes. “How much do you know about his family history?”

  “Nothing,” Gwen said. She’d meant to look into it, but she’d never had time. Besides, her mother was probably already collecting gossip as well as hard facts – and probably giving more credence to the rumours. “Why is that important?”

  Doctor Norwell gave her a look she remembered from some of her old tutors, a look that suggested that she was being stupid on purpose.

  “You should know that birth is important,” he said, crossly. “Even after the Swing, it is unthinkable that certain social classes should co-exist in holy matrimony.”

  Gwen crossed her arms under her breasts and scowled at him. “And?”

  “And Sir Charles came out of the farms,” Doctor Norwell said. “Didn’t you know that?”

  “... No,” Gwen said.

  “He might not actually know,” Doctor Norwell admitted. “He was a healthy baby boy, so he was... ah, farmed out to the Bellingham family. His adopted mother and father were quite low on the family tree, so there would be no unpleasantness with titles and inheritance and whatnot.”

  Gwen nodded, impatiently. Few aristocratic families would have refused to take an orphan into their homes, particularly if they believed him to be of noble blood, but they wouldn’t be happy with the possibility of the adopted child inheriting instead of their true children. And if the child didn’t know that he’d been adopted, it would be difficult for his ‘parents’ to disinherit him while keeping the farms a state secret. Common practice had been to insert the adoptees into the family after a legitimate heir or two had been born.

  Her lips twitched. It had occurred to her, just after she’d gone through the files, that quite a few aristocratic families had diluted their blood, without anyone else ever realising it. Her mother would have fainted away on the spot if she’d ever found out.

  “So he was adopted,” Gwen said, when it became clear that he was waiting for a response. “So were quite a few other children.”

  Doctor Norwell nodded and rushed onwards. “He didn’t show any trace of magic,” he said. “There wasn’t even enough to justify the normal experiments – putting a potential magician in danger to see if panic brought out the magic. Eventually, the Royal College just lost interest in him.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said. Panic – and fear, and rage – did bring out magic, if the potential was there. Her life hadn’t been in any danger back when her magic had first blossomed, but it had certainly felt that way. “There was nothing at all?”

  “Nothing,” Doctor Norwell confirmed. “There wasn’t even a hint that he should have had magic, the same hint you see when we discover a previously unknown talent. I don’t blame the researchers for deciding that they were wasting their time and letting him find his own path through life.

  “And then something happened – there was a major row within the family. I don’t know the exact details because no report was ever filed, but I’d guess that he discovered part of the truth of his origins. And then they bought him a commission and sent him off to India.”

  Gwen winced. Not too long ago, according to her mother, a wealthy professor had taken a flower girl from the streets and turned her into lady, training her how to conduct herself in Polite Society. She’d fooled everyone, even society’s grand dames... and she had known that she wasn’t truly one of them. But someone raised to think of themselves as aristocratic right from the start? They might well have believed that aristocrats were naturally superior to everyone else before they found out the truth.

  Jack’s sanity had been damaged. Who knew how Sir Charles would have reacted?

  “He showed commendable bravery in India and the Viceroy knighted him,” Doctor Norwell said. “But his birth threatens his future.”

  “Except that no one should know about his birth,” Gwen pointed out, coldly. “Or did his family start talking about the farms?”

  “No,” Doctor Norwell said. “But some people have worked out that there was... something odd about his birth.”

  Gwen was privately surprised that it hadn’t happened more often. It was traditional for a pregnant woman to withdraw to the countryside when her pregnancy became noticeable, just to ensure that the baby breathed in the sweet smell of the country rather than London’s ever-present smog. Few people would attend her until the baby was presented to London society – and girls were not always presented to society – but even so, someone might just realise that a woman had either managed to give birth astonishingly quickly or that the child hadn’t been hers at all. But then, as long as the formalities were observed, it was unlikely that anyone in society would be so gauche as to comment on it.

  “And they said that I was a devil-child,” she said, tartly. There were times when she resented Master Thomas for not coming to take her earlier, even after it had become clear that she was using more than one talent. But the reluctance to employ women at any level had been too strong until it had become clear that Master Thomas wouldn’t be around for much longer. “Why should I hold his birth against him?”

  “Others will hold it against you,” Doctor Norwell said. “You know how talkative some people can be...”

  Gwen felt her temper flare. “There isn’t a single one of the recruits who hasn’t been to one of the brothels I’m not supposed to know about,” she snapped. In prior days, they’d gone to the farms; it hadn’t taken them long to find an alternative once she’d shut the entire program down. “Am I supposed to care about what they think of me?”

  “You are expected to serve as their leader,” Doctor Norwell said, very carefully. “Every time Queen Elizabeth’s reputation was threatened, she lost prestige and her position was u
ndermined. And your position is very much like hers.”

  Gwen felt magic shimmering just under her skin, demanding release. She clamped down on it as hard as she could.

  “Her father had six wives and plenty of mistresses,” she hissed. “Why exactly was that not held against him?”

  “The position of a woman is different,” Doctor Norwell said. “There has to be no doubt over who is the father of your children. For your reputation to be compromised...”

  Gwen surprised herself by laughing out loud. “Doctor, my reputation was monstrous even before Master Thomas rescued me,” she reminded him. “I didn’t ask to be born with magic, or to be left alone to learn as best as I could before the Royal Sorcerers Corps decided that it needed me. Right now, I sleep in a building inhabited by hundreds of young men and spend half of my time dealing with male officials without a chaperone. What do you think that Polite Society thinks of me?”

  She went on before he could say a word. “If men were so... concerned about their own chastity, I might be more understanding,” she added. “But a man who dips his wick” – she wasn’t supposed to know the street slang and using it made Doctor Norwell pale – “is considered a hero, while the woman he deflowers is considered a villain? I see no logic or justice in that, Doctor. Is it not just as worrying to the young woman he marries later when she realises that he might have fathered another child out of wedlock?”

  Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Oh, right; I forgot. A bastard child is naturally blamed for her own bastardy. Somehow, the cunning little mite must have influenced her father to fall prey to the seduction of her mother and impregnate her, despite not even being alive at the time. Tell me – how can you blame an unborn child for the sin that conceived her?

  “Besides, if they can ignore Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, they can ignore me.”

  “The world isn’t fair,” Doctor Norwell said, after a long moment. “It is the way it is...”