The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “It wasn’t quite that bad,” Gwen assured him. Still, a few minutes more and the entire building might have collapsed. “And most of the guests survived.”

  “He probably didn’t want to kill them,” Sir Charles grunted, as the carriage passed through the gates. “Terror only works if you leave enough people alive to spread the word.”

  Gwen allowed him to help her out of the carriage as the driver paused in front of the main entrance. There were others coming all the time; the drivers would wait behind the hall until they were called to come and pick up their passengers. She couldn’t help noticing a handful of people staring at her, but for once they seemed admiring rather than fearful or condemning.

  “You seem to be popular,” Sir Charles commented, so quietly that she was the only person who could hear him. “Howell’s death did your reputation no end of good.”

  Gwen smiled as they stepped through the entrance and down the steps into the ballroom. It was very different from how she remembered; they’d expanded the room so it could hold hundreds of people, while hanging new chandeliers from the ceiling to cast a brilliant light over the festivities. One long table held food and drink, while a band was playing a merry tune in one corner. Dozens of portraits hung on the walls, reminding the guests that their hosts belonged to a family with a long history. There had been a Fairweather at many a battle, the portraits said, although they missed out a few details. Gwen’s lips twitched; there had been a Fairweather on both sides of the Civil War.

  “Lady Gwen,” a voice said. Gwen turned to see an older woman, wearing a purple dress that drew the eye, stumbling towards her. “I must congratulate you.”

  Gwen winced as the woman gave her a brief hug and kissed the air in front of her cheek, before staggering off into the crowd. Who was she? One of her mother’s friends? No, that was unlikely. If any of them had known what Lady Mary had done, they would have cut Gwen dead, even if it hadn’t been her fault. The sins of the mother were borne by the child, according to Polite Society. It just proved that there was nothing really polite about it.

  “Well done,” a man said. He saluted her, then reached for her dance card and marked himself in for a dance. “We all owe you.”

  Sir Charles elbowed her. “They were Howell’s victims,” he said. “You freed them from a lifetime of fear.”

  More and more people stopped to congratulate her as they made their way through the room. Gwen recognised a handful of them, but others were strangers – and yet they all seemed to know her. Sir Charles seemed more amused than the situation deserved, occasionally pointing out one of the wealthier or nobler people who had good reason to thank Gwen. By the time they reached the food table, Gwen was mentally shaking her head in disbelief. How many people had Howell kept in thrall?

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. His voice effortlessly echoed through the room. “Ambassador Talleyrand of France and his daughter Simone.”

  Gwen turned to watch as Talleyrand descended the stairs to the ballroom. His gait seemed slower, more deliberate, than she had expected, but then he was around the same age as Master Thomas. And, to the best of their knowledge, Talleyrand had no magic to keep him healthy and alive, although some of Lord Mycroft’s intelligence officers had wondered if he had Charm. Something had to have kept him in a position of power and influence throughout all of the changes in France. The French suit he wore, cut in the style of Louis XVI, was a droll reminder of his longevity. Gwen couldn’t help wondering how many of the guests understood its significance.

  Simone seemed even more waif-like next to her father, if he truly was her father. Her face was pale even without cosmetics, while her dark eyes were wide, as if it was the first time she’d seen such a gathering. Gwen winced inwardly, wondering how many young men were going to look into those dark pools and lose themselves, telling the French girl whatever she wanted to hear just to keep her attention. And, as a Talker, she could ask questions and pull the answers from their minds...

  Gwen smiled as she saw the two escorts from the Royal Sorcerers Corps. Talleyrand would not have been able to refuse their presence; after all, it was quite possible that Londoners would seek revenge for the undead rampage by attacking the French Ambassador. But it would frustrate the girl’s intelligence-gathering efforts. Every time she opened her mind, she would feel their presence overriding everyone else’s mental signature.

  “She’s far too young to be his daughter,” Sir Charles muttered. “And they don’t even look alike.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” Gwen reminded him. “I don’t look much like my father either.”

  The Master of Ceremonies started to call the first dance, inviting the couples onto the dance floor. Gwen allowed Sir Charles to lead her onto the floor, keeping one eye on Simone as she gravitated to a middle-aged aristocrat who’d come without an escort. Talleyrand, in the meantime, was chatting to Lady Fairweather and a couple of her cronies, although there was no way to know what they were talking about. It was unlikely that they would be sharing state secrets in public, she decided. But the file had claimed that Talleyrand was a womaniser, with the appetite of a much younger man. Could he really be trying to seduce the hostess in public, in front of her husband?

  Stranger things have happened, she reminded herself, as the dance began.

  Sir Charles proved to be a very good dancer, leading her around the floor without ever stepping on her toes. Gwen enjoyed the first two dances more than she expected, before reluctantly letting go of him to allow another man to take her onto the floor. He managed to thank her several more times, leaving Gwen wondering just what Howell had held over his head. She couldn’t help noticing that he seemed very relieved to be free of him.

  But Simone had managed to lure Sir Charles into a dance...

  Gwen felt her temper flare, forcing her to grit her teeth and keep it in check. How could he dance with her? She told herself that she was being stupid, that Simone had probably wanted to see if she could read his mind, but she couldn’t help feeling a sense of outrage. The moment the dance finished, she let go of her partner and walked back to Sir Charles, who seemed rather bemused. Simone had let him go and moved on to the next partner.

  “She kept asking me about you,” he commented, as Gwen scowled at him. “I told her nothing, of course.”

  “She’s a mind-reader,” Gwen muttered back. “She could have pulled the answers out of your mind.”

  It should have been impossible, she knew. Simone was being escorted. But it was impossible to be sure, either.

  She started to pull Sir Charles back onto the dance floor, then stopped.

  “Wait for me,” she said, quickly. “There’s someone over there I need to see.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lady Alexandra Milton didn’t look much older than Gwen herself.

  Gwen studied her and her cronies before walking up and introducing herself. Lady Alexandra was shorter than Gwen, with long red hair that seemed to blur into her dress, her lips twisted in a permanent sneer. Maybe not a social queen, not yet, but wealthy enough that her eventual rise to power was unquestioned. Her cronies were probably hanging on in the hopes that she wouldn’t forget them after she took her mother’s place.

  There was no wedding ring on her finger, but she wasn’t on the dance floor and she wasn’t surrounded by admiring males. Gwen wondered, absently, what that meant; even if Lady Alexandra had been ugly as sin, her family and her bank balance would have ensured that she had a stream of admirers. After all, male adultery was winked at, practically condoned... and they would ask who could blame a husband with an ugly wife for looking elsewhere?

  “Lady Gwen,” Lady Alexandra said. The calm contempt in her voice made Gwen’s blood boil. “I trust that you will tell your lawyer to back off?”

  “No,” Gwen said, tartly.

  She had the pleasure of seeing the girl’s eyes open wide, just for a long second. “You... I had my father speak to your father...”

 
“You tried to have me pressured into not doing my duty,” Gwen said, keeping her voice as cold as ice. “I take my work a little more seriously than that.”

  She scowled down at Lady Alexandra, daring her to say anything. “I am going to be blunt,” she added. “When your aunt died, you moved quickly and took her collection of jewels – which weren’t entailed, by the way – out of Mortimer Hall, claiming them for yourself. I don’t know why you believed that you were entitled to act in such a manner, but you did; you stole from your Aunt before her body was even in the grave. And then, I think, you brought pressure to bear on the executor of her will. You ensured that her last wishes were not respected.”

  “She told me that I could have them,” Lady Alexandra said. “They’re mine.”

  “Her will says otherwise,” Gwen said. “Did you realise where they were meant to go? Did you calculate that a respectable girl from an aristocratic family would win if the matter ended up in front of a court? After all, the person Lady Mortimer had named was a young black girl – we all know what the court thinks of niggers. I’m sure you could make a convincing case that Lady Mortimer was insane when she wrote the will. Or do I do you an injustice?”

  “I am merely taking what is mine,” Lady Alexandra insisted. “Look, you know what it’s like to be a young girl. You need jewels to boost your status...”

  “No, you don’t,” Gwen said, although she knew that Lady Alexandra was partly right. “I’m sure you think that you can drag this out until a year passes – or have the executor removed from his position because Sir Travis died shortly after his mother. Maybe you’re right; maybe you can get a court to rule in favour of the status quo. But it isn’t going to go in front of a court.”

  She leaned forward until she could feel the girl’s breath on her cheek. “You’re going to surrender the jewels to my lawyer,” she said. “Or I will see to it that your reputation is utterly destroyed.”

  Lady Alexandra sneered at her. “You think anyone would listen to you?”

  “Think about what I did yesterday,” Gwen said, dryly. “How many of them would not listen to me?”

  She allowed the idea to filter through the girl’s mind. Right now, Gwen was popular. It wouldn’t last, but it would give her the influence to destroy Lady Alexandra, if she decided to push hard. And she suspected that some in Polite Society wondered if she’d stolen Howell’s papers, rather than burning them to ash. It was quite possible that Howell had had something on Lady Alexandra or her family.

  “I don’t have time to force it through the courts, so I’m not going to bother,” Gwen added. “Just think how long your position would last if I decided to attack it.”

  Lady Alexandra’s face twisted bitterly, then she nodded. “Very well,” she said, sharply. “I will have the jewels delivered to you.”

  “There was a list as part of the will,” Gwen reminded her. Absently, she wondered if Lady Mortimer had anticipated that someone would try to steal her jewels. Most aristocratic women were paranoid about losing their jewels; in many cases, it was the only real wealth they had that was indisputably theirs. “I will check it against the list before I do anything else.”

  “Of course you will,” Lady Alexandra said. “You have no loyalty, have you?”

  It took Gwen several seconds to work out what she meant. “I am loyal to those who deserve my loyalty,” Gwen said, “and they don’t include social queens who sneer at someone who happens to be different from them.”

  She nodded politely to the girl’s cronies and walked off, wondering if Lady Alexandra would keep her word or if she would think better of it, once she got back home. A social queen wouldn’t hesitate to ruin someone – or their family – if they thought it benefited them in some way, but the Royal Sorceress had to be more careful. Destroying the Milton Family could have unintended consequences. It wouldn’t be the first time a quarrel in Polite Society had affected the nation as a whole.

  Simone stepped out of the crowd and offered her a half-curtsey. “Lady Gwen,” she said, in her whispery voice. “I was hoping to have a chance to speak with you.”

  Gwen scowled. Up close, she could smell Simone’s perfume, something fashionable and expensive from France. Polite Society had a love-hate relationship with France, both aping French fashions and condemning French morals, although Gwen suspected that it would be better if it were the other way round. Howell could never have prospered so effectively in Paris, where adultery and fornication were considered part of life.

  “Of course,” she said, remembering her duty. “What can I do for you?”

  “I must formally protest the presence of your escorts,” Simone said. Her tone seemed unchanged. “They are fogging my mind.”

  “You’re trying to read other minds,” Gwen pointed out, although she knew that she could be doing Simone an injustice. No Talker had perfect mental shields. “And we cannot allow you to do that.”

  “I suppose not,” Simone said. She didn’t seem inclined to press any further. “You’re quite respected in France.”

  Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “I am?”

  “A woman rising to a position of power among the English,” Simone said. “That is vanishingly rare in this country.”

  “And in France,” Gwen pointed out. The French might give their women more latitude than the British, but political power still rested largely in the hands of men. “We had several queens who ruled in their own right.”

  “True,” Simone agreed. “I have been asked to pass on an invitation. My father would like to speak with you in private, later this week. Would it be convenient for you to visit the Embassy?”

  “I would have to look at my schedule,” Gwen hedged, wondering just what Talleyrand wanted. He couldn’t want to talk about the murder, could he? “I’ll certainly let you know once I have a free moment.”

  She hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering her ever since she’d first met the French Talker. “Are you really his daughter?”

  The girl’s blush told her the answer. Gwen signed inwardly; some things were definitely universal. A Talker who happened to be a beautiful woman would be a very convenient partner for a male diplomat. But why claim that she was his daughter in the first place?

  She pushed the question aside, nodded politely to Simone and headed back towards where Sir Charles was waiting. Like her, he’d chosen to go without alcohol; instead, he was drinking juice and chatting to a man Gwen didn’t recognise. He smiled at her as she approached, then introduced Gwen to Lord Percy, Heir to the Duchy of Northumberland. Gwen concealed her private amusement as she waited for them to finish talking. Once, years ago, Lady Mary had considered Lord Percy a possible candidate for Gwen’s hand.

  He seems to be smarter than they said, she thought. Rumour had claimed that Lord Percy couldn’t count to eleven without taking off his socks. On the other hand, nasty rumours flew through Polite Society without regard to the truth.

  “Time to dance again,” Sir Charles said, bidding farewell to Lord Percy. “Did you get what you wanted out of her?”

  “I think so,” Gwen said, as he led her back onto the dance floor. “What about Lord Percy?”

  “His brother-in-law has a... relative who wishes to spend time in India,” Sir Charles said, dryly. “I was telling Lord Percy how India would make a man of his relative, if it didn’t kill him first. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him the story of the naked polo team.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. A relative of unspecified relation was almost certainly an illegitimate child, she knew. Sir Charles would certainly feel more for the bastard than for the legitimate part of the family. Absently, she wondered how Lord Percy’s prim family had ended up with a bastard, before dismissing the thought as silly. It was quite easy to guess the truth.

  The evening wore on and couples started to make their departure. Gwen watched Talleyrand from time to time, noticing that he only danced once, while spending most of his time having conversations with wealthy or powerful aristocrats.
None of the conversations would be very significant, not if they were being held in a public ballroom, but they would serve the purpose of building up unofficial contacts. Talleyrand had to be looking for someone to replace Sir Travis, now that France needed an unofficial connection more than ever. It might, she realised, be why Talleyrand wanted to see her again.

  But he shouldn’t need the Royal Sorceress, she thought. As much as she hated to admit it, she was a public figure, something Sir Travis had not been. People would notice if she went to the French Embassy and then to Whitehall, particularly if she did it more than once. Maybe I should speak to Lord Mycroft and get an official unofficial contact set up.

  She smiled at the thought, then looked up at Sir Charles. “Did Talleyrand want to talk to you too?”

  “He never approached me,” Sir Charles said. He seemed a little surprised by the question. “I don’t think I’m important enough for him.”

  And too famous to replace Sir Travis, Gwen thought, silently grateful that Inspector Lestrade was not in attendance. Keeping him and Sir Charles from killing each other would be difficult.

  Sir Charles frowned as he looked around the rapidly emptying room. “Should we go?”

  Gwen hesitated, then nodded. Knowing when to leave a ball was a question of timing, rather than anything else; leaving too early could be considered an insult to one’s host, while leaving too late could have other implications. She glanced around for Lady Fairweather, saw her standing with several other women and chatting to them about nothing, and then pulled Sir Charles towards the exit. They could write a note thanking Lady Fairweather for her hospitality later.

  Outside, the cold night air brushed against them as they waited for the carriage to come around and pick them up. Gwen found herself inching closer to Sir Charles and cursed herself; being too close to him would cause a scandal, no matter what happened. Of course, going in his carriage would also cause talk... for a moment, she thought she understood the attractions of France. Quite a few aristocrats who had lost their reputations ended up in France, where they could do more or less whatever they liked. There were times when Gwen could almost understand Lady Bracknell’s treatment of her daughter. Even the merest glance or sigh could cause a scandal, if seen by the wrong person.