Sir Charles helped her into the carriage, then muttered instructions to the coachman. Gwen shook her head in amused disbelief; Sir Charles had ordered him to take the long route back to Cavendish Hall. She was tempted to lean back and refuse to play, but part of her wanted to kiss him – and do much more. It was easy to fall into his arms as the carriage rolled away from Fairweather Hall. His hands suddenly seemed to be everywhere, stroking her back and caressing her breasts through her dress.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, as his hand started to reach under her skirt. “We won’t go too far.”
Gwen hesitated, then pushed his hand away. Part of her body was demanding that she let him touch her there, but she couldn’t allow it – not yet. Instead, she moved forward and sat on his knee, allowing him to kiss her again and again. She lost track of time so completely that it was a shock when she realised that they were approaching Cavendish Hall. Sir Charles barely caught her in time to prevent her from falling off his knee and landing on the wooden floor.
“Your makeup is a little smudged, but otherwise you look decent,” he said. He didn’t look too decent; his suit was rumpled, while his face was covered in sweat. “And you tore my suit.”
Gwen flushed, then reached into her handbag and found the mirror. Her makeup was smeared all over her face... she found a tissue and wiped it all off, before checking again to be sure that she hadn’t missed anything. The dress was definitely rumpled; Gwen seriously considered just throwing it out, before deciding that would be a waste of money. It could be washed and repaired.
“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t sure what she was apologising for. The torn suit... or her reluctance to go any further? “Thank you very much for taking me. I had a lovely time.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. He gave her a smile that made her want to kiss him again, even though there was no time left. “I enjoyed myself as well.”
He winked at her. “And they’re all glad you killed Howell,” he added. “You deserve their praise.”
Gwen smiled, then sobered.
“I counted at least thirty people who congratulated me,” she said, softly. “How many more were there?”
The thought chilled her. If only a handful of Howell’s victims had had the courage to face her, knowing that it would tell her that they had something to hide, there might be many more who would remain unknown. How many more? There had been hundreds of files... if each of them related to a different person, nearly two-thirds of Polite Society could have been blackmailed. Howell had cast a long shadow over London... and, even though he was gone, it would take years for the shadow to fade.
“You will probably never know,” Sir Charles said.
Gwen couldn’t disagree. She might be overestimating it, she told herself; there had been very little in Sir Travis’s file, hardly enough to serve as a blackmail tool. And her own file hadn’t been very detailed either. Maybe there were only a handful of other victims. If Howell had demanded a few thousand pounds from each of them, he would have had enough to buy his house, hire the rogue magicians and enjoy the rest. But she would probably never know.
“Thank you,” she said, again.
He kissed her once more as she climbed out of the carriage. The coachman had stopped near Cavendish Hall, but not close enough for anyone to see her as she disembarked. She waved one hand in farewell, then levitated herself up into the air and flew towards the building. It was easy to drop into her bedroom again, pull off the dress and run into the bathroom. The more complex dresses could be absolute nightmares if the wearer had to go urgently.
She smiled at the thought, then turned on the tap to run a bath. While the tub was filling, she looked in her letterbox and saw a couple of letters. One was a brief follow-up from Inspector Hopkins, another confirmed that Howell was definitely dead and burned to ash... and the third requested a meeting tomorrow morning. No, she realised; it was past midnight. The meeting would be today.
Sam Davis, she thought, remembering the Mover with a fondness for drink. The last she’d heard, he’d been Healed... and she hadn’t heard anything from him since then. What did he want with her? She put the note to one side, intending to write a reply after she’d washed, and walked back into the bathroom. Her magic seemed oddly imprecise; she had to add more cold water after she heated what was already in the tub. It would have scalded her otherwise.
Maybe its frustration, she thought, remembering an uncomfortable interview with a magician who had been arrested by the police when they’d raided a brothel. He’d had the nerve to claim that he was sexually frustrated and that it was interfering with his magic. Gwen had fined him a month’s salary, more for the pathetic excuse than for being caught in a brothel, but now she wondered. Part of her body yearned for Sir Charles’s touch.
Be careful, a voice said, at the back of her head. He isn’t your husband yet – and pregnancy would make your life difficult, even if it didn’t harm your reputation.
And it would, Gwen knew. Could she use her magic when a child was growing inside her womb?
She shook her head, washed herself thoroughly and walked back into the bedroom. There was a reply to write, but the bed was so inviting that she collapsed on top and closed her eyes.
And then she fell asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Four
You made the society papers,” Martha said, as she brought Gwen her breakfast the following morning. “All four of the big ones covered the Fairweather Ball.”
Gwen rolled her eyes, but looked at the papers anyway. Most of them discussed Talleyrand and his ‘daughter‘, including endless speculation on which of the young blades would win her, none of them suggesting that she might be a Talker. Her own mention came lower down, with a note that Lady Gwen, Royal Sorceress, had been accompanied to the ball by Sir Charles Bellingham. There were few other details, for which she was grateful. No doubt the reporters had considered Talleyrand to be the star attraction.
But they would, she thought, wryly. Lady Fairweather probably vetted the reporters before allowing them access.
One of the papers included a sketch of Simone that somehow managed to make her look even more waif-like, a child thrown into the political arena by her father and told to sink or swim. Gwen snorted inwardly; the paper’s editor, a known Francophobe, wasn’t above using Simone to take a few cheap shots at the French, as if no true English father would ever take his daughter to a ball. There was even a call for some young British nobleman to rescue her from her father and keep her in Britain. No doubt that was precisely what Talleyrand was hoping would happen.
“Not a bad mention,” she decided, after skimming through the rest of the paper. As always with the society rags, there was little in the way of actual news. “Did you find a place for Polly to sleep?”
Martha nodded. “She’s in another of the guest suites,” she said. “Doctor Norwell was wondering just what you intend to do with her.”
“Go through her Master’s papers,” Gwen said, as she took a sip of coffee. “Once that’s done, I’ll talk to her about her future.”
Which might be bleak, she added, in the privacy of her own mind. Polly would have the jewels – and converting them to cash wouldn’t be difficult – but she would also have some powerful enemies. Lady Alexandra and her family wouldn’t go after Gwen, yet they’d consider Polly to be fair game. And between her skin colour and sex, it would be very hard for her to fight back. Something would have to be done about that too.
She finished her breakfast, had a quick wash and then dressed in her suit. It had felt odd to be wearing a dress after so long; the suit felt almost like coming home. Once she was ready, she picked up the note Sam Davis had sent her and scribbled a reply, inviting him to meet her at his earliest convenience. She had no doubt that she would be spending most of her day in Cavendish Hall.
Sir James must have been waiting for her to arise, because he met her just outside her office.
“I have a report for you from last night,” he
said, as he followed her into the room. “The young Talker tried to probe several minds.”
Gwen wasn’t surprised. “Did you make a list of who she tried to read?”
“Yes,” Sir James assured her. “Few of them were actually important, apart from Lord Percy – and his importance comes more in his title than in his current position. I don’t think he knew anything useful... by the way, there was no indication of Charm, but Talleyrand seemed remarkably successful in charming many of the older women at the ball.”
“He’s had plenty of experience,” Gwen reminded him. One didn’t need Charm to charm, or the human race would have died out long before magic first emerged into the open. Love could be dangerous, but it also drew people together and held them close, no matter what else happened in their lives. “And he wanted to be seen, of course.”
She glanced down at the list Sir James had produced. Simone had been busy, but she would have found it a very frustrating evening. Physical contact between two people allowed more intimate mental contact and was much harder for outsiders to disrupt. But then, few of her dance partners had known anything important... or so Gwen hoped. It would be easy to underestimate someone just because he looked a fop.
“We will just have to keep an eye on her,” she said, tiredly. “Maybe we should also start checking the French staff when they arrive in Britain. Now they know we know about Simone, they might well send someone else.”
“That might violate their diplomatic passports,” Sir James reminded her. “We’d have to arrange for physical contact by accident.”
“Maybe a routine scan by a Healer,” Gwen mused. Lucy had been able to tell what was wrong with a patient, just by touching him. “We don’t want to risk a disease-ridden person setting foot on British soil.”
“They’d laugh at us,” Sir James said. “How many problems have we had with diseases from Africa or India that have spread here?”
Gwen nodded, ruefully. He was right.
“Merlin reports that it was a very successful evening,” Sir James said, straightening to attention. “And we would really like to go back on the front lines.”
“I don’t blame you,” Gwen admitted. “Tell me; do you think Lord Brockton is capable of fulfilling his responsibilities?”
Sir James hesitated. “I think that he is too good at them,” he said, finally. He looked more than a little uneasy. Asking him to report on his superior was a gross breach of etiquette. “He is more than willing to fight for more resources for his magicians – and, to be fair, Movers are quite important to us. On the other hand, he is very poor at integrating Movers with other magicians, to the point where I would strongly recommend not having him involved with any cross-talent teams. And he argues over every little detail.”
“Even with you,” Gwen said. She’d hoped that Lord Brockton would do better with a male superior, but Sir James was in an odd position. Lord Brockton was still the Head of Movers and Sir James’s superior, even if Sir James was standing in for the Royal Sorceress. “I think I shall have to remove him.”
“His second has been in his shadow for too long,” Sir James warned her. “He would be completely ineffective as a Head of Movers.”
Gwen nodded. “Would you consider accepting the post?”
Sir James gave her a long searching look. “I couldn’t be party to his firing,” he said, finally. “Stubborn ass he may be, but...”
Gwen understood. Men didn’t like being seen to betray their fellow men, even the ones they should know better than to tolerate.
“I’m going to find him a place to go,” she said. Turkey, if the Airship Treaty hadn’t been completely destroyed. “If I did, would you take his place?”
“I’d prefer not to deal with the paperwork,” Sir James said. “Would I be correct in assuming that Merlin will be based in Britain for the foreseeable future?”
“Probably,” Gwen admitted. “Your presence is quite reassuring.”
“Let me think about it,” Sir James said, finally. “Maybe I can hold the post long enough to groom a better successor.”
Gwen nodded and watched him go, then looked down at the small pile of letters on her desk. One of them was from Lady Fairweather, thanking Gwen for attending the ball and wishing her a very happy future. It took Gwen a moment to realise that Lady Fairweather believed that Gwen and Sir Charles were going to marry. She felt colour rising to her cheeks – it had only been a few hours ago when they’d been kissing like mad – and quickly thought about something else. The last thing she needed was to get distracted while she was trying to work.
There was a knock at the door. She opened it with her magic and smiled inwardly as she saw Sam Davis. The Mover looked much better than he had the last time they’d met, but there was something about him that bothered her. He looked... thoroughly uncomfortable even looking at her. Gwen put the letter she was reading down and stood up, motioning for him to take a seat. He sat as if the seat had been covered in pins.
“I went to the Healer, like you said,” he said, shortly. His voice didn’t sound drunk. “I then heard that you’d killed Howell. The man deserved to die.”
Gwen’s eyes narrowed. Had he come to compliment her, like so many others, or was this leading up to something?
“I helped train his Movers,” Davis admitted. “There was a recruiter offering money for drink; all I had to do was train a few young sprigs how to use their powers. All of them were unregistered, but they needed training.”
“I... see,” Gwen said, slowly. “When did you start doing this?”
“A year ago,” Davis said. “They were desperate for training.”
Gwen scowled. The magical underground hadn’t managed to put together a serious challenge to the Establishment until Jack had arrived, but they’d tried. They’d known that something happened to lower-class magicians, even if they hadn’t known the exact details. Jack, apparently, had never told them about the farms. He’d probably been too ashamed of his own origins to admit to them.
“And some of those magicians probably ended up fighting during the Swing,” she said. She’d wondered how Jack had managed to pull together so many so quickly. He’d reaped the benefits of prior training. “What happened to the others?”
“There was an underground recruiting network,” Davis admitted. “I never knew names; they took me to a basement, showed me a couple of people I had to train and then took me back again. And I crawled further into the bottle and eventually people stopped asking me to do anything. Until you...”
“I wanted you to get better,” Gwen said. Part of her felt sorry for him; part of her remembered fighting the two Movers in Howell’s house. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“After I was Healed, I went to a bar,” Davis said. “I... wanted to see what my new liver thought of alcohol. And I was met by one of my contacts, who asked me if I’d heard anything about an unregistered Mover who had vanished the previous night. Apparently, money exchanged hands along with names. He wanted to know if we’d arrested him.”
Gwen shook her head. No Movers had been arrested, if only because taking them alive was incredibly difficult. Master Thomas’s files included a description of a Mover he’d had to poison rather than risk confronting him openly.
“His body was found near the Docklands later that day,” Davis added. “Someone had cut his throat.”
“The Docklands,” Gwen repeated. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Hiram Pasha had died there... but London had quite a few people die every day. They couldn’t all be connected. “When did all this happen?”
“The night before you went to Mortimer Hall,” Davis said. “I knew that Howell was involved with the underground, so I thought...”
“I think you should understand that you just confessed to a very serious crime,” Gwen said, sharply. “Training unregistered magicians breaks just about every law on the books.”
She thought, fast. Someone had broken into Sir Travis’s home and murdered him; a Mover could have done that,
easily. Someone had broken into Hiram Pasha’s home and murdered everyone inside; it would have been easier than breaking into Mortimer Hall, if only because the owner hadn’t been a Sensitive. And then a Mover had been murdered... it seemed unlikely that it was a coincidence...
Except Sir Travis had been killed by a blow to the back of the head. Few Movers were that subtle... and Sir Travis should have been able to sense them coming. Hell, the Mover would definitely have to be in the same room. Killing someone at a distance was beyond anyone, even a Master Magician. Sure, it was theoretically possible, but not even Master Thomas had had that level of control.
But if the murderer had hired a Mover to open the doors.
“I know,” Davis admitted. “I...”
Gwen rubbed the side of her forehead. “We need to shut this underground down,” she said, finally. “Go see Sir James; give him a full report of what happened since you were recruited to serve as a trainer. We’ll have to arrange a meeting with them; perhaps we can offer them an amnesty, if their hands are not crusted with blood. And then we can decide your fate.”
“Yes, Milady,” Davis said. “Whatever you decide, I will accept.”
He left the room, closing the door behind her. Gwen rubbed her eyes tiredly – why did she feel so tired, when she’d only just woken up? Maybe she should have just stayed in bed.
She stood up and walked over to the wall, where Master Thomas had hung a map of London she hadn’t had the heart to take down, even though it was slightly outdated after the Swing had reshaped parts of the city. Someone had used Davis’s contact – a Mover – to break into Mortimer Hall, sneak up on Sir Travis and kill him. It should have been impossible; Master Thomas, for all of his power and experience, could not have sneaked up on a Sensitive. She’d gone over that time and time again and yet an answer failed to materialise. If someone had the power to kill at a distance, surely they would have used it for something more dramatic than murdering Sir Travis.
The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) Page 32
