“She was ... tested ... by a Talker,” Rochester said. “They were all tested for loyalty. I believe they know better than to betray me.”
Gwen eyed him, doubtfully. Having one’s mind read tended to cause resentment, even in someone who’d been wholeheartedly loyal beforehand. It was a gross invasion of privacy ... and, somehow, she doubted the servants had been given much choice. Hell, the servants might have mastered the art of lying to a mind-reader. The mental discipline they needed to tolerate slights - and worse - from their masters would lend itself well to fooling an overconfident magician.
I should ask Irene to watch for trouble, she thought. It was a shame that Irene couldn't come with her, but they weren't officially travelling together. She’ll have ample opportunity at the ball.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, out loud. “Do you expect trouble?”
“Unfortunately,” Rochester said. “I always expect trouble.”
He sighed. “I got this job, Lady Gwen, because I was married to an American and half my family is American,” he added. “Or so I was told.”
Gwen nodded. “It make sense,” she said. It was how Lord Mycroft - and aristocrats in general - thought. Family ties were more important than paper contracts. “And you’ve kept the ship of state on an even kneel.”
“Barely,” Rochester said. “The last war we fought with the French was useful, in that it helped the colonials to come to terms with the outcome of their revolution. And it also answered one of their grievances, the presence of a papist majority in Quebec. But now ... there are too many different factions, being pulled in too many ways. The French might weaken one of the factions so badly that the entire edifice will topple into chaos.”
“The slave owners,” Gwen guessed.
“Correct,” Rochester said. He took a gulp of his tea with no apparent ill effects. “They’re among the strongest supporters of the Crown, but they’re detested by a number of other factions.”
Gwen sighed, then took a sip of her tea. She’d sense poison, wouldn't she? Sensitivity was the least-understood of the talents, but she did have a sense for danger. Unless the poison was only lethal in large doses ...
“And then there’s the industrialists,” Rochester continued. “They don’t care about politics, but they want to build up America’s industry. It’s turning into a right little snake pit.”
“I see,” Gwen said. She knew she should be heading to the Sorcerers Hall, but she needed to hear what was going on. A man like Rochester would be happy to explain things to her, in great and probably unnecessary detail. “Who else is there?”
Chapter Twelve
“Why, little Raechel,” an annoyingly loud woman brayed, as Raechel led the way into the house. “You are as pretty as I was led to believe!”
Raechel gritted her teeth in annoyance. Irene had told her that someone would be escorting them for the first couple of days, introducing them to everyone who was anyone, but did it have to be someone so annoying? Her voice was shrill enough to give Raechel a headache within seconds, while her fat belly wobbled like a tub of lard. The dress she wore was no doubt expensive enough to keep a tailor’s family dressed for years, but it couldn’t disguise her bulk.
“Lady Sofia, I presume,” Irene said. If she felt any annoyance or dismay herself, Raechel couldn't see it on her face. “It’s good to meet you in person, rather than exchanging brief messages.”
“I met Lady Raechel’s father during a brief visit to the colonies,” Lady Sofia bellowed, heedless of any possible hurt her words might cause. “It is a very great honour to assist in introducing his daughter to the ton.”
“That was why I looked you up, when I knew we would be coming,” Irene said. Raechel wanted to glare - Irene was flattering the mad cow - but she knew better than to allow her annoyance to become too obvious. “Her father spoke often of you.”
“I’m pleased he remembered me,” Lady Sofia said. She was talking so loudly that Raechel wouldn't have been surprised to hear complaints from the other end of the island. “He really was a remarkable man.”
She looked at Raechel, her eyes running up and down Raechel’s dress. “But your dress, my dear, simply will not do,” she added, her eyes starting to water with fake tears. “You cannot attend the Viceroy’s ball in such an outfit. I’ll have my dressmaker sent round to ensure you look your best for the young men. Why! There are dozens of young unattached men who will be attending the ball. The entire ton is talking about who the Viceroy’s boy will marry!”
Her voice deepened. “He’s half-American on his mother’s side, the poor thing,” she added, her tone suggesting there were few worse fates for a young man. “But he is a Franklin and Franklin was always loyal to the Crown.”
Raechel blinked. Benjamin Franklin had never been particularly loyal, according to the files, even before the Americans had rebelled. But then she remembered his illegitimate son, who had definitely been a loyalist. The files had suggested that the only reason Benjamin Franklin hadn't been hanged alongside Washington had been the intervention of William Franklin, who’d probably relished the chance to make his father indebted to him. Raechel could understand that impulse all too well.
“I’m sure we will be the talk of the town,” Irene said, pleasantly. Raechel ground her teeth in frustration. They still hadn't managed to leave the lobby! “It will be interesting to see how the social scene differs from London.”
“Oh, you must tell us what is currently in fashion,” Lady Sofia said. She clapped her hands, loudly, and a maid appeared. “Have tea served in the drawing room, chop-chop!”
“Yes, My Lady,” the maid said. Raechel felt a stab of sympathy. She looked young, too young. And there was a nasty bruise on her pale cheek. “Would your guests like to refresh themselves first?”
“I think we would,” Irene said, before Lady Sofia could say a word. “We’ll see you in the drawing room?”
“Of course, of course,” Lady Sofia brayed. “I’ve ordered the very finest in cakes for you.”
She waddled off, snapping orders to the maid. Raechel glanced at Irene, then followed her into the washroom. Her reflection in the mirror looked tired, very tired. Lady Sofia had a point about the dress - she’d donned an old one, knowing that she’d be driving through New York - but really, she needed at least nine hours sleep before facing anyone. And who did Lady Sofia think she was, anyway?
“We need someone who can introduce us to society,” Irene said, curtly. “Lady Sofia fitted the bill.”
Raechel washed her face then glared at her reflection. “If that ... loud cow is the one who introduces us,” she muttered, “we’ll be the most hated people in the colonies within the week.”
“She has connections,” Irene pointed out. “And you should know it.”
“Yeah,” Raechel said. Someone as annoying as Lady Sofia wouldn't have been welcome in polite society without very good connections. “And did she really know my father?”
“They could have met, while Lord Slater was in America,” Irene said. “Lady Sofia has been here for the last decade, ever since leaving London.”
“She probably got kicked out,” Raechel said. “She’s not going to be sleeping here, is she?”
“I doubt it,” Irene said. “I paid enough to get this house to ourselves.”
Her voice hardened. “And be careful what you say,” she added. “A woman like her will remember any rudeness for many years to come.”
She led the way back out of the washroom and down into the drawing room. An immense sweet table sat against one wall, groaning under the weight of pastries and cream cakes, while a smaller table held a silver kettle and a jug of milk. Raechel wanted to shake her head in disbelief at the display, wondering just how many guests Lady Sofia had invited. A display of wealth was one thing, but offering so many cakes that they couldn't possibly be eaten ...
Lady Sofia must be rich, she thought, as she took a comfortable seat. A woman who was
both wealthy - and in control of her wealth - and well-connected would be welcome anywhere. She felt a stab of bitter resentment, before reminding herself she didn’t know about Sofia’s life. Or her husband must not care about how much his wife spends.
“You must tell me what is in fashion at the moment,” Lady Sofia said, passing Raechel a plate piled high with cakes. “We hear so little from London.”
“I believe long dresses have come back into fashion,” Irene said. “And economy is the watchword, with the war underway.”
Raechel was impressed that she managed to say that with a straight face. No one had told polite society that economy was the watchword, not with hemlines so low they scraped the floor and caused no end of incidents. A single aristocratic dress from a fashionable tailor cost enough to keep an entire regiment of soldiers in boots and shoes, if her calculations were even remotely accurate. And, judging by her table, Lady Sofia didn't even know the meaning of the word.
She took a bite from one of the cream cakes and winced at the sweetness. The cake had to be at least half sugar, she decided, as she washed it down hastily with tea. Many of the scones were coated in sugar too ... the sheer expense in wasted food had to be considerable. Maybe the maids would sneak a few home, Raechel thought. Better that than the pastries going to waste.
“Always a good thing,” Lady Sofia said. “Some of the dresses worn at balls these days are quite scandalous. My, you can even see the young lady’s ankles! It causes the heart to race and poor decisions to be made.”
“My mother would have agreed,” Irene said, casually. “Who else will we be meeting at the ball?”
Lady Sofia was a frightful bore, Raechel decided after nearly two uncomfortable hours in the drawing room, but she was a treasure trove of information. She knew every last scandal, every last social mistake, that had been committed in the last decade and she was more than happy to share. Some of the people she talked about had been mentioned in the files - particularly General Paget - but others were new. Raechel didn't know Lord Jackson or Lord Tarleton, yet they were clearly important. And definitely politically active.
“Lord Tarleton is a very old Tory,” Lady Sofia commented. “His wife is a dreadful harridan, while his son is definitely inching towards the Whigs. I fear for his seat in the Lords when the old man passes away. His son is really too old to be kept at his father’s beck and call.”
Raechel found it hard to sympathise - she’d been at her aunt’s beck and call - although she understood how the young man must feel to be trapped permanently in his father’s shadow, unable to do anything of consequence until the old man died. Surely the young man could have gone to sea or joined the army, if he wanted something to do with his life. But Lady Sofia seemed to think that Lord Tarleton wanted his son by his side at all times.
“I’m sure I shall enjoy meeting them,” Irene said. She finished her last pasty - Raechel had no idea where she’d put them - and rose to her feet. “I’m afraid my charge really does need her sleep, My Lady. Would you excuse me while I put her to bed?”
“Of course,” Lady Sofia said. “We can talk beaus when you return.”
Raechel swallowed the words that came to mind as she rose to her feet and followed Irene up the stairs, into a small bedchamber. It was much smaller than the one she’d enjoyed in London, at least when she’d been living outside the city limits, but vastly superior to the cabin on the ship. The bed had been made up neatly for her, while her trunks had been placed on the floor. She was surprised the maids hadn't already started unpacking.
“She is a useful source of information,” Irene said, once the door was closed. “And all of this is very interesting to know.”
“If you say so,” Raechel said. She glanced through a side door and smiled in relief as she saw the bath. She’d washed on the ship, but she still felt grimy. A proper bath would be wonderful. “You’re not going to let her marry me off, are you?”
“Of course not,” Irene said, dryly. “Your guardians would be most upset.”
She shook her head. “Have a bath, if you wish, and then have a long nap,” she ordered, firmly. “I’ll keep her talking longer, if I can. She’s very happy to talk to me.”
“I noticed,” Raechel said. “Why?”
“Because you are a rich heiress and the person who introduces you to your future husband will be sure to reap a vast reward,” Irene said. “Lady Sofia has every incentive to overlook any ... odd ... behaviour from you.”
“Oh,” Raechel said.
Irene gave her a smile, then turned and walked out of the door. Raechel cursed under her breath - the longer she spent with Lady Sofia, the stronger the urge to just say something that would get her tossed out of polite society once and for all - and then turned and walked into the bathroom. It was perfect, complete with hot and cold running water. She hadn't expected such luxury in New York ...
And you are here to perform a job, she reminded herself, as she filled the bath and undressed rapidly. And putting up with Lady Sofia is part of it.
***
There was, by law, a Sorcerers Hall in every British city, Gwen knew. They tended to be mid-sized buildings, places where magicians could register, train with their talents and spend time with other magicians. During her time as Royal Sorceress, Gwen had expanded the facilities in Britain itself to cope with an influx of lower-class magicians and add Healing wards to the buildings. The older magicians had grumbled, but doing some good for the surrounding population had gone a long way towards repairing the damage caused by the deliberate extermination of so many lower-class magicians. But whoever had designed the New York Hall clearly hadn’t heard of her improvements.
She scowled as she took in the brooding building. It looked like a fortress, one of the gothic mansions from the trashy romance novels some of the younger girls passed around when they thought their elders weren't looking, the ones with handsome heroes and ugly villains who always ran, when they realised their plans were foiled. There were no guards outside, unlike Cavendish Hall, but the doors were firmly closed. Clearly, the sole remaining sorcerer in the Americas had shut up shop.
Gritting her teeth, she strode over to the door and tapped, firmly. There was no answer, although she doubted she’d get one. Bracing herself, she reached out with her magic and unlocked the door, allowing it to swing open. Inside, the corridors were dark and shadowy; dust billowed in the air as if no one had entered for years. She summoned her power and created a ball of light, sending it ahead of her to illuminate the darkened corridors. Like Cavendish Hall, the corridors were lined with portraits of magicians who’d fallen in the line of duty. She couldn't help noticing that several places had clearly been cleared for new portraits.
A voice quavered out of the darkness, echoing down the corridor. “Who’s there?”
Gwen frowned. “Lady Gwen, Royal Sorceress,” she called back, reaching out with her magic. Someone was sitting in the far room, surrounded by a haze of magic. She heard something clinking in the darkness as she walked forward and gathered her magic around her in a protective shroud. If it was an ambush of some kind, she’d trigger it the moment she walked into the room. “I’ve been sent to help.”
“Help,” the voice said. It - he - sounded sodden. “You’re here to help!”
“Yes, I am,” Gwen said. She cast the light ahead of her as she stepped into the far room. A middle-aged man was sitting at a table, surrounded by a pile of bottles. Judging from the sight, he’d been drinking steadily for hours, perhaps days. Gwen was morbidly impressed he hadn't collapsed completely. “And you are?”
The man giggled. “Captain Harry Wayne, Blazer,” he said. It was hard to be sure, but his accent was a strange mix of British and American. “Not that there’s anyone left to command, My Lady.”
Gwen stalked over to the windows and pulled open the slats, allowing light to shine into the room. Wayne groaned, shielding his eyes, as she turned back to get a good look at him for the first time.
He wasn't exactly ugly, but his face was flushed and covered in dark stubble, while his uniform was torn and stained. She cursed herself for not having paid more attention to the New York Hall before going to Russia. Clearly, things had been getting out of hand long before the mass poisoning.
“We’ll find others,” Gwen said. “What happened to the servants?”
“Hung, My Lady,” Wayne said. He giggled again, lifting a bottle in an ironic toast. “They all danced in the air as their necks broke, save the traitor. Bastard fled so quickly we couldn't catch him.”
Gwen closed her eyes for a long moment. “Put down the bottle,” she said, firmly. “Go have a shave, a bath and then get into a clean uniform.”
“You’re a lot more bossy than Master Thomas,” Wayne said. He held the bottle in front of his lips, mocking her. “Do you know what he said to me?”
Sons of Liberty Page 12