She smiled. “Or you could join the navy,” she added. “You might just make captain before the end of the war.”
Her smile grew wider. Captains - successful captains - were stars. Men admired them, women threw themselves at them, children wanted to grow up to be them. A captain like Lord Nelson commanded more respect than King George! There was something about a successful warship commander that spoke to the British seafaring soul. Maybe the introduction of ironclad warships would change that, but she doubted it. The navy was the core of Britain’s greatness.
“Too much like hard work,” Bruce said.
Gwen stared at him. “You just want to sit around and do nothing?”
“Why not?” Bruce asked. “What would I gain if I did anything else?”
Gwen pursed her lips. “Self-respect?”
Bruce merely snorted.
Gwen shook her head in disbelief. She’d spent the first eighteen years of her life wanting to do something with her magic, to make something of her life. Bruce was a young man in the prime of his life, with enough connections to ensure that he could enter almost any trade at a very high level, yet he wanted to do nothing? She’d known too many aristocratic young men who’d just wasted their lives, but this ...? Bruce’s children would be lucky if their father left them any lands, when he finally shuffled off the mortal coil.
But he can never live up to his father, she thought, feeling an unwilling stab of sympathy for the young man. Any more than I can ever live up to mine - or Master Thomas.
She leaned back in her seat and watched as the carriage passed through the palace gates. A dozen soldiers were on duty, outside the gates; twenty more were inside, digging defences and sitting weapons. She caught sight of a pair of repeating guns being placed inside a trench before the carriage cantered past and came to a halt, outside the main doors. Five more soldiers were standing guard, their weapons at the ready. It was clear the Viceroy was expecting trouble.
Then we’d better go and see what it is, Gwen thought, as Bruce opened the door. The invasion might have finally begun.
Chapter Eighteen
“Lady Irene,” Lady Summer said. “And Lady Raechel! It has been far too long.”
Raechel kept her face impassive as the door closed behind them, despite feeling as though she’d been basted with sauce and thrown to the lions. Lady Summer might be their host, but she’d invited a dozen other society madams from New York to the party. Any hope of a private chat with their host had faded before they’d even entered the building.
“It is a great pleasure to see you in your natural habitat,” Irene said, playing the middle-aged woman for all it was worth. “We barely had the chance to chat at the ball.”
Raechel fought hard to keep her thoughts under control. Lady Summer had spent hours talking to Irene at the ball - and if she’d wanted to talk to Irene privately, she could have refrained from inviting so many witnesses. Besides, if this was Lady Summer’s natural environment, she was damned if she was marrying into her family. The woman was far too fond of expensive golden knick-knacks for her tastes. A dark-skinned maid poured the tea as Irene and Raechel sat down, then retreated through the door. Raechel wished, devoutly, that she could go with her.
And this is just the first party, she reminded herself, numbly. Her mother had taken her to a few, when she’d been younger, but she hadn't been expected to stay for very long. Even her aunt had known better than to force Raechel to attend for more than a couple of hours. We have a dozen more to attend over the next two weeks.
“My husband is quite interested in opening negotiations,” Lady Summer continued, as she passed Irene a cup of tea. “He feels there is something to be gained by a formal alliance.”
“It would need to be confirmed by Raechel’s guardians,” Irene said, casually. It was almost as if Raechel wasn't there at all. “But they would be interested to hear your offer.”
Raechel smiled, inwardly. Irene had made her research Lady Summer and what she’d turned up had not been inviting. The Summer family - or at least the American branch - was short on both money and common sense. Lady Summer’s husband had massive debts and nothing to pay them with, save for selling off the thousands of slaves who worked his land. Given the near-certainty of a slave revolt when the French came over the borders, Raechel couldn't help thinking that his investment was worth less than nothing.
“Very good,” Lady Summer said. She looked at Raechel. “My daughter and a handful of her friends are downstairs, having their own party. Would you care to join them?”
Irene leaned forward. “Are they chaperoned?”
“My daughter has strict orders not to allow any young man to join them,” Lady Summer said, blithely. She didn't sound the type to suspect her daughter of anything more than mild disobedience. “My son is with his regiment and my husband is currently attending on the Viceroy.”
Begging for money, Raechel thought, nastily.
“Then she may go,” Irene said, grandly. “Raechel, you are not to leave this building without my permission.”
Raechel scowled as she rose. She knew Irene was playing a role, she knew the discussions concerning her marriage would come to nothing ... but it still hurt to be so casually reminded of her formal status. Irene was right, she thought, as Lady Summer rang for the maid and ordered her to escort Raechel to the playroom. It would be so much easier if she gave up her former life and just created and discarded identities at need.
She followed the maid down the corridor and into the playroom. The name would have made her smile, under other circumstances; the room looked more like a cosy sitting room than a place for children to play. No doubt Lady Summer still thought of her daughter as a child, even though she was two years older than Raechel or Gwen. Poor Alison Summer would have real problems getting married too, Raechel suspected. Her husband would be unwilling to take on his father-in-law’s debts.
“Raechel,” Jane called. “I was hoping you’d make it! How are you?”
“Fine, thank you,” Raechel said. There was something about Jane’s enthusiasm that made her smile. “Are you going to introduce me?”
“Of course,” Jane said. She waved a hand at the four other girls in the room. “Alison Summer, our host; Rebecca Fielding, Georgina Blyton and Susan Falcon.”
“Welcome,” Alison said. She gave Raechel a slightly-strained smile. “Are you going to marry my brother?”
“I’ve never met your brother,” Raechel said. If Peter Summer had been at the ball, she’d missed him. “But I don’t think I’m going to marry your brother.”
“How terrible,” Jane said. She gave Raechel another brilliant smile. “But you can still be friends.”
“We can try,” Alison said. She rose. “Would you like some tea before we go out?”
Raechel blinked. “Go out? Go out where?”
“There’s a meeting being held not too far away,” Jane said. A funny tingle ran through Raechel’s mind. “We thought you might like to attend.”
“A meeting,” Raechel repeated. “And we can attend without being caught?”
“They’ll be in discussions for hours,” Alison said, with the same blithe confidence her mother had shown. “Long enough for us to get there and get back.”
“It’s really just across the road,” Rebecca said. “May will tell us if they’re breaking up earlier.”
Raechel felt the tingle for a second time and swore, inwardly. If Irene hadn’t worked her so hard, forcing her to develop her mental shields, she would have missed it completely. A Talker! There was a mind-reader in the room. She kept her shields in place, hoping the illusion of a naive young girl would be convincing. The probe didn't feel anything like as powerful as Irene’s probes, but that didn’t mean it wasn't dangerous. Irene had told her that a weak Charmer could actually be far more effective than a strong one.
“I would love to attend,” she said, trying to project a mixture of excitement and trepidation into her sh
ields. It would be believable, of course. Being caught out of bounds - and unchaperoned - would be disastrous for a London girl. “When are we going?”
“Now, unless you want some tea,” Alison said. “We can take the time to make sure that the oldsters are blathering happily amongst themselves.”
Raechel shook her head. “I don’t think we should take any chances,” she said. “Lady Irene might lose her temper and storm out.”
Jane gave her a sympathetic look. “A harsh chaperone?”
“My uncle and aunt are depending on her,” Raechel lied. But it was a believable lie. “And she’s taken that to heart,”
Her thoughts raced as the girls led her though a maze of corridors and out into the gardens. A chill was settling over the city - clouds were gathering overhead - but none of them seemed concerned as they strolled into the garden, down towards the far wall. Another mansion rose up on the other side ... she concentrated, trying to remember the map Irene had shown her. It was Lord Tarleton’s mansion, if she recalled correctly. And his son was very definitely a dissident.
“I bet you can't do this in London,” Jane said, as they reached a half-hidden door set in the brick wall. “Just pop through a door to visit your friend?”
“Not without an escort, no,” Raechel said, trying to sound uncomfortable. It was easy enough. She was halfway to being convinced that Jane was the Talker. “And out in the countryside ... if you want to visit a friend, you need a horse and carriage.”
She sighed, feeling a sudden stab of pain. Her parents had been decent, certainly better than Gwen’s. She might have been a daughter, but they’d let her ride around the estate ... and even go into the countryside, if she had an escort. Going to London had seemed a treat until she’d had to move in with her aunt and uncle, whereupon it had turned into a prison. There were just too many opportunities for scandal in London.
They passed through the door and hurried to the mansion, where a doorway gaped open invitingly. Alison led the way into the building and down a corridor, into a large room. At least four dozen young men were already there, standing in the room while a dozen other young women leaned against the far wall. Oddly, at least in her experience, two of the men were setting out the teapots and jugs of water. She thought they were servants until she caught a glimpse of their clothes. No servant wore clothes made of such fine cloth.
And they’re pouring the drinks, she thought, numbly. There was no alcohol in sight, as far as she could tell. She’d wondered if she’d wanted into another erotic club, but it looked rather more like a church meeting. Will wonders never cease?
“We have a guest today,” a familiar voice said, as the doors were finally closed. She looked up to see Hamish Tarleton, standing on a chair. He sounded less snooty than before. “Please welcome Lady Raechel Slater-Standish.”
Raechel blushed as a number of glances were thrown in her direction, although there was an undercurrent of ... wariness ... that hung in the air. The crowd didn't seem inclined to welcome her with open arms, even if they weren't inclined to reject her either. Raechel wondered, inwardly, just how much of the whole affair was being staged for her benefit ... had they known she was going to attend? But if Alison had already known she was coming to her mansion, it would be easy enough to pass the word to Hamish Tarleton ...
Her blood ran cold. Whatever was going on, she realised, she’d walked headfirst into deadly danger. If she failed to convince the group that she wouldn't betray them, they’d cut her throat instead of letting her leave peacefully. She’d seen too much - names, faces - to be allowed to run free. Imprisonment was the best she could expect.
“You know why we are here,” Hamish said. “America hangs on a knife-edge. We are a large continent with a growing population, yet we are subject to laws made by men in London. They tell us that we have representation in Parliament, but our MPs are not numerous enough to stop the imposition of policies that hurt our lives, ruin our industries and blight our future. Why should we be subject to men in London?”
He lowered his voice. “Time is pressing,” he added. “The French plan to invade - and invade soon. When they do, our social order will disintegrate. This is our chance - our one chance - to break free of both Britain and France! This is our one chance to seize the power our forefathers surrendered to London!”
Raechel listened, feeling cold, as Hamish continued. The Sons of Liberty were clearly far better organised than the Viceroy suspected, particularly if they included so many aristocratic children. But she could see their point, too. America would never reach its potential when its fate was decided in London, by men who had never been to the colonies. And too many of the American aristocrats had sold out to the British Crown.
“We must claim the rights of freemen,” Hamish concluded. “And for that we must fight!”
“He’s an impressive speaker,” Jane said. She elbowed Raechel in the side as Hamish jumped off the chair and headed over to a pair of young men. “Don’t you think?”
“He is,” Raechel said. She didn't need to pretend to admire the speech. The idea of genuine rights for women was one calculated to appeal to her - and to the other aristocratic women in the room. If she’d been able to inherit her father’s money from the moment he died, she wouldn't have had to live with her aunt and uncle. “Does he mean it?”
“He means every word,” Hamish said.
Raechel jumped. She had been taught to be aware of her surroundings, but Hamish had sneaked up on them without her sensing his presence. Irene would probably have slapped her, if they’d been practicing, just to remind her of the dangers. Hamish merely smiled at her, his gaze open and friendly. It was a far cry from the toff she’d met at the ball.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, feeling an odd twinge of disquiet. “Do you really intend to give the vote to everyone?”
“Of course,” Hamish said. “I believe the original revolution failed because it didn't give the vote to everyone. It lost because it was not firmly rooted in equality.”
And I can believe as much or as little of that as I like, Raechel thought, cynically. She could understand upper-class women doing what they could to assist the poor, even though Irene had poured scorn on the concept, but not simply giving up power. Will you be selling out your allies after the revolution?
She looked up at him. “You’re the son of one of the wealthiest men in the colonies,” she said, challengingly. “Why do you want to overthrow the current order?”
“My father tamely accepts rules intended to keep us in place,” Hamish said. “I could have covered this continent in rail lines by now, if I had the freedom to build factories and design my own engines. But father ... he is too blinded by his title to see the problems.”
He cleared his throat. “But that’s a question for another day,” he added. “Tell me about Lady Gwen.”
Raechel tried not to tense as she felt the tingle at the back of her head, once again. And Jane was standing right there ...
“I only talked to her a handful of times during the voyage,” she said, picking her words carefully. A direct lie would be harder to conceal. “She caught me kissing one of the ship’s officers and told me off for it.”
Hamish snickered. “And why should you not kiss whoever you liked?”
“She spent most of her time with Colonel Jackson,” Raechel continued, trying to convince them that she had no reason to know anything interesting. The tingle was still there. “They played a great deal of chess, when they weren't walking the deck together.”
“Chess,” Jane said. She sounded oddly amused. “Were they lovers?”
“I think he might have been interested in her,” Raechel said. She had never had the chance to ask. “But they were never truly alone together.”
Hamish nodded, slowly. “Do you think she’s a decent person?”
“I think so,” Raechel said.
“And yet, the only thing that gives her power is her power,” Jane said.
There was a hint of bitterness in her tone. “An accident of birth makes her equal to the men. You understand that, don’t you?”
Raechel nodded. It was easy to feel the same bitterness. To be born a woman was to be born property, first of one’s father and then of one’s husband. It might be wrapped up in all manner of fancy words and concepts, but it boiled down to being property. And even if she managed to remain unmarried long enough to inherit in her own right, she would still have far more limitations placed on her, just for being born female. There were only a handful of exceptions ...
And all of them have to pay for their freedom, she thought. Gwen is isolated by her power; Queen Elizabeth could never marry and died alone ...
Raechel kept a tight lock on her emotions as they bombarded more questions off her, the tingle waxing and waning as Jane monitored her reactions. They wanted to know about her family, about the politics in Britain ... thankfully, she knew there was no point in concealing anything about the former and she knew little of the latter. Hamish seemed particularly interested in why the Duke of India had resigned as Prime Minister, just to lead the army into battle one final time, but Raechel knew little of the situation.
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