Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  She pulled him into the next compartment, cursing the requirements of decency under her breath. There was little true privacy on the train - and even if there had been, being alone with him would have been used against her at some later date. But she needed to talk with him privately or else it would just cause more problems.

  “I don’t know what your father thinks you can do here,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could. “We’re going to war. Do you do anything remotely warlike?”

  “I shoot,” Bruce said. He sounded mildly offended by her words. “I'm quite a good shot.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Gwen said. Some of the best British snipers were aristocrats who had been shooting birds since they were very young, although that hadn't saved them from gruesome fates when they were overrun and captured by enemy soldiers. “You’ll have your chance to take pot-shots at French soldiers soon.”

  She drew in her breath, wondering if she dared try to Charm him. It would make life so much easier, but the Viceroy would explode with rage when - if - he found out. After what she’d already done, to Major Shaw, it would destroy her career ...

  “Understand this,” she said. “I am in charge of the sorcerers. You are just an observer, nothing more. If you try to interfere with my duties, I will tie you up and feed you bread and water until I can ship you back to your father. If I hear one word about you meddling in any way, I’ll throw you to the French personally. Stay out of the way!”

  “I can always stay here,” Bruce said. He didn't seem particularly concerned by her threats, she noted. He probably thought they were empty. “Father wouldn't mind, I am sure.”

  “I’m not,” Gwen said. She glared at him, willing the young fool to understand. “There’s a rogue magician on the loose, you idiot! He could kill you as easily as you could stamp on a spider.”

  “I can defend myself,” Bruce said. His hand dropped to his belt, revealing a fancy pistol half-hidden in the frills. “I’m armed ...”

  “And a Mover could deflect the bullets with ease.” Gwen said. She resisted the urge, barely, to shake him with her magic, just to show him what a Mover could do. “There will be no further warnings. If you cause me any problems, you’ll spend the rest of the trip in irons.”

  She glared at him one final time, then turned and strode back to her cabin as a whistle blew loudly. The train lurched to life seconds later, dull shudders running through the coach as the engine started to haul the convoy out of the station. Gwen felt a thrill of excitement, mixed with fear. They were finally on their way south ...

  And when we get there, she thought, we might find that we had arrived too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Raechel felt sick.

  She stood naked in front of the mirror, recalling everything Irene had said over the last four days. If she was exposed as a spy, she would be unlikely to survive. Irene had gone into graphic detail of precisely what she could expect, from a quick death to slow torture and rape, perhaps even brainwashing. If the Sons of Liberty had a Charmer, as well as a Mover and a Talker, Raechel might find herself twisted into their servant. The agreements that protected prisoners of war, such as they were, didn't apply to spies.

  Irene had already sent out the invitations, she knew. Society madams like Lady Sofia had probably already guessed what they meant, particularly as Irene - in Raechel’s name - had declined a number of invitations over the last two days. If it had been real, she knew, the countdown to the end of her unmarried life would have already begun. Instead, she felt sick with worry and fear. Irene could play a role effortlessly, on stage, but Raechel wasn't so sure she could be a rebel for weeks or months without slipping.

  “That’s because you are a noblewoman,” Irene had said, when she’d admitted her fears to her mentor. “You’re not really acting.”

  She studied her body for a long moment. Irene’s little exercises had expanded her muscles, although she was nowhere near as muscular as the washerwoman who cleaned their clothes or the cook who produced their food. She’d shaved everywhere below the neck, choosing to run the risk of being branded a scarlet woman, and washed herself thoroughly. Bracing herself, she opened the wardrobe and pulled out her costume. The dress looked no different from any of the countless others she had worn, over the years, but it had been carefully tailored to allow her to move freely. She pulled on her underwear, remembering all the times she’d allowed a man to reach under her clothes and into her privates, then donned the dress and checked her appearance in the mirror. The blue dress looked a little odd, set against her hair, but Irene had assured her that unfamiliarity was good. If she got too comfortable, all hell was likely to break loose.

  And concentrate on keeping the mental layers in place, she reminded herself. It was odd - she had to both believe her own lies and at the same time recognise that they were lies - but she thought she understood it. Getting caught up in one’s role was a very definite advantage when building a mental shield. Jane cannot be allowed to see below the illusions.

  There was a knock at the door. Raechel allowed herself a little twirl, admiring how the material shimmered around her, then turned and opened the door. Irene was standing there, her face impassive. The long dress she wore was designed to suggest both wealth and power, she’d insisted, although it was surprisingly understudied. Raechel couldn’t help thinking that it was the kind of dress that would be worn by a middleman, but she had a feeling that was the point. Irene was a middleman as far as her marriage was concerned.

  “You look decent,” Irene said, finally. “This is pretty much your last chance to back out.”

  “I’m doing it,” Raechel said. Why did everyone seem intent on giving her chances to change her mind? She knew the dangers - her heart was thumping madly, no matter how hard she tried to calm herself - but she’d accepted them. “It isn't as if I’m going to be engaged to Bryon Campbell, is it?”

  “We could always claim it was just a small tea party,” Irene said, wryly.

  She met Raechel’s eyes for a long moment, testing her shields one final time. Raechel held them firmly in place, concentrating on projecting the impression she wanted - needed - to be seen. Irene nodded slowly, then turned and led the way down the stairs. The servants had spent the entire morning getting the parlour ready for the party, piling up enough cakes and teapots to give Lady Sofia a heart attack. Raechel felt oddly calm, as she sat down and rested her hands in her lap. The die was quite definitely cast.

  “I’ll follow you as soon as I can,” Irene said. “But remember everything I told you. Do not assume there will be any help when you need it.”

  Raechel nodded.

  There was a loud knock at the door. The maid opened it, her voice echoing down the corridor. Raechel heard Lady Sofia bossing the maid around, long before she stepped into the parlour and kissed Irene on both cheeks. She was followed by a young girl Raechel didn't recognise, a girl who had to be no older than ten. Raechel couldn't help thinking that she was surprisingly young to be introduced to the ton.

  “My sister’s child, sent up from Philadelphia,” Lady Sofia said, by way of introduction. “I’m showing the poor girl around New York while we wait for news.”

  Raechel hid her amusement with an effort. The French were still hundreds of miles from Amherst, let alone Philadelphia. Sending the poor girl to New York was rather like tossing her into the fire, when she wasn't even in the frying pan! It hadn't escaped her notice, either, that Lady Sofia had neglected to introduce the girl. Clearly, her sister had married beneath her and Lady Sofia had never forgiven it.

  She pushed the thought aside as several other guests arrived in quick succession. Lady Summer, with her daughter; Lady Campbell, looking pleased; Lady Seymour, followed by Jane and two younger girls who made a beeline for the pastry table. Jane met Raechel’s eyes, briefly; Raechel felt, yet again, a faint tingle at the back of her mind. She allowed her tension to rise, very briefly, as Lady Summer was shown into the room. The
heavyset woman might have been a loyalist, but she fitted in well. But then, most of the older generation were loyalists.

  And Jane will have felt my tension, Raechel thought, as the maids began to serve tea. She knows what it must mean.

  “My husband has gone to war,” Lady Ford said. “I’m quite worried about him.”

  “There’s no reason to worry,” Lady Summer said. “The French may have caused a great deal of damage, but they will be driven back to New Orleans with ease, once the redcoats get there.”

  Raechel concealed her amusement with an effort as the conversation flowed backwards and forwards. The women all seemed strikingly complacent, even though they had to have seen the troops surrounding the Viceregal Palace and warships prowling in the waters below Manhattan. None of them seemed to seriously believe the French could reach New York, even though the British redcoats had had no trouble storming the city from the waters and putting an end to the revolution. She could only hope they were right.

  And Jane is just sitting here, listening, she thought, grimly. Anything these ladies know, the Sons of Liberty will know too.

  “I have an announcement to make,” Irene said. Her calm statement caused silence to fall like a thunderclap. They'd all known the true purpose of this tea party, whatever else might be discussed before reaching the real business. “As you know, my charge” - she nodded at Raechel - “came here to find a suitable husband.”

  Raechel froze. It was easy to pretend to feel fear. She knew how she would have felt if everything had been real. This was the moment when she was passed from one family to the other, as if she was nothing more than property. Jane gave her a sharp glance as the older women smiled, their kind expressions hiding their rapid calculations. Whoever married Raechel would have access to the Slater fortune, as well as ties to several of the most prominent families in England. It would shift the balance of power in the ton.

  “A number of offers have been made,” Irene continued, drawing the moment out as long as possible. “I sent messages home to her guardians, outlining the very best of the offers, as well as my impressions of the whole affair. They have finally consented to allow her to accept one of those offers.”

  Raechel forced herself to keep feeling fear, as well as a nameless dread. She didn't even know who had been making offers, let alone which offer had been accepted. A boy her age, or a year or two either way ... or a gentleman so old she could be his granddaughter? It was quite possible ...

  “It gives me great pleasure to say that Raechel Slater-Standish will marry Byron Campbell,” Irene concluded. “The engagement will be formally announced later today and, after a suitable contract has been drawn up, the date of the wedding will be set.”

  “No,” Raechel said. It was terrifyingly easy to lose herself in the pretence. Panic bubbled along the edges of her mind, tearing at her rationality. “He’s too old! I won’t marry him!”

  Lady Campbell coughed, loudly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I won’t marry him,” Raechel stammered. Bryon Campbell was ten years her senior. That might not have been a problem - she could have been engaged to a man older than her father or uncle - but who in their right mind would want Lady Campbell as a mother-in-law? “I don’t even know him.”

  “Young lady,” Irene said, warningly. “You are making a scene!”

  “I won’t marry him,” Raechel repeated. She rose. “I won’t!”

  “The decision has been made,” Irene told her. She played her role well. “And your guardians have already given their consent.”

  “They just want my money,” Raechel shouted. Tears - real tears - were streaming down her face. “They just want ...”

  Irene rose in one smooth motion, caught her arm and spun her around, landing a sharp smack on Raechel’s bottom. Raechel yelped, in pain and shock that was only half-feigned. No one would have batted an eyelash if Irene had beaten her, but doing it in public was unusual. It was a tacit admission that she couldn't keep the younger girl under control.

  “Go up to your room,” she ordered, holding Raechel’s wrist tight enough to hurt. It was easy to feel apprehension, after hearing the same thing from her aunt far too many times. “I expect you to be ready when I come.”

  Raechel fled, blasting thoughts of shame and fear - and grim determination - into the ether. If Jane was anything like as capable as Irene, she might have been leaning away from Raechel, her senses overwhelmed by the torrent of emotion. But she’d pick up on Raechel’s desire to flee, to just get away from her chaperone. And after the announcement of who Raechel would marry, she’d have a very good motive to help.

  “I apologise for my charge’s behaviour,” Irene said, her voice carrying along the corridor as Raechel kept moving. “Please rest assured that she will be marrying Bryon Campbell.”

  Maybe not, Raechel thought. Instead of running upstairs, she grabbed her cloak and made her way to the backdoor. They might think I’d be a bad influence on the poor boy.

  She smirked at the thought, then sobered. There was a lot of money at stake, after all, as well as a great deal of influence. She doubted Bryon would be given any more of a choice than herself, if the match had been real. But then, he had far more options to enjoy life than a wife ... pushing the thought aside, she hurried out the backdoor and past a handful of coaches. If everything went according to plan, Irene would have dismissed the younger girls - including Jane - while keeping the adults in the parlour. Jane should be able to slip out very quickly ...

  Too many moving parts in this plan, Raechel told herself, as she hastily rebuilt her mental layers. Jane had to believe she was running from an arranged marriage - and even though she might have wanted to believe it, she would still be careful. And it could all fall apart if I say the wrong thing at the wrong time.

  She glanced from carriage to carriage, silently praying that nothing would go wrong, then stopped outside the Seymour carriage. The coat of arms on the side was easy to recognise; Irene had told her, only partly in jest, that men would spend fortunes just to have the right to claim a coat of arms for themselves. She passed the coachman a shilling, explained she was travelling home with Jane and climbed into the vehicle. The driver would have made more of a fuss, she was sure, if there was anything worth stealing in the cab.

  It was nearly ten minutes before the door opened, revealing Jane. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw Raechel, but she made no move to have her thrown out of the carriage. Instead, she nodded shortly and called out a command to the driver, before sitting down facing Raechel. The carriage rocked to life, heading away from the building. Raechel couldn't help a twinge of regret and fear, which she forced down savagely. She was committed.

  “So,” Jane said. She sounded serious, all of a sudden. “You don't want to marry Byron, do you?”

  “No,” Raechel said. She felt the tingle again and concentrated on her mental layers, silently grateful that Irene had made her work so hard on building her defences. “He’s not who I want to marry. I don’t want to marry anyone.”

  She met Jane’s eyes, pleadingly. “And you said you could help.”

  “We can, yes,” Jane said. “Do you have any access to your legacy?”

  “No,” Raechel said, truthfully. The Sons gained, didn't they, from keeping her money out of loyalist hands? “We have some money in the funds, but I have no access to it. Irene” - she projected a mixture of irritation and fear - “kept the key solidly in her name. I won’t have any money of my own until I turn twenty-five.”

  Jane thought for a moment. “And you’re prepared to commit yourself to run?”

  “I won’t marry a man I don't want,” Raechel said. “And I don’t care what I have to do to avoid it.”

  “There’s a place you can go,” Jane said. She lowered her voice. “You’ll be a long way from your ... chaperone. But you will have to work. There are no free lunches here.”

  “I understand,” Raechel said.

  Jane smirked.
“I would be surprised if you did,” she said. “You might want to go back to your chaperone in a hurry.”

  The carriage lurched to a stop. “If you want to go back, now’s your last chance,” Jane warned. “There won’t be any going back afterwards for quite some time.”

  “I can't go back,” Raechel said. “Irene will kill me.”

  “She won’t kill you,” Jane said. There was a faint hint of amusement in her voice. “I imagine you’ll have some trouble sitting down for a while, but you have to be alive to make your wedding vows. Lady Campbell offered her a thousand pounds to make the match.”

  Raechel barely needed to fake the hot flash of anger. A thousand pounds was a staggering sum, one Lady Campbell clearly expected to be repaid from Raechel’s legacy. The older lady hadn't given a damn about Raechel’s feelings ...