The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  Gwen scowled. He was right.

  “I have to ask,” she said. Carefully, she infused a little Charm into her voice. “Did you murder Sir Travis?”

  Simone coughed.

  “There are gentlemen’s agreements that Charm is not to be used as part of negotiations,” Talleyrand said, reproachfully. “But you are no gentleman.”

  “No,” Gwen agreed, irked. He’d detected the Charm... or had Simone detected the Charm? Might there be more than one reason he kept her around? “I’m afraid that no one has ever accused me of being a gentleman.”

  Talleyrand didn’t sound offended. “I didn’t murder Sir Travis,” he said. It was impossible to tell if the Charm had affected him or not. “Like I have told you, I gain nothing and lose much from the act.”

  He stood up and bowed. “And I am afraid that I have given you too much of my time,” he added. “I would be interested in meeting you again, Lady Gwen, but in less stressful circumstances. It is quite possible that we could come to a proper understanding.”

  Gwen rose, recognising the dismissal. “Thank you for your time,” she said, sincerely. “And I have enjoyed meeting your daughter too.”

  She held a hand out towards Simone, who hesitated and then took it. Her touch was feather-light, but there was no mistaking the faint tingle that suggested the presence of magic, recognisable to any other magician. She looked up into the girl’s eyes and saw the recognition on her face, followed by a faint touch on Gwen’s mind. A Talker, then... no wonder she’d sensed the Charm.

  “The guards will escort you out,” Talleyrand said. How much of the byplay had he sensed? “And I hope you do find the killer, Lady Gwen. Sir Travis did not deserve to die.”

  Gwen kept her mind tightly shielded until she was out of the embassy and standing on the street. Irene Adler, the most capable Talker in the British Empire, had taught her how to shield her mind, but Gwen lacked the skill of an experienced Talker. How capable was Simone? It was quite possible that Jack had taught her how to use her powers...

  And if she hadn’t coughed, Gwen would never have noticed.

  She walked over to the coachman and scribbled out a short note for Lord Mycroft. He would have to be informed, if only to ensure that Simone didn’t have another chance to read information from an unwitting mind. Given her exotic looks, it was quite probable that she could pull information from besotted officers while they were trying to court her. Irene did precisely the same thing.

  “Take this to Lord Mycroft,” she said, once the note was finished. “Then you can take the rest of the day off.”

  The coachman blinked in surprise. “You won’t want me later, Milady?”

  “It’s a good day,” Gwen said. “I’ll walk.”

  She contemplated the situation as she headed into the centre of London, barely distracted by a mob of children watching an airship as it made its way towards the Thames. Airship service over London had been badly disrupted by Jack hijacking one and using it to raid the Tower of London – making the magicians on guard look like fools in the process. Master Thomas had intended to use the debacle as an excuse to get rid of some dead wood before he’d died. Now, the airships were slowly returning to London town.

  Glisters was a two-story building on the outskirts of Whitehall, managed – Gwen had heard – by an Italian family that had escaped the French invasion that had secured control of Italy. It was a very exclusive restaurant; anyone who wanted to eat there had to book in advance and the staff turned away anyone who hadn’t reserved a table. Gwen suspected that the Royal Sorceress – and certain other very high-ranking people – could demand a table anyway, but it didn’t matter. Sir Charles had already booked for them both.

  “I took the liberty of ordering iced tea, rather than wine,” he said, as she sat down facing him. The booth would provide a limited amount of privacy, as long as they kept their voices low although Gwen was sure that someone would recognise both of them. “I understand that magicians don’t touch wine.”

  “We prefer to avoid it,” Gwen said, touched. No one else had shown her that sort of consideration, even David. “Alcohol can cause magicians to do something stupid.”

  “Just like the rest of us,” Sir Charles pointed out, as the waiter brought them two glasses of iced tea. “There’s a buffet of cold meat, vegetables and bread, if you like that sort of thing, or there’s venison stew... that, I am informed, tastes very good.”

  “It would,” Gwen said. Most people in England could afford pork or chicken, but beef and venison tended to be reserved for the wealthy – venison in particular. Lady Mary had once served venison and then complained that she could have served four whole cows and it would have been cheaper. “The stew would be lovely, I think.”

  Sir Charles ordered, then turned to face her. “How was your meeting with the Frenchman?”

  “Interesting,” Gwen said, neutrally. “Have you ever met Ambassador Talleyrand?”

  “I believe that I saw him once, across a crowded hall,” Sir Charles said, mischievously. “He didn’t pay any attention to me. And why should he? I was just a gentleman adventurer, hardly worthy of his attention.”

  He scowled, suddenly. “Do you think he could have killed Sir Travis?”

  “I think he would have to be insane to try,” Gwen admitted. France would just lose too much if Talleyrand were blamed for the murder – and the only constant in the Ambassador’s career was that he worked for France, always. “Did you know that he’d approached Sir Travis?”

  “I didn’t,” Sir Charles admitted. “But I hadn’t seen Sir Travis before his death, so... I don’t know if he’d spoken to Talleyrand. I can’t see why, though.”

  “The Ambassador claimed that he hoped to enlist Sir Travis in opening up a secret channel to the British Government,” Gwen said. “Does that sound plausible?”

  “If they knew that Sir Travis had... contacts in the government, it might be reasonably plausible,” Sir Charles said. “Otherwise... he was just another nobleman.”

  He thought about it as the waiter returned with two plates of stew. “If they found out, I’d bet good money that it was from someone in the Viceroy’s Palace in India,” he added. “Those idiots never know when to keep their mouths shut. Even the Viceroy had been known to drop a hint or two of secret dealings in the wrong ears from time to time. Did you ever hear of McMurdo?”

  Gwen shook her head.

  “Officially, he was an accountant,” Sir Charles said. “Unofficially, he worked for the Viceroy. There was a Rajah who was having... dealings with the French and McMurdo was charged with discovering enough evidence to allow the Viceroy to act. But someone leaked and the Rajah realised what was happening. McMurdo was brutally murdered and his corpse... was desecrated. The Rajah tried to blame it on the Thugs, but everyone knew the truth.”

  He changed the subject, noticeably. “What are you doing after lunch?”

  “I need to visit Mr. Howell,” Gwen said. “And...”

  Sir Charles stared at her. “I think I’d better come with you,” he said, after a moment. “I can -”

  Gwen scowled at him. “Just who is Howell that everyone is scared of him?”

  Sir Charles hesitated. “I think you should make up your own mind,” he said. “But you really shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Then you can ride with me,” Gwen said. She was sick of the mystery. After she got back to Cavendish Hall, she was going to force an explanation out of someone. “But you’ll have to remain outside the house.”

  “Fine,” Sir Charles said. “But shout if you need me, understand?”

  Gwen allowed magic to flare over her hand, just for a second. “I’m the Royal Sorceress,” she reminded him, as his face was illuminated in a brilliant glow. “What do I have to fear?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The occupants of Hampstead had been lucky, Gwen decided, as the carriage rattled to a halt in front of Howell’s house. They might have been forced to flee as the Swing ravaged Central London,
but they’d escaped having their houses looted for the most part, although a handful of servants had taken the opportunity to rob their masters and vanish into the chaos. Howell’s house was clearly one of the more expensive houses in the district, complete with its own garden and gatehouse. And, she couldn’t help noticing, a handful of private guards.

  “Wait here,” she ordered, as she clambered out of the carriage. “I’ll shout if I need you.”

  She marched over towards the gatehouse before Sir Charles could protest. It was nice to have someone caring for her, but it was also irritating; she’d taken care of herself in much worse circumstances. The guards looked up at her as she approached and frowned, clearly trying to place her. Gwen smiled at them as she reached into her purse and produced her calling card.

  “Lady Gwendolyn Crichton to see Mr. Howell,” she said, briskly. If she had been dealing with another magician, she could just walk into the building – with or without Howell’s permission – but she had no automatic right to face a non-magician. “Please let him know that I’m here.”

  “Certainly, Milady,” one of the guards said. “I shall enquire of the Master.”

  Gwen kept her face impassive as the guard left the guardpost and ran towards the house, leaving her waiting outside the gate. That was rude; protocol dictated that she should have been offered a seat in the guardhouse while waiting to see if Howell would agree to speak with her. Leaving her outside implied that she was unwelcome... which she might well be, she conceded. Very few people wanted to meet the Royal Sorceress.

  The guard took nearly ten minutes to return to the guardpost. “The Master is ill, but will see you,” he informed her, as he pulled open the gate. “If you would please accompany me...”

  Gwen felt her senses twitch as she followed him up the lane and into the house. The farm had been plastered with psychic residue from the hundreds of women who had been confined there against their will, creating impressions that would last for a thousand years. Howell’s house felt... spooky, almost as if she were stepping into another nightmare. And yet, unlike the farm, there was nothing sinister about the building. Indeed, if she hadn’t been the Royal Sorceress, she would have thought that she was imagining it.

  Whatever Howell did for a living, she decided as the butler took over her escort, it had to be very lucrative. His house was littered with paintings and expensive decorations, including several that would have been banned in polite company. He also seemed to have a small army of servants at his beck and call, some of whom eyed her curiously as the butler led her though the house. Gwen’s mother could not have wished for a more aristocratic house.

  And yet Howell was no aristocrat. Gwen was sure of that, if only because she couldn’t imagine an aristocrat with a title refusing to use it. A businessman, perhaps? It was possible, except that a businessman who had seen such great success would almost certainly be offered a knighthood, if not a peerage. The Establishment believed in trying to co-opt talent where possible, even if society’s matrons didn’t really like the idea. They’d sooner marry their daughters to Frenchmen or even Russians before letting them marry a former commoner.

  “The Master is in bed,” the butler informed her, as they stopped outside a heavy wooden door. “Please don’t go near the bed, Milady. You could catch his illness.”

  Gwen nodded, impatiently, as he opened the door and showed her into a darkened room. The only light came from a gas lantern that had been turned down low, barely giving enough light for her to see the man lying in his bed. There was a faint smell of something unpleasant in the room, reminding her of the hospitals Lucy had been setting up for the poor. She hesitated and then cleared her throat. She couldn’t help feeling guilty for disturbing a sick man.

  “Lady Gwendolyn,” Howell croaked. The sheets rustled as he turned to look at her. “I’m sorry not to be in a better state.”

  “I’m sorry to have to disturb you,” Gwen said. She was slowly becoming used to the darkness. “I can arrange a Healer to attend you, if you would wish.”

  “It’s just a cold,” Howell said, after a moment. He sounded rather peevish at the whole suggestion, although Gwen couldn’t understand why. “It will be gone in a few days.”

  Gwen peered at him. Howell didn’t look very dangerous at all, certainly not dangerous enough to scare a man who had gone tiger-hunting in India. He looked rather like a middle-aged uncle, a man secure enough in his own position to offer friendship to his nephews and nieces without reservation. His face was pleasant enough... until she saw his eyes. There was something snake-like about them that sent chills running down her spine.

  “I hope you will get better soon,” she said, as she gathered herself. What could he do to disconcert her? “I need to talk to you about Sir Travis.”

  “I assumed as much,” Howell said. “I read about his death in the paper. Terrible business, My Lady, simply terrible.”

  Gwen nodded in agreement. “I won’t waste your time,” she said, bluntly. “What was your business with Sir Travis?”

  Howell studied her for a long moment, his icy regard making her shiver again. “It was my intention to offer him a loan,” he said, finally. “We were discussing the precise terms of the loan, but failed to come to an agreement.”

  “A loan?” Gwen repeated. “Did he need money?”

  “I assume so,” Howell said, sardonically. “People do not generally try to borrow money unless they have some desperate need of it.”

  Gwen resisted the urge to scowl at him. His story was plausible; there were certainly no shortage of aristocrats who were rich in everything, but money. A title didn’t automatically confer wealth on its holder. And Sir Travis had not been very wealthy. Most of what he’d owned belonged to the family, rather than to him personally. He could not have sold Mortimer House without his family’s permission.

  She looked up at Howell and saw his eyes resting on her face. “And you,” she said, “were going to loan him the money? Is that what you do for a living?”

  Howell smiled, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes. “There are some... individuals who would prefer not to have to ask a bank for a loan,” he said. “Those individuals place discretion ahead of anything else, even security. They eventually come to me.”

  Gwen had listened to her father’s business dealings, back before Master Thomas had offered her the chance to join him. The banks were rarely completely discrete; the bankers shared information with one another, information that eventually leaked out onto the streets. If one aristocrat was heavily indebted to one bank, the other banks might well know it and refuse to loan him anything else. And yet there had been no clue that Sir Travis was indebted to anyone.

  She put that thought to one side for a moment. “And you loan them the money?”

  “Indeed I do,” Howell said. “My repayment schedules are quite generous. And often they have more to trade than simply money.”

  “Sir Travis didn’t have much income,” Gwen mused. She might not have been expected to handle money – if she’d been a normal girl with a normal husband, the husband would have handed all of the money affairs – but she knew enough to know that Sir Travis might have been a bad investment risk. “Why did you want to loan him money?”

  “He called me,” Howell said. He gave her an odd smile. “It was up to him to convince me to loan him money.”

  Gwen gave him a sharp look. Olivia had told her more than she’d ever wanted to know about life in the Rookery – and how loan sharks could bleed a person dry, once they got their claws into someone’s life. Their victims would take out a relatively small loan, but the interest would just keep mounting up until they were forced to take out a second loan just to cover the first one... for a person with limited income, it might be impossible ever to get out of debt. And then the loan sharks would move on to their children.

  “Right,” she said, sharply. “And did he say why he wanted the money?”

  “Of course not,” Howell said. “We merely discussed his abili
ty to repay the loan, should it be made.”

  “I see,” Gwen said. There was nothing illegal in offering to loan someone money, but the whole concept still bothered her. “What did he have to offer?”

  Howell sighed. “Relatively little, I’m afraid,” he said. “He claimed that he was going to marry the daughter of a High Court Judge – and take up a more prestigious position at the Foreign Office. But I am not so inclined to believe vague promises of future wealth, Lady Gwen. I asked him for an agreement that would give his house to me, if he failed to repay on schedule. He refused to provide such an agreement.”

  “He couldn’t have, legally,” Gwen said. “Mortimer Hall belongs to the family.”

  “But they might have been willing to settle,” Howell said. “I would have had a claim on the estate...”

  He shook his head slowly, deliberately. “We failed to come to a meeting of minds,” he added. “I have no claim on his estate.”

  Gwen nodded. “When did you visit him?”

  “The appointment was for ten o’clock,” Howell told her. “I was early, of course. Punctuality is so important.”

  “Ten o’clock,” Gwen repeated. That would suggest that David had been the first visitor, followed by Howell... with Talleyrand the last person to see Sir Travis alive. “Did you happen to notice if anyone else visited that night?”

  “I saw no one,” Howell said. “Indeed, Sir Travis was opening the door himself. That is not a sign of wealth and power.”

  Gwen suspected that Lady Mary would have agreed. The unwritten laws of etiquette insisted that servants – a butler or a housemaid – should meet guests and help them to make themselves presentable before they saw the master or mistress of the house. It was rude to wear a coat when entering a house, but if the servants were the only ones to see it could be overlooked. Polite Society had plenty of rules that were ignored as long as no one actually had to take notice that they were being broken.