The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “Others go off to America,” Sir Charles added. “Even after the rebellion, the Americans have been less concerned with status and society than ourselves.”

  Gwen nodded, tiredly. “It’s worse for women,” she whispered. “Apart from a few independent women, most of us are completely dependent upon our husbands.”

  “That might be why your mother chose to abort her child,” Sir Charles pointed out, gently. “What sort of future might he have had if she’d kept him?”

  “At least he would have had a future,” Gwen said. She felt tears prickling at her eyes again as the day’s events finally caught up with her. “All that time she was teaching me how to behave, my mother was hiding a secret. All that time!”

  She found it hard to imagine the scope of Lady Mary’s betrayal. If the truth had come out, Lord Rudolf would have had to divorce her, just to protect his own reputation. And if he’d done that, both Gwen and David would have been threatened with being disowned too; David, at least, looked like their father. But if Lord Rudolf had reason to doubt his wife’s fidelity, he might well have taken the safer step of erasing his children from his family. No doubt he would have justified it to himself by claiming that there was no magic in his family, even if there was magic in Gwen.

  And it would grow worse as time went by. David was married, with a child on the way... what would Laura’s parents say, if they found out that David might be a bastard son? They might insist that their daughter separate herself from her husband, which would leave David’s son without a mother ... or set the stage for a nasty legal battle over custody rights. And Gwen herself...

  Her lips twitched. Master Thomas had effectively adopted her, before his death. Her position would be relatively secure.

  Sir Charles reached for her as she started to cry and pulled her into a hug. For a moment, Gwen resisted... and then allowed his arms to enfold her. Her entire body was shaking as her emotions spun through rage and despair; her stomach suddenly growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since her fight with Howell’s rogue magicians. How much energy had she burned up in the tussle?

  And his lips were suddenly very close to hers.

  Lady Mary would have said that it was improper for a gentleman to hug a lady, particularly when the gentleman wasn’t married to the lady, but Gwen no longer cared what Lady Mary thought. Or anyone else... she leaned up and kissed him, feeling his warm lips pressing against hers. He pulled her forward, gently, and stroked her back as the kisses deepened, one by one. Gwen felt a heartbeat starting to race as she became aware of his comforting presence, calling to her.

  She sighed as his hand reached down to stroke her bottom, then inch around to the front of her jacket. Part of her mind insisted that it wasn’t right, that they were going too far too fast, but she found it hard to care. She wanted to have him, although she was no longer sure if it was because she liked him or because she wanted to lash out at her mother. Bracing herself, she touched his trousers... and felt his maleness underneath. The touch excited her...

  His hand slipped into her jacket and caressed her breast. No one had ever touched her there and the sensation both excited and shocked her, reminding her of reality. They were in a coach heading to Cavendish Hall, with a coachman outside who might just be able to hear what they were doing. And if she was seen by anyone... she pulled back, wondering if he could stop now. Some of the young students at Cavendish Hall had talked about not being able to stop, when they hadn’t realised that she could hear them.

  And then he let her go.

  Part of Gwen’s mind regretted it, instantly. She could pull him to her and allow him to explore her as she explored him; she already knew that he would be willing. But the rest of her knew better... and also knew that his unwillingness to push her spoke well of him. She looked up into his face and saw his eyes shining and felt... something deep within her, as if she were no longer alone against the world.

  “I...”

  “Don’t worry,” Sir Charles assured her, placing one finger on her lips. “We have all the time in the world.”

  Gwen nodded as she fixed her suit, making sure that there was no sign that she had been kissing anyone. Her suit had been rumpled during the fight, but thankfully it was intact; she pulled it closed, unable to repress a shiver as her hand touched where he had touched. She touched her lips gently, feeling a ghostly sensation where he’d kissed her...

  “They’re slightly puffy,” Sir Charles said, softly. “But it fades very quickly.”

  Gwen reached into her handbag and produced a mirror. Peering into it, she muttered an oath; her lips were puffy, her face was flushed and she had clearly been crying. She took out a tissue and wiped her face, wishing that she’d spent more time listening to her mother’s lectures on how a young girl should apply cosmetics. But she’d known that she wouldn’t be going to many balls and hadn’t really bothered to learn.

  “Stop the coach near the hall,” she said, as she finished wiping her eyes. “I’ll fly up and drop into my room through the skylight.”

  Sir Charles frowned. “Won’t they notice...?”

  “After what happened today, I dare say they won’t worry about it,” Gwen said. Maybe she had been wrong to blame her mother. She had Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth as examples of just how badly a premarital affair could go wrong and she still wanted to do it. “I normally sleep before writing up the report the following morning.”

  Sir Charles barked orders to the coachman as Gwen collected herself. Her stomach was still rumbling, demanding food. She’d have to order something as soon as she got into her room; God knew that she didn’t dare eat in the hall, not after everything she’d done. Master Thomas had devised a way of storing magical strength in water, giving himself an unfair advantage against almost everyone, but Gwen had never figured out how he’d done it. All she really knew was that it required a Master to make it work.

  She gave Sir Charles a shy smile as the carriage finally came to a halt. “I... thank you,” she said. She’d been worried that he wouldn’t want to see her again, after he saw what her magic could do, but it seemed that she didn’t have to worry about that. “I’ll see you again soon.”

  “Tomorrow,” Sir Charles said. “It’s the ball, remember?”

  Gwen cursed herself. She’d forgotten.

  “I won’t forget,” she promised. Should she wear a dress or her suit? Queen Elizabeth had never had to worry about such problems, had she? “And I’ll see you at seven in the evening.”

  She dropped out of the coach, gathered her remaining magical strength and levitated herself into the air. Flying had been the first major skill she’d mastered and she still loved the sense of freedom it gave, even though flying over London carried its own risks. She watched as the carriage drove away, then turned and headed towards Cavendish Hall. Master Thomas had installed the skylight to allow him to come and go without being noticed. Gwen had rarely used it. She dropped into the room and rang the bell.

  “Lady Gwen,” Martha said, as she entered. “I...”

  She broke off, staring at Gwen’s face. “I...”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gwen said, feeling her emotions spinning again. What if Martha decided to betray her? Howell had exploited servants who’d been abused ruthlessly. “I need you to get me some food, then run me a bath. I’ll deal with anything else in the morning.”

  “Yes, Milady,” Martha said, with a bow.

  Gwen smiled as she left the room, then looked over at the mirror. It – and the dressing table – had been a present from her mother, just after Gwen had become the Royal Sorceress. There was a small fortune’s worth of cosmetics in the drawers, which Gwen had barely looked at, let alone used. She sat down in front of the mirror and looked at herself. She didn’t recognise the person staring back.

  Normally, she wouldn’t have hesitated to take off her clothes in front of Martha. The maid should have been completely trustworthy, but now... Gwen waited until Martha returned with a plate of co
ld meats and bread, then started to eat as Martha filled the bath and withdrew again. Once the maid was gone, she undressed and looked down at herself. There was a faint red mark on her breast, but nothing else. She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like if they had gone further...

  Shaking her head, she finished the meal and headed for the bathroom. Once she’d washed, she could go to bed. She would have to write a report, but it could wait. By now, Hopkins would probably have reported to his superiors, who would have reported to Lord Mycroft. The destruction of Howell’s papers would be a weight off their minds.

  She smiled as she warmed the water and climbed into the bath. It hadn’t been her first kiss, but close enough – and no one had ever touched her body. Who knew how far they could go?

  Your mother, a voice at the back of her head reminded her. She knows all too well.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Martha brought her breakfast in bed the following morning, which was lucky as Gwen didn’t feel like facing the stares of everyone in the dining hall. Howell had cast a long shadow over the aristocratic world, one that might even have reached into Cavendish Hall. Who knew how many of her subordinates had been in his power?

  “You have hundreds of letters,” Martha said, as she set the tray down beside the bed. She would never have been allowed to bring Gwen breakfast in bed at Crichton Hall, but magicians who overexerted themselves sometimes needed to eat before they got up. “Lady Elizabeth says that most of them are notes of thanks, often unsigned.”

  Gwen smiled. Polite Society, the same Polite Society that had forced her mother to keep her devil-child out of public view, were actually thanking her. She doubted it would last long – she was much more disquieting than Lord Nelson – but for the moment it should buy her some friends and allies. Maybe they’d even start wondering if Gwen had seen any of the papers she’d destroyed.

  “Good,” she said, finally. “Did Lucy send a report from the hospital?”

  “I shall ask Lady Elizabeth,” Martha assured her. “Your face, you’ll be glad to know, is back to normal.”

  Gwen allowed herself a moment of relief. She’d seriously considered summoning Lucy and asking her to hide the evidence, before realising that would cause even more rumours. Her enemies would wonder if she had been seriously hurt in the fight.

  She tucked into breakfast as Martha withdrew, returning a few moments later with a sealed envelope. Gwen opened it and skimmed through it quickly; Lucy had checked Howell, but had been unable to do anything for the blackmailer, who remained in a catatonic state. He had to be fed, watered and washed at the hospital if anyone wanted to keep him alive, she’d concluded. Wherever his mind was, it wasn’t anywhere humans could go and return safely.

  Gwen scribbled a short note on the rear of the letter, ordering Lucy to have Howell killed and then burned to ashes, then gave it to Martha to pass along. It was impossible to regret Howell’s death after she’d seen his stash of secrets – and watched her mother break down in despair as she’d realised that her secret was known to her daughter. Gwen wondered briefly if her father had sent a note, before deciding that she wasn’t going to ask. Instead, she finished her breakfast, washed herself and pulled on a suit. She would have to write a report for Lord Mycroft.

  Martha hadn’t exaggerated about the letters she’d been receiving. Dozens of them had been placed on her desk, others had been stored in boxes on the floor. Gwen picked up a couple of the opened envelopes and read them, shaking her head in disbelief at the florid tones the unnamed writer used to congratulate her. Polite Society was definitely more than a little relieved that Howell was safely dead.

  She sorted through the letters until she found a brief update from Hopkins, who had searched Howell’s house thoroughly.They’d found very little of note, apart from a cellar filled with imported wines from France and Spain. Hopkins had added a note suggesting that Howell might have brought them into the country illegally, without paying the excise tax, but there was no way to be sure. He might just have anticipated war and stocked up on French produce, intending to sell them when the prices skyrocketed after the war began.

  “I think I love you,” Lady Elizabeth’s voice said. Gwen looked up to see her standing in the doorway, holding another pile of letters in her hand. “You freed everyone.”

  “I think so,” Gwen said. She was reasonably sure that Howell hadn’t kept any copies outside his house, but there was no way to be sure. “Do you still want to stay here?”

  “Yes,” Lady Elizabeth said, quickly. “My mother doesn’t come here.”

  Gwen had to smile. “Work through the letters, then put the signed ones aside so I can write a response,” she ordered. “The others can be counted; Doctor Norwell will probably want them for the archives, even if we don’t know who sent them. It’s probably best that we don’t enquire, either.”

  “Probably,” Lady Elizabeth said. She rummaged through her pile of letters, finally producing one that stood out from the others. “Lord Mycroft wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.”

  “Unsurprising,” Gwen said, looking down at the half-written report. “Tell the coachman that I want to go in fifteen minutes. That should be long enough to finish the first draft of the report.”

  She finished writing, dropped the report in her handbag and walked downstairs, pretending to ignore the half-admiring, half-scared glances most of the students seemed to be throwing at her. The reminder that she was a Master Magician – and had just bested three other magicians on her own – might have taught them some respect. She smiled inwardly as she climbed into the coach, remembering the previous night, and ordered the coachman to take her to Whitehall. As always, Lord Mycroft was in his office.

  “Lady Gwen,” he said, looking up from the chessboard. “You seem to have won some more friends and admirers.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said. As far as she could tell, Lord Mycroft was playing against himself. “Why...?”

  “Ambassador Talleyrand plays Chess,” Lord Mycroft said, tapping the board. “He would have become a grandmaster if Chess had been his consuming passion. Instead, he plays with live pieces.”

  “Such as his daughter,” Gwen said.

  “Quite,” Lord Mycroft said. He didn’t take his eyes off the board. “I’ve studied the few games he has played publicly, ever since we started playing Chess as a competitive sport. Talleyrand is deeply conservative, reluctant to advance to the offensive, but equally unwilling to allow himself to surrender the initiative. As such, games against him tend to be slow and unwieldy; there are few moments of consuming drama where one player launches a daring attack on the other. Talleyrand prefers to build up his position and advance slowly, but surely, towards the end.”

  Gwen frowned. “But if he refuses to take the initiative,” she said, slowly, “wouldn’t that mean that he was permanently on the defensive?”

  “Until he turns an opponent’s daring stroke against him,” Lord Mycroft said. “The key to understanding Chess is to realise that it is how the pieces interact that is important, rather than their relative power; even a king can take a queen, if the other player makes a dangerous mistake. Talleyrand plays to weaken, then go for the kill. He has rarely been beaten publicly.”

  He looked up and met her eyes. “Just like in real life,” he added. “Talleyrand is a survivor, never making a mistake that would see him lose everything.”

  Gwen frowned. “And what about yourself?”

  “We have a great deal in common,” Lord Mycroft admitted. “A game between us would be... interesting.”

  “But you already play,” Gwen realised. “Don’t you?”

  Lord Mycroft nodded, then changed the subject. “Unfortunately, the investigation into Sir Travis’s death seems to have run into a brick wall,” he said. “Those of us involved with the secret negotiations have been forced to conclude that Sir Travis might well have been paid by the Turks to ensure that they got a very favourable treaty. The Privy Council will be meeting in f
our days to discuss the matter, but I do not believe that they will recommend that the Airship Treaty be ratified.”

  Gwen winced. “But that doesn’t explain Hiram Pasha’s death,” she said. “Why would he be murdered along with Sir Travis?”

  “We may never know,” Lord Mycroft admitted. “The Airship Treaty was passed to Sir Travis’s superiors before his death. His paymasters may have believed that killing both of them would cut the links between the Treaty and Sir Travis. If the gambling debts remained hidden, there might have been no evidence to suggest that Sir Travis ever had any reason to be grateful to Istanbul.”

  “Sir Charles insists that Sir Travis could not have been a traitor,” Gwen said. “And really – if he wanted to commit treason, he had ample time to do it before we entrusted him with negotiating with the Turks.”

  “Treason is an odd little habit,” Lord Mycroft said. “The American – Arnold – was perhaps the most capable commander the American rebels had at their disposal. And yet they treated him badly, to the point where he saw his chance to return to us and took it. Had he been in command at New York, we might have lost the battle.”

  “Or if Washington had escaped, Arnold might have thought better of treachery,” Gwen said, remembering the lessons successive tutors had tried to hammer into her head. “As it was, he only came over to our side when the war was effectively won.”

  “Howe was always too forgiving,” Lord Mycroft agreed. It was an assessment, Gwen knew, that was shared by many others from that time. “Although, to be fair, the chance to bag the last organised rebel army before it could disperse was worth holding his nose and dealing with a traitor.”

  He shook his head. “Arnold wasn’t the only traitor to jump off a sinking ship – and that is far from the only motive for treason,” he added. “Quite a few German princes made deals with the French that allowed them to keep their crowns and castles, even as they sold their population out to foreign overlords. Other traitors had good reasons to hate the society that had birthed them – or were just greedy and wanted money.”