Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Glad to hear it,” Madame Hampton said, darkly.

  She picked up a long dark coat and draped it over her arm, then rang the bell. When the foreman arrived, she directed him to bring the carriage around to the front entrance and make ready for departure, then she put a few more questions to Gwen as they waited. It was a shame, she mused out loud, that Gwen couldn’t cook, but it was perhaps unsurprising if she claimed to have worked for someone like Lord Carmichael. He’d had a separate cook to ensure that he received meals precisely how he liked them, rather than trusting it to his daughter’s maid. Gwen’s fictional duties had mainly revolved around his daughter.

  “Just remember to keep your eyes downcast at all times,” Madame Hampton added, as she led the way out to the carriage. “And do precisely as you are told.”

  Gwen winced inwardly as she followed Madame Hampton into the carriage and sat down. She had never been very good at doing what she was told, something her mother had bemoaned regularly when Gwen had been a young girl. But she had obeyed Master Thomas, right up until she’d realised just how far he was prepared to go to stop the Swing. She’d been too horrified to trust or obey him any longer.

  “It’s harder to get good horses these days,” Madame Hampton said. She lifted her eyebrows as the carriage jerked into life. “I trust you know how to ride?”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said. She recalled her cover story and smiled. “My Lord taught me so I could ride with his daughter.”

  Madame Hampton’s lips thinned again as they moved out onto the street, where there were only a handful of carriages making their way down the centre of the road. Gwen wasn’t too surprised. The army was calling up horses as well as men, paying bounties for every horse that was brought into the army barracks and signed over to military authority. Unsurprisingly, horse thieves were having a field day. No one was checking ownership papers too closely, no doubt in the belief that anyone stupid enough to lose a horse didn’t deserve to keep it. In the long run, she suspected it would cause no end of problems, but for the moment there seemed to be nothing anyone could do about it.

  She forced herself to relax as the carriage headed towards Lord Standish’s residence. As an important government minister, he was entitled to a small house in Pall Mall as well as a larger mansion on the outskirts of London. Gwen remembered, suddenly, that her brother David lived in Pall Mall, when he wasn’t with his wife in their own manor. If he saw her ... she shook her head. David was too straight-laced to recognise his sister in maid’s clothing, even though they’d practically grown up together. Imagination had never been one of his strong points.

  But he’s been working for Lord Mycroft, she reminded herself, as shouts from outside suggested that the carriage had almost run over someone in the street. He might be having his mind expanded.

  The carriage lurched again, then came to a halt in front of a large stone building. It was much smaller than any aristocratic hall, but – located at the heart of London – it would be much more expensive than almost anything smaller than a castle outside London. Gwen recalled her father’s complaints about the cost of owning a home in London and smiled at the memory, recalling the time she’d asked why he wanted to live in the city. Her father had spluttered and then explained that London was the capital of the British Empire. As a businessman, even though he might try to hide his occupation, he couldn’t afford to be anywhere else.

  Madame Hampton stepped out of the carriage with all the dignity of her station, waited for Gwen to climb down in a ladylike manner, then strode up to the door and knocked, sharply. Gwen, who had expected her to use the tradesman’s entrance, blinked in surprise, then schooled her features into respectful dispassion as the door opened, revealing a man wearing a butler’s outfit. He was the blackest man Gwen had ever seen, his white teeth glittering as he smiled at them. There was a fashion for negro butlers, Gwen recalled, after the Royal Navy had brought a number of former slaves to London. It was one of the many pointless fashions that occupied her mother’s time.

  “Madame Hampton, here to see Lady Standish,” Madame Hampton said, briskly. “I have brought the new domestic.”

  “Come in,” the butler said. His dark eyes flashed over Gwen, missing nothing. “Her Ladyship is in the study.”

  Gwen kept her face impassive as they walked down a long carpeted corridor, wondering just how much the butler had seen in her. Servants were trained to read faces and body language in ways few aristocrats could match, just so they could tell when their masters and mistresses were in good moods. It was quite possible that the butler – Romulus, according to the file – had realised that something wasn’t quite right about her. Or that he merely thought she wasn’t up to the standards expected of anyone working for the family. Gwen had known butlers who were worse snobs than their masters.

  Romulus stopped in front of a door and knocked, sharply. “Madame Hampton, My Lady,” he said. There was a long pause, then he opened the door. “Please, enter.”

  Under other circumstances, Gwen suspected she would have rather liked the study. Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves, while the fourth was decorated with maps and paintings of the vast domains ruled by the British Empire. Many of the books actually looked interesting, which was more than could be said of the books in her father’s study. But she didn’t dare look at the bookshelves when Lady Standish was in the room. Her Ladyship was already rising to her feet, her expression unreadable. Gwen hastily bobbed a curtsey, then looked down at the floor. She couldn’t look up until Lady Standish wanted her to look up.

  “This is Gwen,” Madame Hampton said, after the two women had exchanged insincere greetings. Madame Hampton fell some way short of being Lady Standish’s social equal and that rankled both of the women. “She is experienced in some matters, inexperienced in others, but you will find her suitable.”

  “I should hope so,” Lady Standish said. Her accent was pure aristocracy, without even a trace of anything from outside London. Even Gwen’s mother hadn’t had so perfect an accent; hell, even the King didn’t have such an accent! “Let me see the file.”

  There was a rustle of paper as she took the file and skimmed through it, then stepped forward until she was standing right in front of Gwen. “Look up, girl,” she ordered. “Let me take a look at you.”

  Gwen looked up, careful not to meet Lady Standish’s eyes. She was tall, not much older than Gwen’s mother, with a thin disapproving face, dark red hair shading to grey and an air of absolute certainty that probably irritated everyone who saw her. This was not a woman, Gwen noted, who was likely to have any doubts about herself or her decisions. If she was right, it was all her own work; if she was wrong, it was someone else’s fault. Gwen had met plenty of men and women who shared the same reluctance to admit they could be wrong. Almost all of them came from the aristocracy.

  Lady Standish wore a long black dress, as if she were in mourning. It was loose enough to hide the shape of her body, Gwen noted, but it was surprisingly tight around the woman’s neck. Fashion, Gwen recalled vaguely, fighting down the urge to roll her eyes. She’d banned fashionable outfits at Cavendish Hall, at least for the students, just to prevent it from causing arguments and bad feelings. But Lady Standish wouldn’t hesitate to wear whatever she pleased, setting fashion rather than following it.

  Gwen recalled Lord Mycroft’s brother’s lessons as she covertly scrutinised the older woman, grimly aware that Lady Standish was doing the same to her. This was not a woman used to any form of physical exertion, she deduced; there were no marks on her hands that suggested any form of work, even writing with a pen and ink. On the other hand, her dress would hardly require a maid to don, suggesting that Lady Standish was more practical than she liked to appear. Her hair was pinned up neatly, though, which did suggest a maid. Gwen decided that Lady Standish had once been very proud of her hair and lavished more attention on it than she did on her clothes.

  “You worked for Lord Carmichael,” Lady Standish said, finally.
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  “Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said. Her heartbeat started to race. If Lady Standish was anything like her mother, she would notice any discrepancy and home in on it like sailors homed in on brothels. “I worked for him for two years.”

  “Unfortunate,” Lady Standish observed, coldly. “He would not have taught you anything of how to act in polite society.”

  “No, My Lady,” Gwen agreed. Irene had taught her that it was always better to agree with her mistress, at least as long as she was playing the role of a maid. “I was charged with looking after his daughter.”

  “And he had no wife,” Lady Standish said. She sniffed, rudely. “A man with such a title should always marry again, even if he has a child. She should not have been raised by a man and a man alone.”

  Gwen felt an odd flicker of irritation on behalf of Heather Carmichael. It was true enough that she’d been raised by maids and tutors after her mother had died, but that was true of almost all aristocratic girls. Sons could expect their fathers to play a large role in their education, daughters were lucky if their mothers visited them more than once or twice a week. Gwen’s own mother had spent more time with Gwen, but then Gwen’s reputation had scared away most of the servants.

  “Yes, My Lady,” she said, instead.

  “You looked after his daughter,” Lady Standish said. “What did you do, precisely?”

  Gwen took a breath. “I took care of her, My Lady,” she said. The files had been very detailed on this point. “I was her companion. I escorted her to the schoolroom, accompanied her when she rode out in the countryside and supervised her meetings with other aristocratic children.”

  Lady Standish’s eyes flared. “And did you chaperone her?”

  “My Lady,” Gwen protested. “She was thirteen!”

  “Old enough to have a marriage arranged for her,” Lady Standish observed. She didn’t seem to take any offence at Gwen’s tone, but it wasn’t too surprising. Gwen would have been barred from going into details. “Did you chaperone her?”

  “Her father did not arrange any meetings with potential suitors, My Lady,” Gwen said, feeling sweat trickling down her back. It was uncommon for a girl to be married off at thirteen – the reforms following the Swing had made it illegal – but Lord Carmichael might have organised it, just so he could get back to his work without a daughter underfoot. Or, perhaps, so he could marry again without fearing the daughter’s opinion of her stepmother. “If he had, I would have accompanied her, I am sure.”

  “No doubt,” Lady Standish said. She took another step forward, and another, until she was almost close enough for her nose to press against Gwen’s forehead. Gwen had to fight to avoid taking a step backwards. “Your duties will include serving as a chaperone for our ward. You will not take orders from her that would leave her alone in a compromising position. Do you understand me?”

  Alone with men, Gwen thought. She understood, all right. Judging from the reports, Raechel Slater-Standish was incredibly driven to spend as much time away from her family as possible. It was an impulse Gwen understood very well. Hell, she shared it. She’d barely given her family a backwards glance when she’d moved into Cavendish Hall ... and they, too, had practically allowed Master Thomas to adopt her without even trying to fight. They’d come to regret that, afterwards.

  But, without magic and with a sizeable bank account of her own, Raechel could easily get into a great deal of trouble. A young buck might manage to seduce her, then get her pregnant, just to force her to marry him. And, when he did, control over her money would pass to him. Lady Mary’s extensive report had noted that Raechel’s control over her own money was dependent on her remaining unmarried. Her family’s will specifically stated that it was only hers for as long as she remained single.

  “I understand, My Lady,” Gwen said, recalling one of the more unpleasant cases Lord Mycroft’s brother had told her about. A young lady had been kept unmarried by her family because, as long as she was unmarried, they controlled her money. “Your orders take precedence.”

  “If the situation becomes unpleasant, you are to drag her out,” Lady Standish continued. “And you will report to me as soon as she is back home and safe.”

  Gwen winced. This time, she knew it showed on her face.

  If she’d been a real maid, the orders would have been nightmarish – and trying to carry them out would have been worse. Raechel could make her life miserable in a hundred tiny ways, from leaving messes for Gwen to clear up to simply badmouthing her to Lady Standish. And, if she did manage to slip off with a young man, Gwen would get the blame. At best, she’d be in real trouble and have her pay docked. But, at worst, she would be summarily fired.

  That’s why they insisted on giving me a history with young girls, she thought, sourly. But Heather had been thirteen, young enough to be biddable, thanks to the age gap between her and her maid. Raechel was eighteen, a year older than Gwen herself ... and probably not inclined to listen to someone she knew would be spying on her. Gwen might not be under her direct orders, but it could still get unpleasant. Very unpleasant.

  “If she refuses to cooperate,” Lady Standish added, “you will take whatever steps you deem necessary.”

  She nodded to Romulus before Gwen could ask for specifics. “Take Gwen to the servant’s quarters and introduce her to Janet,” she ordered. “I shall expect them both to wait on us at suppertime.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Romulus said. He looked at Gwen, then gave her a half-smile. “If you will come with me ...”

  Gwen curtseyed again to Lady Standish and Madame Hampton, then followed Romulus out of the room. The door closed behind the aristocratic women with an ominous thud.

  “A word of warning,” Romulus said, once they were safely out of earshot. “Lady Raechel is no easy person to handle. But she does have a sense of justice.”

  Gwen frowned. What the hell was that meant to mean?

  “But Her Ladyship expects the very best from everyone,” he added. “Don’t fail her.”

  Chapter Nine

  Olivia slept very poorly after her meeting with Gregory. Her dreams were full of crawling hordes of undead, the nightmare she remembered from London, but made worse by the whispering that followed her as she tried to flee. Normal people, mundanes and other magicians, heard nothing from the undead but moans. The researchers, according to Gwen, believed that the moaning was a form of communication. After all, the greater the number of undead, the greater the level of intelligence they showed.

  But Olivia knew better. In her nightmares, as on the streets of London, she could hear the whispers, the endless chant of the undead. She couldn’t make out any words, but the sense was unmistakable. The undead wanted to kill everyone, to build an army so large that they were utterly unstoppable. There was no way to negotiate with such creatures, no way to talk them out of their ambitions. All the living could do was destroy them all and hope they never rose again.

  She jerked awake and stared around the dim room, cursing her powers under her breath. It had taken her months to get used to Cavendish Hall; she’d almost killed a maid who’d come into her room on the first day, just to light the fire. Even afterwards, when Gwen had pointed out that she was in no danger, she hadn’t been able to relax for a long time. These days, the maids were always careful to knock first and go away if they received no answer. But there was no one in the room.

  Gritting her teeth, she sat upright and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her body ached, both where she’d been beaten by the Cossack and where the cuffs had been wrapped around her wrists. Clearly, she’d been too frozen earlier to feel pain, she decided, as she carefully flexed her muscles. She needed another soak in hot water, she told herself, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Her legs almost buckled beneath her weight and she hastily sat down. The skin, when she looked, showed far too many nasty bruises that had developed overnight.

  There was a knock at the door. Olivia glanced down hastily to make sure she was decent, then called
out for the visitor to come in. The door opened, revealing a pale-skinned girl wearing a long dark dress and carrying a small tray of food. Her hair hung in ringlets down to her shoulders. Olivia looked at her face and recognised the signs of someone who had been beaten into submission, just like the whores she’d seen and feared on the streets. They hadn’t been scary, not in and of themselves, but she’d known she was looking at her future. If Gwen hadn’t adopted her, if she hadn’t had any powers, she would have been forced into the brothels when she could no longer pose as a boy.

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. “Please put it on the table.”

  The girl obeyed, although it was hard to tell if she really understood or was merely following someone else’s orders. Olivia hesitated, then motioned for the girl to sit on the bed facing her. The girl’s face seemed to pale still further, torn between two sets of orders, then she finally complied with Olivia’s wishes and sat down on the bed, smoothing down her dress in one smooth movement. Olivia felt a moment of pity, followed by the angry realisation that she wasn’t the only prisoner in the complex. But then, she’d seen enough of their experiments to know that it could be far worse.

  “My name is Olivia,” she said, remembering the days when she’d been Oliver. Now that she’d filled out, she couldn’t be Oliver any longer. “Do you understand me?”

  The girl hesitated, then nodded, so slightly that Olivia almost missed the motion. It was interesting, she noted, that the girl spoke English – or at least understood English – when the Cossacks had clearly not understood a word she’d said. She rubbed her stomach absently, cursing them under her breath. They hadn’t needed to speak to her to get their point across.

  Olivia smiled at the girl. “What is your name?”

  The answer was so quiet that Olivia had to strain to hear it. “Esther.”