The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) (39 page)

“It’s a shame your hair is cut so short,” Lady Elizabeth said, as they helped Gwen to undress and started washing her body. “Can you make it grow outwards?”

“No quicker than anyone else,” Gwen said. Maybe a Changer could have extended her hair, but it would have been unacceptably dangerous. “Long hair just kept getting in the way,”

“Black would have been unsuitable,” Martha said, as she produced the dress. “I chose green instead; it’ll go well with your hair, as well as making a fashion statement of sorts.”

Gwen smiled as she saw the dress. It was simple, thankfully; she strongly disliked the complex dresses that forced the wearer to ask for help to dress or undress. Besides, the Royal Sorceress wasn’t expected to wear something too ornate. There was no way of knowing when she’d have to fight. If worst came to worst, she could tear off the dress itself and fight in her underclothes, which were almost as modest

“You won’t be showing off too much,” Martha added, as Gwen pulled the dress over her head. “Maybe you won’t look like a man, but you won’t look too much like a young woman either.”

Gwen looked in the mirror, then nodded. The Trouser Brigade might shock public opinion by wearing tight trousers – and some girls scandalised Polite Society by wearing dresses that revealed their cleavage – but she looked conservative, yet not too feminine. It wouldn’t be good to have people she had to work with thinking of her as feminine, even after she’d proved herself more than once. Men never seemed to like the idea of a woman with more power than themselves.

She smiled, suddenly. Once, years ago, she had considered trying to dress up as a man and sneaking into Oxford of Cambridge. Most of the lectures were barred to women, particularly the ones that interested her – but quite a few women had sneaked in over the years. There had even been a major scandal when Gwen had been a child. Maybe she should have suggested posing as a man to Master Thomas. It might have made it easier to work as the Royal Sorceress.

But I would have had to duck marriage proposals
, she thought, ruefully. She hadn’t realised how many proposals Master Thomas had received until she’d seen his private cabinet. There had been no shortage of ambitious society dames willing to propose that he marry their daughters or granddaughters, even though he’d been an old man. But that might have been the point. Whoever married him might not be out of their twenties by the time he died.

“You look good,” Lady Elizabeth said. She started to work on Gwen’s face, dabbing cosmetics against her cheeks. “Do you really need to carry the weapons?”

Gwen nodded. “If I don’t carry them, I’ll need them,” she said. Besides, after six months, she felt naked without them. “Besides, I might want to kill someone without using magic.”

Lady Elizabeth suddenly frowned. “Will my parents be attending?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen admitted. Guest lists were often published prior to the ball, but she hadn’t had a chance to look at one. “But I would be surprised if they missed it.”

“Tell them that I’m fine and actually doing something useful,” Lady Elizabeth said, softly. “I don’t want to see them again, ever.”

“Forever is a very long time,” Gwen said.

She shook her head, ruefully. They had something in common now, didn’t they? Gwen didn’t want to see her parents again either... no, that was a lie. Part of her mind wanted to mend her relationship with her parents, no matter what they’d done in the past. Lady Mary might have killed Gwen’s half-sibling, but she’d also kept Gwen even after it would have been easier to give her away. And they hadn’t objected when Master Thomas had come to claim Gwen.

Martha steered her back towards the mirror, allowing Gwen to study her reflection. Her face was fashionably pale, showing off her eyes and blonde hair, while the dress fitted her perfectly. The weapons she had on her person were completely invisible. Gwen picked up Master Thomas’s cane and leaned on it, before reluctantly putting it down beside the bed. It couldn’t go with her tonight.

“Perfect,” Martha said, firmly. “I understand that Sir Charles is picking you up from Cavendish Hall?”

Gwen nodded. It might have been wiser to meet up somewhere closer to Fairweather Hall, away from so many prying eyes, but she was making a statement. She would not be bound by convention, no matter how many of society’s grand dames disapproved. Besides, she had good reason to believe that many of society’s queens had their own dark secrets. Who would have thought that Lady Mary could kill her own child?

“The side entrance,” Gwen said. “Once he arrives, I’ll walk downstairs and meet him.”

She was feeling a curious mixture of excitement and nervousness when the guardhouse finally called through to say that Sir Charles had arrived. Gwen shared a look with Lady Elizabeth, then picked up her skirts and walked down the stairs, ignoring the handful of students and tutors she met on the way. A couple of them actually gaped at her, as if they were having problems connecting the dark-clothed Royal Sorceress with the blonde girl in front of them. Her modified suit had the distinct advantage of making her look older.

Lord Nelson was a boy when he took command of a boat
, she reminded herself. Of course, whoever had heard of a
woman
commanding a ship? There were stories of female pirates, but they’d always been disguised as men. It seemed odd that their crewmen would fall for it, yet Gwen knew how easily the male eye could be fooled. Sometimes, just wearing a male outfit was enough to prevent them from looking any closer.

Sir Charles had hired a larger carriage for the evening, she realised, as he stepped down to help her climb into the vehicle. Gwen smiled at him, feeling a sudden urge to take him in her arms and press her lips against his, even though they were in public. But it would have ruined her face as well as her reputation.

“You look wonderful,” he said, as he pulled the door closed. “I trust that I look acceptable?”

Gwen looked at him. He was wearing a white Indian suit, complete with turban, flashing jewels and a sword at his belt. Lady Fairweather had released men from the normally strict rules of fashion, either through a desire to shock or simple boredom; Gwen wondered how many of her guests would have their own Indian outfits. But then, Sir Charles had actually
been
in India. How many of the other guests could make that claim?

“I took it off a nabob who was too dead to complain that I was stealing it,” Sir Charles told her. He tapped one of the gemstones on his lapel. “The natives
love
dressing up and wearing flashy jewels. One particular kingdom had an army that was better dressed than any other, but lacked proper weapons or tactics. We had to force the men not to loot after we smashed the enemy formation and crushed them.”

Gwen shrugged. She, of all people, understood the difference between looking good and actually
being
good.

The ride was surprisingly smooth, allowing her to relax and enjoy his presence. Normally, even on London’s roads, the carriage would have rattled so badly that she would be unable to read or write; she dreaded most of her trips out of the city because she always ended up with a headache when she reached her destination. This time... Sir Charles drew back the curtain, allowing her to see out of the carriage. An odd sense of
déjà vu
ran down her spine as Fairweather Hall came into view.

Jack and Master Thomas had fought, briefly, in Fairweather Hall. The battle hadn’t lasted longer than a few minutes, but between them they had done serious damage to the building’s structural integrity. Gwen had heard that the Fairweather Family had spent thousands of pounds repairing their ancestral home, yet it had taken months before the building was ready for human occupancy. The ball was about announcing their return to society as much as it was about Ambassador Talleyrand.

“It looks intact,” Sir Charles commented. He sounded almost disappointed. “The reports made it sound as though it was a pile of rubble.”

“It wasn’t quite that bad,” Gwen assured him. Still, a few minutes more and the entire building might have collapsed. “And most of the guests survived.”

“He probably didn’t want to kill them,” Sir Charles grunted, as the carriage passed through the gates. “Terror only works if you leave enough people alive to spread the word.”

Gwen allowed him to help her out of the carriage as the driver paused in front of the main entrance. There were others coming all the time; the drivers would wait behind the hall until they were called to come and pick up their passengers. She couldn’t help noticing a handful of people staring at her, but for once they seemed admiring rather than fearful or condemning.

“You seem to be popular,” Sir Charles commented, so quietly that she was the only person who could hear him. “Howell’s death did your reputation no end of good.”

Gwen smiled as they stepped through the entrance and down the steps into the ballroom. It was very different from how she remembered; they’d expanded the room so it could hold hundreds of people, while hanging new chandeliers from the ceiling to cast a brilliant light over the festivities. One long table held food and drink, while a band was playing a merry tune in one corner. Dozens of portraits hung on the walls, reminding the guests that their hosts belonged to a family with a long history. There had been a Fairweather at many a battle, the portraits said, although they missed out a few details. Gwen’s lips twitched; there had been a Fairweather on
both
sides of the Civil War.

“Lady Gwen,” a voice said. Gwen turned to see an older woman, wearing a purple dress that drew the eye, stumbling towards her. “I must congratulate you.”

Gwen winced as the woman gave her a brief hug and kissed the air in front of her cheek, before staggering off into the crowd. Who
was
she? One of her mother’s friends? No,
that
was unlikely. If any of them had known what Lady Mary had done, they would have cut Gwen dead, even if it
hadn’t
been her fault. The sins of the mother were borne by the child, according to Polite Society. It just proved that there was nothing really
polite
about it.

“Well done,” a man said. He saluted her, then reached for her dance card and marked himself in for a dance. “We all owe you.”

Sir Charles elbowed her. “They were Howell’s victims,” he said. “You freed them from a lifetime of fear.”

More and more people stopped to congratulate her as they made their way through the room. Gwen recognised a handful of them, but others were strangers – and yet they all seemed to know her. Sir Charles seemed more amused than the situation deserved, occasionally pointing out one of the wealthier or nobler people who had good reason to thank Gwen. By the time they reached the food table, Gwen was mentally shaking her head in disbelief. How many people had Howell kept in thrall?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. His voice effortlessly echoed through the room. “Ambassador Talleyrand of France and his daughter Simone.”

Gwen turned to watch as Talleyrand descended the stairs to the ballroom. His gait seemed slower, more deliberate, than she had expected, but then he was around the same age as Master Thomas. And, to the best of their knowledge, Talleyrand had no magic to keep him healthy and alive, although some of Lord Mycroft’s intelligence officers had wondered if he had Charm.
Something
had to have kept him in a position of power and influence throughout all of the changes in France. The French suit he wore, cut in the style of Louis XVI, was a droll reminder of his longevity. Gwen couldn’t help wondering how many of the guests understood its significance.

Simone seemed even more waif-like next to her father, if he truly
was
her father. Her face was pale even without cosmetics, while her dark eyes were wide, as if it was the first time she’d seen such a gathering. Gwen winced inwardly, wondering how many young men were going to look into those dark pools and lose themselves, telling the French girl whatever she wanted to hear just to keep her attention. And, as a Talker, she could ask questions and pull the answers from their minds...

Gwen smiled as she saw the two escorts from the Royal Sorcerers Corps. Talleyrand would not have been able to refuse their presence; after all, it was quite possible that Londoners would seek revenge for the undead rampage by attacking the French Ambassador. But it would frustrate the girl’s intelligence-gathering efforts. Every time she opened her mind, she would feel their presence overriding everyone else’s mental signature.

“She’s far too young to be his daughter,” Sir Charles muttered. “And they don’t even
look
alike.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Gwen reminded him. “I don’t look much like
my
father either.”

The Master of Ceremonies started to call the first dance, inviting the couples onto the dance floor. Gwen allowed Sir Charles to lead her onto the floor, keeping one eye on Simone as she gravitated to a middle-aged aristocrat who’d come without an escort. Talleyrand, in the meantime, was chatting to Lady Fairweather and a couple of her cronies, although there was no way to know what they were talking about. It was unlikely that they would be sharing state secrets in public, she decided. But the file had claimed that Talleyrand was a womaniser, with the appetite of a much younger man. Could he really be trying to seduce the hostess in public, in front of her husband?

Stranger things have happened
, she reminded herself, as the dance began.

Sir Charles proved to be a very good dancer, leading her around the floor without ever stepping on her toes. Gwen enjoyed the first two dances more than she expected, before reluctantly letting go of him to allow another man to take her onto the floor. He managed to thank her several more times, leaving Gwen wondering just what Howell had held over his head. She couldn’t help noticing that he seemed
very
relieved to be free of him.

But Simone had managed to lure Sir Charles into a dance...

Gwen felt her temper flare, forcing her to grit her teeth and keep it in check. How
could
he dance with her? She told herself that she was being stupid, that Simone had probably wanted to see if she could read his mind, but she couldn’t help feeling a sense of outrage. The moment the dance finished, she let go of her partner and walked back to Sir Charles, who seemed rather bemused. Simone had let him go and moved on to the next partner.