Sons of Liberty (18 page)

The Viceroy took it in stride. “Lord Boone,” he said. “What do you propose I do about the slaves?”

“
Treacherous literature has been found in the slave hovels, again,” Lord Boone proclaimed, his voice echoing through the room. “We had to hang a dozen bucks just to make sure it didn't spread, what?”

“
It’s really very simple,” another man said. He oozed his way into the group, a hint of malicious amusement crossing his face. “The slaves want to be free. And can you blame them?”

“
We take care of them,” Lord Boone thundered. “They shouldn't be learning to read!”

He turned to the Viceroy. “Your Excellency, we need additional troops to watch the slaves,” he said. He didn't seem to be capable of speaking quietly. “The French have been peddling their lies again!”

“
They are not lying,” the second man said. He tapped the side of his chin meaningfully. “I would wager a thousand pounds that your slaves want to be free.”

Lord Boone rounded on him. “The African is unable to even feed himself without help from his betters,” he snarled. “Freedom? They wouldn't know what to do with freedom!”

Gwen rather doubted that was true. Romulus had been a very smart man, held back by the colour of his skin. The slaves might know nothing of the world beyond their plantations, but she didn't blame them for wanting to try to be free. God knew she’d wanted to be free of her parents too ... and there had been times when she’d been able to delude herself that she wasn't their property, something a slave would never be able to forgot.

“
Mark my words,” Lord Boone snarled. “They’ll all be dead in a year after they are freed!”

“
No doubt,” the Viceroy agreed. “Bruce, why don’t you take Lady Gwen onto the dance floor” - the two men stared at her in shock, as if they’d only just realised she was a girl - “while I discuss this matter in private.”

“
Yes, father,” Bruce said. Even his voice was curiously flat, Gwen noted. He held out a hand to Gwen. “If you’ll do me the honour, Lady Gwen?”

Gwen would have preferred not to dance, but she suspected she didn't have a choice. Taking his arm, she allowed him to lead her onto the floor and around the room, moving in tune with the music. He was a surprisingly good dancer, she noted, although that shouldn't really be a surprise. Dancing was so much part of the aristocratic tradition that children learned how to dance from the moment they could walk upright.

“
No one really cares about the slaves,” he said, quietly. “There are factions here - the freemen - who would prefer to just ship them to the French.”

“
And other factions that will fight to keep them,” Gwen guessed, coldly. She closed her eyes in pain. Slaves were property. The anti-slavery campaigners in Britain had been unable to convince Parliament to ban the slave trade, if only because of its economic importance. If nothing else, compensating the slaveowners for their human merchandise would be a major drain on the empire’s resources. “Why?”

“
No one likes change,” Bruce said. He looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time. “I understand you were in London during the Swing?”

“
I was,” Gwen said, curtly. She didn't want to talk about it, but a good relationship with the Viceroy’s son was essential. “It was ... bad.”

“
But the poor rose up and held London for several days,” Bruce said. There was a hint of genuine animation in his voice. “It must have been quite something!”

“
It was nightmarish,” Gwen said. She didn't want to think about rebels ravaging London - or what Master Thomas had done in a desperate attempt to stop them. “Thousands of people died in the fighting. Even now, the city has not recovered.”

“
They won, though,” Bruce added. “Didn’t they?”

Gwen shrugged. The government had made a number of concessions, after the Swing, but how much had life really changed? Universal suffrage and secret ballots hadn’t made that much of a difference, had it? Sure, there were commoner magicians in the Royal Sorcerers Corps and a few more politicians of humble origins, but really ... life had largely gone on as it had before the Swing.

And other things didn't change at all, she thought, darkly. Women are still the property of their families, slaves are still slaves, servants are still beaten and abused by their masters ...

“
I heard a great deal about Jack,” Bruce said. “Was he really a hero?”

“
He died saving Britain from the French,” Gwen lied. It was the official line, afterwards, and there was an immense statue outside Charing Cross to prove it. “He may have been misguided, but he was a true hero.”

She cursed inwardly. Jack might have died stopping the undead - although it had been Olivia who’d stopped them permanently - but the full truth had been carefully buried. Blaming the necromantic outbreak on the French was safer than admitting that the British Government had unleashed the monsters in hopes of bringing the rebellion to a speedy close.

Bruce lifted his eyebrows. “Misguided?”

“
Jack felt - deeply - the plight of the poor,” Gwen said. She still had nightmares about some of the harsh truths he’d shown her, that dreadful night. “He blamed the aristocracy for keeping the poor in such conditions. But I don’t think he had any real plan to shift from occupying London to actually taking control of the country and governing it. He couldn't take power for himself, let alone pass power to the poor.”

“I see,” Bruce said.

Gwen eyed him, darkly. “Why are you so interested in the Swing?”

“
We heard stories, but there was very little reliable,” Bruce said. “I didn't know what to believe.”

“
Jack was a good man and he was a bad man,” Gwen said. Jack had spared her life, when he could have cut her throat with ease and shown her the darkness underpinning the aristocratic world. But he’d also killed dozens of men personally and organised an uprising that had killed thousands more. “That is something you can believe.”

She felt an odd flicker of sympathy for Bruce. His father was the Viceroy, true, but it wasn't a title that would pass down to Rochester’s son when he died. Bruce would inherit a title - and lands as well, unless she was much mistaken - yet it wouldn’t compare to the authority wielded by his father. He was in the odd position of being linked to power, but unable to claim it for himself. Even David had a stronger position than Bruce.

Bruce sighed. “Do you think the Swing was doomed from the start?”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know,” she said, finally. She assumed Jack had had a plan to deal with the regiments outside the city, but she had no idea what it might have been. Had he thought the regiments would mutiny? “I do know that it caused a great deal of damage.”

“
But it achieved some of its aims,” Bruce countered. “Didn’t it?”

“
I suppose,” Gwen said. “But ...”

She broke off as she saw Raechel and Irene appear at the top of the stairs. Raechel wore a long green dress that flattered her body, her red curls falling down in ringlets until they brushed her shoulders. Beside her, Irene looked older, although Gwen would have been hard-pressed to say how. It was something in the way she held herself, Gwen decided, after a long moment. Irene was in her late twenties, yet she walked like an older woman. It was easy to believe she was clinging desperately to what little beauty she had left.

“Lady Irene Darlington and Lady Raechel Slater-Standish,” the announcer called.

Gwen couldn’t help noticing that, in her own way, Raechel drew as much attention as Gwen herself. Older woman eyed her calculatingly, while young men stared and young woman fumed. Raechel wasn't just beautiful, Gwen knew; she was heir to a quite considerable fortune. The man who married her would become instantly wealthy, no matter what the marriage contract said. No one would expect Raechel to deny her husband the use of her money.

And it’s more than just wealth, Gwen thought, as she turned back to Bruce. It’s access to some of the very highest levels of society.

“
I understand you were with her on the voyage,” Bruce said, as the music changed into a slow waltz. “Was she as boring as she looks?”

Gwen blinked in surprise. She hadn't expected that reaction. Bruce was unmarried. Gwen would have bet half her fortune that Rochester had told his son to try to woo Raechel, pointing out that it was a chance to catapult the family up the social ladder. And yet, Bruce wasn't interested? How could he not be interested? Even if he had a taste for the intimate company of men ... well, he’d hardly be the first of that kind to have a marriage that looked perfect, at least from the outside.

“
We had little in common,” Gwen said. As far as anyone outside the government was concerned, she and Raechel were nothing more than acquaintances. “She had to leave England for a while, the poor girl.”

“
Ah,” Bruce said. “And my father seems to wish to speak with you.”

He led Gwen off the dance floor, over to where the Viceroy was standing. Rochester looked irked, Gwen decided, although he was making a determined attempt to hide it. Being caught between two factions couldn't be fun, she knew; she’d certainly been forced to hammer out compromises in Cavendish Hall. And there was much more at stake in America.

“
Bruce will chaperone us,” he muttered, as he led the way to a private room. “Don’t want too many tongues wagging, do we?”

Gwen concealed her amusement with an effort. Rochester was at least three times her age, perhaps older. The thought of his son chaperoning him was just absurd, although maybe the rules were a little different in America. If the women had more freedom, perhaps a man could serve as a chaperone. It wouldn't be the strangest thing she’d seen in her career.

She nodded, shortly, once the door was closed. “Problems with the slaves?”

“
The French are trying to incite them to rise against us,” Rochester said. “Hardly a new problem, but all the worse when we don’t have the troops to spare to guard the slave plantations. Giving them all to the French would solve one problem at the risk of creating several new problems.”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Gwen said.

“
Lord Bristol is a Son,” Rochester added. “I’d bet my life on it.”

Gwen looked up. “A Son?”

“
The Sons of Liberty,” Rochester said. “We thought we’d bested them after the Battle of New York, but they’ve recently begun to resurface. They want to separate America from the British Crown, even though it would be disastrous, if they can't get a joint parliament of their own. And to think they have a handful of MPs in London!”

“
America is a big place, father,” Bruce said. “And London is very far away.”

Rochester snorted. “Anarchists, the lot of them,” he said. “Do they have any idea what will happen if they do manage to cut the links between America and the motherland? The French will invade!”

“
A long period of civil war would be equally disastrous,” Gwen mused. “It hasn't been that long since the Young Pretender tried to claim the throne.”

“
Exactly,” Rochester said. “There are too many seditionist factions, Lady Gwen. Any step I take to favour one of them, or even to impose a settlement, will anger the others.”

He sighed. “Take Lady Gwen back to the dance floor,” he added, glancing at Bruce. “She has a busy day ahead of her tomorrow.”

“I have a report,” Gwen said.

“
Right now, we have to look confident,” the Viceroy said. “A display of weakness now would be disastrous.”

Chapter Fifteen

“
I’m not going to be far away,” Irene had said, just before they’d descended the steps into the ballroom. “But you need to move on your own.”

Raechel had nodded in agreement. Irene would be her chaperone, as far as anyone knew; a chaperone who took her duties so seriously that Raechel had good reason to want to stay as far from her as possible. No one would question Raechel spending hours on the dance floor, moaning and groaning about Irene’s intrusiveness, or Irene herself quietly making the rounds of the older women. They’d assume Irene would have the final say in any developing relationship and, if things were what they seemed, they would have been right.

She walked down the stairs slowly, taking the time to survey the ballroom. Her mother - and later her aunt - had compared formal balls to battlegrounds and, as absurd as it seemed, she had a point. The interactions between the great and the good - women as well as men - shaped politics. A decision taken during a meeting between two aristocrats, nominal enemies, could resolve a problem or end a pointless feud. The American ballroom was smaller than she’d expected, but in every other respect it was identical to the ballrooms she recalled in London, right down to the young folk enjoying themselves while the older folk talked politics.

“
Lady Raechel,” Lady Sofia said. She swept out of the crowd, wearing a long white dress that failed to hide her bulk. “You’re looking good!”

“
Thank you, My Lady,” Raechel said. In truth, the dress was naughty enough to give her a thrill, when she’d worn it for the first time. Even now, looking at hundreds of far more revealing dresses, she couldn't help feeling that she was dancing along the line. “It is a pleasure to be here.”

“
Of course it is,” Lady Sofia said, her smile growing wider. She took Raechel’s arm and pulled her forwards. “Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.”