The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) (40 page)

“She kept asking me about you,” he commented, as Gwen scowled at him. “I told her nothing, of course.”

“She’s a mind-reader,” Gwen muttered back. “She could have pulled the answers out of your mind.”

It should have been impossible, she knew. Simone
was
being escorted. But it was impossible to be sure, either.

She started to pull Sir Charles back onto the dance floor, then stopped.

“Wait for me,” she said, quickly. “There’s someone over there I need to see.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

L
ady Alexandra Milton didn’t look much older than Gwen herself.

Gwen studied her and her cronies before walking up and introducing herself. Lady Alexandra was shorter than Gwen, with long red hair that seemed to blur into her dress, her lips twisted in a permanent sneer. Maybe not a social queen, not yet, but wealthy enough that her eventual rise to power was unquestioned. Her cronies were probably hanging on in the hopes that she wouldn’t forget them after she took her mother’s place.

There was no wedding ring on her finger, but she wasn’t on the dance floor and she wasn’t surrounded by admiring males. Gwen wondered, absently, what
that
meant; even if Lady Alexandra had been ugly as sin, her family and her bank balance would have ensured that she had a stream of admirers. After all, male adultery was winked at, practically condoned... and they would ask who could blame a husband with an ugly wife for looking elsewhere?

“Lady Gwen,” Lady Alexandra said. The calm contempt in her voice made Gwen’s blood boil. “I trust that you will tell your lawyer to back off?”

“No,” Gwen said, tartly.

She had the pleasure of seeing the girl’s eyes open wide, just for a long second. “You... I had my father speak to your father...”

“You tried to have me pressured into not doing my duty,” Gwen said, keeping her voice as cold as ice. “I take my work a little more seriously than
that
.”

She scowled down at Lady Alexandra, daring her to say anything. “I am going to be blunt,” she added. “When your aunt died, you moved quickly and took her collection of jewels – which weren’t entailed, by the way – out of Mortimer Hall, claiming them for yourself. I don’t know why you believed that you were entitled to act in such a manner, but you did; you stole from your Aunt before her body was even in the grave. And then, I think, you brought pressure to bear on the executor of her will. You ensured that her last wishes were not respected.”

“She told me that I could have them,” Lady Alexandra said. “They’re
mine
.”

“Her will says otherwise,” Gwen said. “Did you realise where they were meant to go? Did you calculate that a respectable girl from an aristocratic family would win if the matter ended up in front of a court? After all, the person Lady Mortimer had named was a young black girl – we all know what the court thinks of
niggers
. I’m sure you could make a convincing case that Lady Mortimer was insane when she wrote the will. Or do I do you an injustice?”

“I am merely taking what is mine,” Lady Alexandra insisted. “Look, you know what it’s like to be a young girl. You
need
jewels to boost your status...”

“No, you don’t,” Gwen said, although she knew that Lady Alexandra was partly right. “I’m sure you think that you can drag this out until a year passes – or have the executor removed from his position because Sir Travis died shortly after his mother. Maybe you’re right; maybe you can get a court to rule in favour of the
status quo
. But it isn’t going to go in front of a court.”

She leaned forward until she could feel the girl’s breath on her cheek. “You’re going to surrender the jewels to my lawyer,” she said. “Or I will see to it that your reputation is utterly destroyed.”

Lady Alexandra sneered at her. “You think anyone would listen to you?”

“Think about what I did yesterday,” Gwen said, dryly. “How many of them would
not
listen to me?”

She allowed the idea to filter through the girl’s mind. Right now, Gwen was
popular
. It wouldn’t last, but it would give her the influence to destroy Lady Alexandra, if she decided to push hard. And she suspected that some in Polite Society wondered if she’d stolen Howell’s papers, rather than burning them to ash. It was quite possible that Howell had had something on Lady Alexandra or her family.

“I don’t have time to force it through the courts, so I’m not going to bother,” Gwen added. “Just think how long your position would last if I decided to attack it.”

Lady Alexandra’s face twisted bitterly, then she nodded. “Very well,” she said, sharply. “I will have the jewels delivered to you.”

“There was a list as part of the will,” Gwen reminded her. Absently, she wondered if Lady Mortimer had anticipated that someone would try to steal her jewels. Most aristocratic women were paranoid about losing their jewels; in many cases, it was the only real wealth they had that was indisputably theirs. “I will check it against the list before I do anything else.”

“Of course you will,” Lady Alexandra said. “You have no loyalty, have you?”

It took Gwen several seconds to work out what she meant. “I am loyal to those who deserve my loyalty,” Gwen said, “and they don’t include social queens who sneer at someone who happens to be different from them.”

She nodded politely to the girl’s cronies and walked off, wondering if Lady Alexandra would keep her word or if she would think better of it, once she got back home. A social queen wouldn’t hesitate to ruin someone – or their family – if they thought it benefited them in some way, but the Royal Sorceress had to be more careful. Destroying the Milton Family could have unintended consequences. It wouldn’t be the first time a quarrel in Polite Society had affected the nation as a whole.

Simone stepped out of the crowd and offered her a half-curtsey. “Lady Gwen,” she said, in her whispery voice. “I was hoping to have a chance to speak with you.”

Gwen scowled. Up close, she could smell Simone’s perfume, something fashionable and expensive from France. Polite Society had a love-hate relationship with France, both aping French fashions and condemning French morals, although Gwen suspected that it would be better if it were the other way round. Howell could never have prospered so effectively in Paris, where adultery and fornication were considered part of life.

“Of course,” she said, remembering her duty. “What can I do for you?”

“I must formally protest the presence of your escorts,” Simone said. Her tone seemed unchanged. “They are fogging my mind.”

“You’re trying to read other minds,” Gwen pointed out, although she knew that she could be doing Simone an injustice. No Talker had perfect mental shields. “And we cannot allow you to do that.”

“I suppose not,” Simone said. She didn’t seem inclined to press any further. “You’re quite respected in France.”

Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “I am?”

“A woman rising to a position of power among the English,” Simone said. “That is vanishingly rare in this country.”

“And in France,” Gwen pointed out. The French might give their women more latitude than the British, but political power still rested largely in the hands of men. “We had several queens who ruled in their own right.”

“True,” Simone agreed. “I have been asked to pass on an invitation. My father would like to speak with you in private, later this week. Would it be convenient for you to visit the Embassy?”

“I would have to look at my schedule,” Gwen hedged, wondering just what Talleyrand wanted. He couldn’t want to talk about the murder, could he? “I’ll certainly let you know once I have a free moment.”

She hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering her ever since she’d first met the French Talker. “Are you
really
his daughter?”

The girl’s blush told her the answer. Gwen signed inwardly; some things were definitely universal. A Talker who happened to be a beautiful woman would be a
very
convenient partner for a male diplomat. But why claim that she was his daughter in the first place?

She pushed the question aside, nodded politely to Simone and headed back towards where Sir Charles was waiting. Like her, he’d chosen to go without alcohol; instead, he was drinking juice and chatting to a man Gwen didn’t recognise. He smiled at her as she approached, then introduced Gwen to Lord Percy, Heir to the Duchy of Northumberland. Gwen concealed her private amusement as she waited for them to finish talking. Once, years ago, Lady Mary had considered Lord Percy a possible candidate for Gwen’s hand.

He seems to be smarter than they said
, she thought. Rumour had claimed that Lord Percy couldn’t count to eleven without taking off his socks. On the other hand, nasty rumours flew through Polite Society without regard to the truth.

“Time to dance again,” Sir Charles said, bidding farewell to Lord Percy. “Did you get what you wanted out of her?”

“I think so,” Gwen said, as he led her back onto the dance floor. “What about Lord Percy?”

“His brother-in-law has a... relative who wishes to spend time in India,” Sir Charles said, dryly. “I was telling Lord Percy how India would make a man of his relative, if it didn’t kill him first. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him the story of the naked polo team.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. A relative of unspecified relation was almost certainly an illegitimate child, she knew. Sir Charles would certainly feel more for the bastard than for the legitimate part of the family. Absently, she wondered how Lord Percy’s prim family had ended up with a bastard, before dismissing the thought as silly. It was quite easy to guess the truth.

The evening wore on and couples started to make their departure. Gwen watched Talleyrand from time to time, noticing that he only danced once, while spending most of his time having conversations with wealthy or powerful aristocrats. None of the conversations would be very significant, not if they were being held in a public ballroom, but they would serve the purpose of building up unofficial contacts. Talleyrand had to be looking for someone to replace Sir Travis, now that France needed an unofficial connection more than ever. It might, she realised, be why Talleyrand wanted to see her again.

But he shouldn’t need the Royal Sorceress
, she thought. As much as she hated to admit it, she was a public figure, something Sir Travis had
not
been. People would notice if she went to the French Embassy and then to Whitehall, particularly if she did it more than once.
Maybe I should speak to Lord Mycroft and get an official unofficial contact set up
.

She smiled at the thought, then looked up at Sir Charles. “Did Talleyrand want to talk to you too?”

“He never approached me,” Sir Charles said. He seemed a little surprised by the question. “I don’t think I’m important enough for him.”

And too famous to replace Sir Travis
, Gwen thought, silently grateful that Inspector Lestrade was not in attendance. Keeping him and Sir Charles from killing each other would be difficult.

Sir Charles frowned as he looked around the rapidly emptying room. “Should we go?”

Gwen hesitated, then nodded. Knowing when to leave a ball was a question of timing, rather than anything else; leaving too early could be considered an insult to one’s host, while leaving too late could have other implications. She glanced around for Lady Fairweather, saw her standing with several other women and chatting to them about nothing, and then pulled Sir Charles towards the exit. They could write a note thanking Lady Fairweather for her hospitality later.

Outside, the cold night air brushed against them as they waited for the carriage to come around and pick them up. Gwen found herself inching closer to Sir Charles and cursed herself; being too close to him would cause a scandal, no matter what happened. Of course, going in his carriage would
also
cause talk... for a moment, she thought she understood the attractions of France. Quite a few aristocrats who had lost their reputations ended up in France, where they could do more or less whatever they liked. There were times when Gwen could almost understand Lady Bracknell’s treatment of her daughter. Even the merest glance or sigh could cause a scandal, if seen by the wrong person.

Sir Charles helped her into the carriage, then muttered instructions to the coachman. Gwen shook her head in amused disbelief; Sir Charles had ordered him to take the long route back to Cavendish Hall. She was tempted to lean back and refuse to play, but part of her
wanted
to kiss him – and do much more. It was easy to fall into his arms as the carriage rolled away from Fairweather Hall. His hands suddenly seemed to be everywhere, stroking her back and caressing her breasts through her dress.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, as his hand started to reach under her skirt. “We won’t go too far.”

Gwen hesitated, then pushed his hand away. Part of her body was
demanding
that she let him touch her there, but she couldn’t allow it – not yet. Instead, she moved forward and sat on his knee, allowing him to kiss her again and again. She lost track of time so completely that it was a shock when she realised that they were approaching Cavendish Hall. Sir Charles barely caught her in time to prevent her from falling off his knee and landing on the wooden floor.

“Your makeup is a little smudged, but otherwise you look decent,” he said.
He
didn’t look too decent; his suit was rumpled, while his face was covered in sweat. “And you tore my suit.”

Gwen flushed, then reached into her handbag and found the mirror. Her makeup was
smeared
all over her face... she found a tissue and wiped it all off, before checking again to be sure that she hadn’t missed anything. The dress was definitely rumpled; Gwen seriously considered just throwing it out, before deciding that would be a waste of money. It could be washed and repaired.

“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t sure what she was apologising
for
. The torn suit... or her reluctance to go any further? “Thank you very much for taking me. I had a lovely time.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. He gave her a smile that made her want to kiss him again, even though there was no time left. “I enjoyed myself as well.”