The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) (43 page)

Sir Charles had made it sound exciting, when he’d been telling her stories. Gwen couldn’t help thinking that Sir Travis sucked the life out of everything he touched, at least judging by his journal. Lady Elizabeth might not have found him such a good husband after all... although he would have had to work hard to be worse than her parents. And besides, a Sensitive would be
sensitive
. He would know when something was wrong with his wife.

Part of the journal discussed returning home and securing Mortimer Hall – one entry, relating to Polly, noted that the girl’s wages would be raised – and then a series of missions to Istanbul. Gwen had read that section before, but she went through it again, hoping to spot something new. But again, all of the detailed comments were written in a manner that seemed designed to confuse the reader. No doubt Sir Travis had intended to decrypt it before actually
publishing
it. Only medical textbooks could get away with being so elliptical.

Sir Travis had a very lonely life
, she realised, as she finished the journal. The last entry seemed to refer to the Airship Treaty, but thanks to the cryptic comments it was impossible to know for sure.
There was hardly anyone he could be near for long
.

It was true of all Sensitives, she knew. Even the most controlled of them were unnaturally aware of their surroundings. Sir Travis had probably refused to hire any other servants because too many of them would make it harder for him to concentrate. And Polly’s youth would work in her favour. She would simply have less of an impact on his mind, just by existing.

And yet he’d somehow managed to serve as a diplomat as well as an intelligence officer.

She looked back at the gap in the journal and shuddered. If she’d reacted so badly to the farms, what would Sir Travis have felt when he’d been locked inside a jail? Gwen had seen the inside of a madhouse, back when Master Thomas had been training her, and she’d picked up some of the impressions permanently burned into the stones. An oriental jail would be so much worse. Sir Travis would have had to be on the verge of madness.

And yet... how had he managed to stay so close to Sir Charles for so long?

Flicking through the journal, she found the first entry concerning Sir Charles and read it for the second time.

Met the most extraordinary young officer; a soldier who reeks of nothing, but calm control. The Viceroy says that Charles Bellingham is one of the most accomplished agents in India and I believe him. He radiates almost nothing at all. This will not last, but we can work together until it ends.

Gwen stared down at the lines, reading them again and again. The less emotional a person was, the less impact they would have on a Sensitive; Sir Charles keeping himself under such tight control would have been very welcome to Sir Travis. But there was more to it than that; he couldn’t be faking it, he had to be actually calm. Or...

She read through the next section and winced.

The Viceroy knighted Charles today, after we made it back from the Fort. No one deserves it more than him; his calm in the face of adversity saved us both. It was my pleasure to agree to share another mission with him, heading northwards towards Afghanistan. No two sources agree on what we will find there, but Charles is confident. Nothing is quite as dangerous as London, he says.

There were several other references to Sir Charles further on, including one that came just after the escape from Bukhara, written in a very shaky hand.

I am broken. The jail nearly broke me. Were it not for Charles, I would surely have died or gone mad like those poor souls in Bedlam. The Emir is mad and his sons are worse, steeped in such cruelty and hatred that even the worst slave drivers would have shuddered. I touch a bed and see a woman battered beyond belief, a man sliced apart for nothing more than not bowing low enough when the Emir made his appearance. Madness would have taken me if Charles hadn’t somehow shared his calm with me.

The Viceroy congratulates us and tells us that there is more work to be done. We can go to Tibet or China or even Japan, if we see fit. But I have refused and so has Charles. I can no longer face the world. I will go back to London.

Gwen shivered. For all of his self-control, Sir Travis must have been pushed right to the brink of madness. If he’d snapped while he’d been held prisoner, he would have died in Bukhara. And if Sir Charles hadn’t been there, he would have snapped.

Lord Mycroft wishes me to talk with the Turks. I accept; Turkey is more civilised than Bukhara. I go to Istanbul and talk with them, then come home and talk with Lord Mycroft and his allies. They want a treaty so desperately that I don’t need to use my talent to sense it. I give them what they want.

And the final entry.

The Treaty is written. Let us hope that it passes.

Gwen shook her head slowly. The writer didn’t sound like the Sir Travis everyone had been talking about, although – as a Sensitive – he would have had to have learned very good self-control. Perhaps he’d fooled everyone, even Mycroft or Sir Charles...

The thought struck her like a spray of cold water. Sir Travis had mentioned, several times, that Sir Charles was impressively calm, all the time. No, worse than that; he’d done something to help Sir Travis survive imprisonment in Bukhara. Gwen shivered as it slowly unfolded in her mind. Sir Charles had come out of the farms, yet had shown no signs of magic at all. Or, as sometimes happened with a new talent, they simply hadn’t been recognised.

“No,” she said, out loud.

But the conclusion was inescapable. If Sir Charles had been good at avoiding Sir Travis’s senses, he could easily have sneaked up on his friend and attacked him from behind. The Mover who had opened the door could have been murdered afterwards, along with Hiram Pasha... after leaving the notes taken from Sir Travis in his drawer, just to make it obvious that there had been a link between the two men. And the death of the Mover might have gone unnoticed. No one had
known
that he was a Mover.

Gwen gritted her teeth as she put it all together. Sir Charles had forced his way into the investigation, offering to help... and pointing her towards the Golden Turk, where she’d picked up the account books that suggested that Sir Travis had been taking money from the Turks. He’d betrayed his friend; no doubt he hadn’t known all of the dates when Sir Travis had been in Istanbul. And he’d betrayed Gwen too.

I’ve been made a fool
, she thought, as her temper flared. She’d allowed him to worm his way into her heart, to reach out and kiss her... and do more than kiss her. Lady Mary had aborted her child, but how could Gwen blame her for that mistake when she’d come so close to making it herself? It was worse; she’d
known
what had happened to her mother and yet she’d come so close to repeating her mistake. She’d allowed her desire to blind her.

No one knew, she told herself, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Sir Charles might believe his secret to be safe... yet it would come out, once Gwen shared what she’d discovered with Lord Mycroft. Sir Charles would be hanged for high treason, but Gwen herself would be publicly humiliated. She understood just what Howell’s victims would have felt now, after coming so close to absolute disaster. All the people who’d claimed that a girl couldn’t be Royal Sorceress would come forward to argue that Gwen had proved them right.

She rang the bell. Martha appeared a moment later. “Have my carriage brought round to the front gate,” she ordered. “Then have a messenger come here.”

Martha nodded and withdrew. Gwen scribbled down a short explanation for Lord Mycroft, then attached it to Sir Travis’s journal and the incriminating account books. When the messenger arrived, Gwen passed the whole collection to him with instructions to take it to Whitehall as soon as possible. Lord Mycroft
had
to be informed. No doubt he would be disappointed in Gwen.

She stood up and looked around the study, wondering if she would be allowed to return to Cavendish Hall. They might sack her after the truth came out – and it would, she had no doubt of that. She had sufficient enemies that it would never be allowed to remain a secret... but somehow it no longer mattered. All that mattered was ending the whole affair as quickly as possible.

Shaking her head, she picked up her hat and cane, then walked down the stairs towards the front entrance. Those hoping to waylay her saw the expression on her face and stepped backwards, allowing her to pass unmolested. She paused in the entrance hall, remembering just how proud she’d been the day Master Thomas had brought her to Cavendish Hall... would she be allowed to return?

Maybe not
, she told herself, as she walked outside.
But that isn’t the important problem right now
.

Chapter Thirty-Six

P
eople would probably notice if she took a carriage directly to Sir Charles’s house, Gwen realised as the carriage clattered through the streets of London, but it hardly mattered any longer. Her reputation was going to be in tatters, both personally and professionally – and while she didn’t really care about the personal aspect, she
did
care about losing her professional reputation. But there seemed to be no way to avoid it. She mulled over possibilities for a while, before dismissing them all as impractical.

Maybe I’ll have to flee to France
, she thought, in a moment of dark humour.
Or maybe even go to India myself
.

Sir Charles had rented a large house on the outskirts of London, an odd decision for someone who wanted to carve out a place for himself in Polite Society. Addresses grew more prestigious the closer they were to Whitehall, even though the flats in Pall Mall were little more than a couple of living rooms and a bathroom. They were a far cry from the great houses of the aristocracy, where a building with twenty bedrooms would be considered
small
. But then, she couldn’t fault his choice; it was very hard to do anything in Whitehall without being seen.

“Wait here,” she ordered the coachman. She changed her mind a moment later. “No, take the rest of the day off.”

She watched him driving off, then turned to look at the house. Oddly, it reminded her of Howell’s house, apart from the smaller garden and the complete absence of trees providing cover from prying eyes. Gwen walked up to the gate, hesitated and then pushed the doorbell. There was a long pause before the main door opened and an elderly man walked down towards the gate. Sir Charles’s manservant, Gwen decided, after a moment. Very few men in London would be without a manservant, even if they lacked the funds to hire other servants.

“Lady Gwen,” he said, as he opened the gate. “The Master said you might call.”

Gwen felt her temper flare, forcing her to bite her cheek to keep it under control. Sir Charles had said she might be calling, had he? No doubt he’d believed that Gwen would come so they could make love in private. How arrogant was he to believe she would do that? But she remembered the way her body had felt after they’d kissed for the first time and she knew that he might have been right, had she not realised the truth.

“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. “Please take me to him.”

The interior of Sir Charles’s house was almost barren, with only a handful of artefacts looted from India on display. Sir Charles, she suspected, didn’t entertain guests very often; a conspicuous display of wealth was part and parcel of living in high society. If the wealthy aristocrats had seen his house, even though it was rented, they would have considered him poor – and wealth lasted far longer than fame. Gwen glanced at one of the artefacts, a golden facemask shaped like a demon, and shivered. It was a truly appalling sight.

“I believe that the Master took that from a Thuggi priest,” the manservant informed her, in a tone that suggested that she should be impressed. “The Thugs preyed on their fellow Indians until they were wiped out. Even today, their name is spoken of with fear and hatred.”

Gwen shrugged and allowed him to lead her into a study. Sir Charles sat at a desk, writing in a large journal of his own. Merely seeing him caused her heart to race, setting off a conflicting series of emotions that threatened to undo her. He’d killed his best friend and at least four other people, but she still wanted him.

He turned and smiled at her. This time, she realised that he smiled too much. It was a mask to hide his true feelings, far more suitable than the Indian facemask she’d seen in the hallway... and far harder to see through. Her own admiration for his exploits had blinded her, Gwen reminded herself, again. She could not afford to make the same mistake twice.

“Thank you, Fred,” Sir Charles said. “That will be all.”

The manservant bowed and retreated, closing the door behind her. Gwen looked at him, feeling oddly vulnerable, even though she knew that she should have nothing to fear. But then, merely being alone with an unrelated man was enough to ruin a lady’s reputation... she couldn’t help smiling bitterly as Sir Charles stood upright. After everything she’d been fool enough to do, Polite Society would have problems choosing just what they were going to use to ruin her reputation.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, huskily. “I missed you after the dance.”

He reached for her, but Gwen stepped backwards. “Why did you kill your friend?”

Something flickered through his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Gwen stared at him, trying to feel him out with her senses. She tried not to use that talent – it was weak and imprecise – but there was no choice. He seemed to be nothing, but a void where a person should be. Even the faint disturbance in the air he should have caused as he moved wasn’t there.

“You have magic,” Gwen accused. “Your talent is the
absence
of magic. A Sensitive would not have recognised that you were there, not unless he
looked
at you. And all you had to do was sneak up behind him and club him on the head. You’re a practised fighter; it would have been easy for you to stun or kill him with one blow.”