Sons of Liberty (28 page)

She pushed the thought aside as several other guests arrived in quick succession. Lady Summer, with her daughter; Lady Campbell, looking pleased; Lady Seymour, followed by Jane and two younger girls who made a beeline for the pastry table. Jane met Raechel’s eyes, briefly; Raechel felt, yet again, a faint tingle at the back of her mind. She allowed her tension to rise, very briefly, as Lady Summer was shown into the room. The heavyset woman might have been a loyalist, but she fitted in well. But then, most of the older generation were loyalists.

And Jane will have felt my tension, Raechel thought, as the maids began to serve tea. She knows what it must mean.

“
My husband has gone to war,” Lady Ford said. “I’m quite worried about him.”

“
There’s no reason to worry,” Lady Summer said. “The French may have caused a great deal of damage, but they will be driven back to New Orleans with ease, once the redcoats get there.”

Raechel concealed her amusement with an effort as the conversation flowed backwards and forwards. The women all seemed strikingly complacent, even though they had to have seen the troops surrounding the Viceregal Palace and warships prowling in the waters below Manhattan. None of them seemed to seriously believe the French could reach New York, even though the British redcoats had had no trouble storming the city from the waters and putting an end to the revolution. She could only hope they were right.

And Jane is just sitting here, listening, she thought, grimly. Anything these ladies know, the Sons of Liberty will know too.

“
I have an announcement to make,” Irene said. Her calm statement caused silence to fall like a thunderclap. They'd all known the true purpose of this tea party, whatever else might be discussed before reaching the real business. “As you know, my charge” - she nodded at Raechel - “came here to find a suitable husband.”

Raechel froze. It was easy to pretend to feel fear. She knew how she would have felt if everything had been real. This was the moment when she was passed from one family to the other, as if she was nothing more than property. Jane gave her a sharp glance as the older women smiled, their kind expressions hiding their rapid calculations. Whoever married Raechel would have access to the Slater fortune, as well as ties to several of the most prominent families in England. It would shift the balance of power in the ton.

“
A number of offers have been made,” Irene continued, drawing the moment out as long as possible. “I sent messages home to her guardians, outlining the very best of the offers, as well as my impressions of the whole affair. They have finally consented to allow her to accept one of those offers.”

Raechel forced herself to keep feeling fear, as well as a nameless dread. She didn't even know who had been making offers, let alone which offer had been accepted. A boy her age, or a year or two either way ... or a gentleman so old she could be his granddaughter? It was quite possible ...

“
It gives me great pleasure to say that Raechel Slater-Standish will marry Byron Campbell,” Irene concluded. “The engagement will be formally announced later today and, after a suitable contract has been drawn up, the date of the wedding will be set.”

“
No,” Raechel said. It was terrifyingly easy to lose herself in the pretence. Panic bubbled along the edges of her mind, tearing at her rationality. “He’s too old! I won’t marry him!”

Lady Campbell coughed, loudly. “I beg your pardon?”

“
I won’t marry him,” Raechel stammered. Bryon Campbell was ten years her senior. That might not have been a problem - she could have been engaged to a man older than her father or uncle - but who in their right mind would want Lady Campbell as a mother-in-law? “I don’t even know him.”

“
Young lady,” Irene said, warningly. “You are making a scene!”

“
I won’t marry him,” Raechel repeated. She rose. “I won’t!”

“
The decision has been made,” Irene told her. She played her role well. “And your guardians have already given their consent.”

“
They just want my money,” Raechel shouted. Tears - real tears - were streaming down her face. “They just want ...”

Irene rose in one smooth motion, caught her arm and spun her around, landing a sharp smack on Raechel’s bottom. Raechel yelped, in pain and shock that was only half-feigned. No one would have batted an eyelash if Irene had beaten her, but doing it in public was unusual. It was a tacit admission that she couldn't keep the younger girl under control.

“
Go up to your room,” she ordered, holding Raechel’s wrist tight enough to hurt. It was easy to feel apprehension, after hearing the same thing from her aunt far too many times. “I expect you to be ready when I come.”

Raechel fled, blasting thoughts of shame and fear - and grim determination - into the ether. If Jane was anything like as capable as Irene, she might have been leaning away from Raechel, her senses overwhelmed by the torrent of emotion. But she’d pick up on Raechel’s desire to flee, to just get away from her chaperone. And after the announcement of who Raechel would marry, she’d have a very good motive to help.

“
I apologise for my charge’s behaviour,” Irene said, her voice carrying along the corridor as Raechel kept moving. “Please rest assured that she will be marrying Bryon Campbell.”

Maybe not, Raechel thought. Instead of running upstairs, she grabbed her cloak and made her way to the backdoor. They might think I’d be a bad influence on the poor boy.

She smirked at the thought, then sobered. There was a lot of money at stake, after all, as well as a great deal of influence. She doubted Bryon would be given any more of a choice than herself, if the match had been real. But then, he had far more options to enjoy life than a wife ... pushing the thought aside, she hurried out the backdoor and past a handful of coaches. If everything went according to plan, Irene would have dismissed the younger girls - including Jane - while keeping the adults in the parlour. Jane should be able to slip out very quickly ...

Too many moving parts in this plan, Raechel told herself, as she hastily rebuilt her mental layers. Jane had to believe she was running from an arranged marriage - and even though she might have wanted to believe it, she would still be careful. And it could all fall apart if I say the wrong thing at the wrong time.

She glanced from carriage to carriage, silently praying that nothing would go wrong, then stopped outside the Seymour carriage. The coat of arms on the side was easy to recognise; Irene had told her, only partly in jest, that men would spend fortunes just to have the right to claim a coat of arms for themselves. She passed the coachman a shilling, explained she was travelling home with Jane and climbed into the vehicle. The driver would have made more of a fuss, she was sure, if there was anything worth stealing in the cab.

It was nearly ten minutes before the door opened, revealing Jane. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw Raechel, but she made no move to have her thrown out of the carriage. Instead, she nodded shortly and called out a command to the driver, before sitting down facing Raechel. The carriage rocked to life, heading away from the building. Raechel couldn't help a twinge of regret and fear, which she forced down savagely. She was committed.

“
So,” Jane said. She sounded serious, all of a sudden. “You don't want to marry Byron, do you?”

“
No,” Raechel said. She felt the tingle again and concentrated on her mental layers, silently grateful that Irene had made her work so hard on building her defences. “He’s not who I want to marry. I don’t want to marry anyone.”

She met Jane’s eyes, pleadingly. “And you said you could help.”

“
We can, yes,” Jane said. “Do you have any access to your legacy?”

“
No,” Raechel said, truthfully. The Sons gained, didn't they, from keeping her money out of loyalist hands? “We have some money in the funds, but I have no access to it. Irene” - she projected a mixture of irritation and fear - “kept the key solidly in her name. I won’t have any money of my own until I turn twenty-five.”

Jane thought for a moment. “And you’re prepared to commit yourself to run?”

“
I won’t marry a man I don't want,” Raechel said. “And I don’t care what I have to do to avoid it.”

“
There’s a place you can go,” Jane said. She lowered her voice. “You’ll be a long way from your ... chaperone. But you will have to work. There are no free lunches here.”

“I understand,” Raechel said.

Jane smirked. “I would be surprised if you did,” she said. “You might want to go back to your chaperone in a hurry.”

The carriage lurched to a stop. “If you want to go back, now’s your last chance,” Jane warned. “There won’t be any going back afterwards for quite some time.”

“
I can't go back,” Raechel said. “Irene will kill me.”

“
She won’t kill you,” Jane said. There was a faint hint of amusement in her voice. “I imagine you’ll have some trouble sitting down for a while, but you have to be alive to make your wedding vows. Lady Campbell offered her a thousand pounds to make the match.”

Raechel barely needed to fake the hot flash of anger. A thousand pounds was a staggering sum, one Lady Campbell clearly expected to be repaid from Raechel’s legacy. The older lady hadn't given a damn about Raechel’s feelings ...

“
I’m coming,” she said. “Where do we go?”

“
In here,” Jane said. She opened the door. They had parked outside a darkened building, its windows covered with wooden planks. “And I suggest you say nothing until we are finished.”

Raechel nodded, then followed Jane out of the carriage and through a door. Inside, two men were sitting at a table, playing cards. Several others were lying on the floor, snoring loudly; Raechel couldn't help noticing that they all had weapons within easy reach. Jane nodded to the players and hurried Raechel up a flight of stairs, into a smaller room. A wardrobe lay open in front of them, crammed with all manner of clothes. Raechel couldn't help feeling a flash of Déjà Vu, remembering Irene’s cabinet back in London. The Sons clearly followed the same logic as British Intelligence.

“
Get undressed,” Jane ordered. “Remove everything, and I mean everything.”

“But ...”

“Do as I say,” Jane ordered.

Raechel glanced at the door, then removed her dress. She hesitated over the underclothes until Jane cleared her throat loudly. It was easy to summon the embarrassment she’d felt, back when Irene had ordered her to undress too. Jane looked her up and down, then passed her a dark outfit. Raechel stared at it, but Jane was remorseless. By the time she was dressed, she looked like a low-class girl. Even her hair had been tied up in a tight bun and hidden under a cap.

“
Very good,” Jane said. “And, more importantly, you won’t look out of place on the docks.”

Raechel shifted, uncomfortably, as Jane examined every last inch of her. The outfit was icky - there was a faint smell of fish surrounding it - and itchy, but she knew she had no choice. If she looked like this, no search party from the upper region of New York was going to spot her. No one was going to pay any attention to her until the sun started to go down.

“
The men will escort you to the ship,” Jane added. “They’ll give you basic tasks to do, once you're away from New York. You shouldn't have any problem with them or the other receipts until you reach the camp. They’ll tell you what to do there.”

She clapped Raechel on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said, as Raechel projected unease and concern at her. “You’ll be fine. And your dear chaperone will end up looking very bad indeed.”

“
Yeah,” Raechel said. “She’ll never pick up my trail.”

And she hoped to hell, as Jane led her back down the stairs, that she was wrong.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I was expecting more trouble,” Jackson said.

Gwen nodded in agreement. The trip had grown from five days to nine, not entirely to her surprise, but there had been no contact with the French. She’d found herself relaxing more than was safe, chatting to Jackson when she wasn't helping the magicians master their powers. Bruce had spent most of the time in the cabin, chatting to his two servants. Gwen was mildly surprised he hadn’t tried to talk to her or Jackson, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She watched, grimly, as the train started the final descent towards Amherst. The American countryside had been wilder than anything she’d seen in Britain, patchwork habitations springing up in the midst of untamed countryside, but now the signs of war were all around them. Burned-out farmsteads, looted cropland; they drove past a burning farmhouse without slowing for a moment. Hundreds of refugees were fleeing, some heading south to the city in search of a safety she feared would be elusive, others heading north, following the train tracks to safety. She caught sight of a band of former slaves, laughing as they drank wine straight from the bottle, as their former plantation burned around them. Gwen could only hope that their masters had escaped before it was too late.

“
We’ll be fighting them soon,” Jackson predicted. “Once the French arrive, they’ll hand out weapons and point them at Amherst.”

Gwen nodded. It made sense, a cold brutal sense. The French might have every reason to expend as many of the former slaves as possible, if only to keep from having to feed and house them in the coming years. And every bullet that struck a slave was one that couldn't strike a French soldier. The French had a far larger army than the British, but much of it was in Europe. There was no way of knowing just how reliable their forces in Mexico actually were.