Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (9 page)

Irene sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. “It never is,” she said. “Most people don’t pay any attention to maids, but those that do often have bad intentions. You’ll probably find yourself ducking unwanted attention if you’re sighted by the young bucks.”

Gwen shuddered. Courtship among the nobility was a careful process, with the parents involved at every stage ... but young men had options denied to young women. They could go to brothels, find a lover on the side ... or simply mess around with the serving girls. It was, in theory, sinful, but the prospect of committing a sin had never stopped any of the young men she knew. She’d heard too much about their conduct in brothels, the brothels she wasn’t supposed to know about, to take it lightly.

“And what do I do,” she asked, “if they do ... try to attend upon me?”

“If they don’t try to restrain you, say you have to meet your mistress,” Irene said. “If they do, feel free to fight. But try to avoid using magic.”

“That isn’t going to be easy,” Gwen muttered. Magic was part of her now, just as it had been from the very first day she’d used her powers. “I use magic instinctively.”

“That’s the problem,” Irene said. “If you use magic, you can bet your last shilling that the victim will tell the world – and then you will be in some trouble.”

“I know,” Gwen said. She finished packing the bag, then passed it to Irene. “How is this?”

“Better,” Irene said. She stood up in one smooth motion, then peered down at Gwen. “Why aren’t you showing the proper respect?”

She went on before Gwen could answer. “You are the servant in this relationship,” she snapped. “You are to curtsey whenever one of your social superiors enters the room, then keep your eyes down unless you are specifically told to meet someone’s eyes. You do not have the right to even look at them without permission. Do you understand me?”

Gwen hastily bobbed a curtsey. Lady Mary had spent years trying to hammer the proper way to curtsey into her daughter, but Gwen had never really bothered to practice. Irene didn’t look too displeased, she noted in some relief. A girl from the country, looking to make her fortune in the city, wouldn’t be expected to have a perfect curtsey. But she would be expected to learn as quickly as possible.

“Good,” Irene said. She marched over to the fireplace, then turned to smile at Gwen. “You should consider yourself lucky you’re not working for Chinese John. I had to put up with him for a few days and he was a right ...”

She grinned. “You probably shouldn’t learn that word,” she added. “You certainly shouldn’t use it anywhere near Lady Standish.”

Gwen smiled back. “What was he like?”

“What was he like,
My Lady
,” Irene corrected. “He spent two years in China, trying to convince the Ming to allow British traders to enter their ports and trade with the Chinese population. He took a Chinese bride and brought her back to England. And he expected his servants to perform the kowtow every time he walked past.”

“The kowtow?” Gwen asked. “What’s that?”

Irene knelt, then leaned forward in a deep bow until her head was touching the floor. “He liked having his servants respectful,” she said, as she straightened up. “Lady Standish, thankfully, doesn’t seem to be quite
that
obsessed with being treated with respect.”

Gwen scowled. She’d asked her mother about Lord Standish and his family and had received, in response, a detailed report of everything High Society was saying about them. It was actually more detailed than half of the intelligence reports she’d read, which had convinced her to show it to a few of her subordinates and note that it was precisely what she wanted in a proper report. But it hadn’t made encouraging reading. Lord Standish was very much a career-driven man, not unlike Gwen’s father, while Lady Standish was obsessed with her social position. And their ward clearly had a sharp tongue and a desire for independence that matched Gwen’s.

They could have married her off by now
, she thought. As their ward, Raechel Slater-Standish could have been pushed into marrying anyone willing to take her. But if some of the rumours about her conduct were actually true, she would find it hard to marry anyone unless her uncle issued a fairly considerable bribe.
And instead they’re taking her to Russia?

“You can lay this fire,” Irene said. “And then light it properly.”

Gwen nodded and set to work. Laying a fire, at least, was something she could do. Some of the servants had refused to enter her room when she was a child, even though she’d promised not to try to hurt them. The young Gwen had had no choice but to learn to set up her own fires, just to keep her room warm. And when her mother had refused to allow her to keep any firelighters in her room, she’d learned how to use magic to start the fire. In hindsight, that might not have been the smartest thing to do. It would have been distressingly easy to accidentally set the entire house on fire.

“Excellent,” Irene said. “And you know how to make tea and coffee?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said.

“Let us see,” Irene said. She nodded towards a table, where a tray of cups, a jug of milk and a kettle were waiting for them. “Heat up the water, then make us some tea.”

Gwen concentrated, using magic to heat the water. Moments later, Irene slapped her bottom hard enough to sting. “Magic,” she snapped, as Gwen glared at her. “You
can’t
use magic!”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen muttered. She rubbed her behind, then picked up the kettle, placed it over the fire and waited for it to heat up. Using magic to heat water had been one of the earliest tricks Master Thomas had taught her, using the prospect of accidentally scalding herself as a teaching tool. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Irene leaned forward. “If you want to call it off, say so now,” she said. “Lord Mycroft will not object to sending someone else.”

Gwen winced. Part of her wanted to give up now, particularly when she still made stupid mistakes that could betray her identity. And she knew the odds against finding Olivia were terrifyingly high. But she couldn’t simply abandon her daughter, no matter the odds. Olivia was her child, in everything but blood. What sort of mother would she be if she just left Olivia to her fate?

“I’ll go,” she said, as the kettle started to boil. She took it off the fire and poured hot water into the teapot, then stirred it carefully. Her father liked his tea strong, if she recalled correctly, while her mother preferred a weaker brew. The maids had always had to time their work carefully, just to avoid upsetting one or the other of their employers. “I’m damned if I will leave her there all alone.”

She poured milk into the cups, then added the tea. Irene took one of the cups, sniffed suspiciously, then nodded and started to sip it. Gwen took her cup, then hesitated, unsure if she should sit down or remain standing. It was vanishingly rare for the servants to drink with their masters. But Irene had said they would both drink ...

“Sit down,” Irene said, quietly. Gwen realised her shields had started to slip and flushed again. “You’re not doing too badly, but there are other things you need to know.”

She picked up a sheet of paper and made a show of reading it. “Your file states that you spent two years working for Lord Carmichael prior to his departure for the colonies,” she continued. “You won’t be branded as completely inexperienced, but Lord Carmichael was somewhat eccentric and no one will expect perfection. More to the point, you were also responsible for taking care of his daughter, Heather Carmichael.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Gwen said, remembering the file. Lord Carmichael was not only eccentric, he was one of Lord Mycroft’s personal friends. If Lady Standish contacted him to ask for Gwen’s references, he would provide her with a glowing account of a maid who had spent half of her time serving as a substitute mother. “Do you think that will help?”

“You spent time supervising Heather,” Irene said, dryly. “Lady Standish will probably ask you to keep an eye on her ward too.”

She cleared her throat. “You’re nowhere near as polished as they will expect,” she continued, “but that’s understandable. However, you will have to answer some very uncomfortable questions. For a start, why is your hair so short?”

Gwen scowled. The truth was that she’d had it cut short to keep it from getting in the way – and to make it easier to pass as a man. But that wasn’t something she could tell Lady Standish, not if she wanted her mission to be a success. It would be far easier to simply claim that Lord Carmichael had insisted that she cut her hair, even if fashion had been in favour of long-haired girls at the time. It was unlikely that anyone would expect a maid to join the Trouser Brigade – or care much if she did – but it was probably best to avoid any mention of politics.

“Because my previous employer, Lord Carmichael, insisted I cut it short, My Lady,” she said, finally. “I complied with his instructions.”

“Good enough,” Irene said. She paused, significantly. “There will be other questions, I’m afraid, some of them quite ... intimate. She will ask if you have a male friend, for example, and I would advise you to answer no.”

Gwen coloured. The only man who had shown any real interest in her had been Sir Charles – and he’d been more interested in ensuring that no one found out that he’d murdered Sir Travis, rather than Gwen herself. She still had nightmares about the moment he’d rendered her powerless, leaving her almost at his mercy. It would be a long time before she trusted a man enough to let him get so close to her.

“Yes, My Lady,” she said.

“There will be other problems,” Irene warned. “She may slap you, if she feels your work is not suitable, or punish you in other ways. You will have to tolerate it until the time comes to reveal yourself.”

“I know,” Gwen said. She had more pain tolerance than the average women – either through magic or through constant exercise with male magicians – but she knew just how much pain a single slap could inflict. And it would be worse, she suspected, if the person slapping her thought of her servant as an object, rather than a person. “I can handle it.”

“You won’t be Lady Gwen, Royal Sorceress, or even Lady Gwen, daughter of Lord Crichton,” Irene reminded her. “You will merely be Gwen, a humble girl from the country, someone without friends or family in London. There will be no protection for you if Lady Standish decides to take her problems out on your body. And I suspect you will not be able to use magic to stop her without revealing the truth.”

“I know,” Gwen repeated. Irene had mentioned the same fact time and time again. But she was right. The use of magic would be disastrous. “I won’t fail.”

“Be sure that you don’t,” Irene said. “Do you have your bag packed?”

Gwen nodded. It held a pair of dresses, a handful of underclothes and a small bag of money, enough to pass for her final wages from Lord Carmichael. There were no books, something she regretted deeply, but a maid from the country wouldn’t be expected to read. Even now, after the Swing, only a small percentage of the country’s population knew how to read and write. The charities that were trying to educate the poor were simply not successful, not when the poor resented being lectured to as well as being taught. After what Jack had shown her, Gwen was not particularly surprised.

She shucked off the maid’s outfit and packed it away in the bag – she’d change again before she met up with Mycroft’s agent – and pulled her trousers and shirt back on, taking care to cover her breasts. Irene watched without a trace of shame, something that made Gwen blush furiously, realising just how little privacy she would have while she was working as a maid. She’d had more privacy in her father’s house, even though her mother had thought nothing of barging in each day to wake Gwen.

“Good luck,” Irene said. “And if you run into real trouble ... just remember, you asked for it.”

Gwen made a face, then surprised herself by giving the older woman a hug. Irene smiled at her, then waved goodbye as Gwen walked over to the door and stepped through. Outside, she took a long breath and started to walk through Cavendish Hall, pausing outside each classroom long enough to assess progress. In one room, Susan and Jo were being taught the basics of life at the Hall, before moving on to discuss their powers and how best to improve them. They’d do well, Gwen was sure. They were both powerful and devoted young women.

She hesitated on the edge of the door, half-wondering if she should step inside and say goodbye personally, then decided against it. There was no point. When she came back, there would be time to catch up with the two girls ... and if she didn’t come back, it would be better if they had fewer emotional ties to her. Shaking her head, she hurried down the stairs, picked up her bag from the office and walked out of the door. Her carriage was waiting for her there.

“Good luck,” Doctor Norwell called. The dignified older man knew that Gwen was going after Olivia. He just didn’t know any of the details. “Come back soon.”

Gwen nodded, then clambered into the carriage. It was time to go.

Chapter Eight

L
ord Mycroft had warned her that Madame Hampton was strict, but Gwen hadn’t realised just how strict until she’d actually
met
the woman. Madame Hampton was tall and thin, with lips that were permanently pressed together in disapproval. She clearly wasn’t scared of the Royal Sorceress – or anyone, really. Gwen would have been impressed if she hadn’t known that the woman ruled the lives of countless young girls with an iron hand. And that she also worked for Lord Mycroft.

“You look barely acceptable,” Madame Hampton stated, her lips thinning still further. “But you must learn to fit in as quickly as possible. I will not have my reputation ruined by you.”

Gwen nodded, impatiently. Madame Hampton’s job was hiring young women from the country, training them to serve as everything from maids to social assistants and then hiring them out to aristocratic families. She took a share of their wages, Gwen knew, to the point where the girls found it very hard to save enough money to separate themselves from her, no matter how hard they worked. It was only borderline legal, even after the Swing, but like so much else, it wasn’t precisely moral. But how else would the girls find clients for their services who didn’t have unpleasant motives?