Point of Honour (13 page)

Miss Tolerance could easily imagine the pleasure of Mr. Jenkins, the club’s perpetually beleaguered owner.

“I trust any refreshments Lord Balobridge ordered have been billed to my account,” she said mildly, and offered Steen her hat. She stopped before a mirror to smooth her hair, then proceeded up to the Conversation Room on the first floor. It was a smaller chamber than the Ladies’ Salon, paneled with wood and therefore darker. Despite the warmth of the day, a fire had been lit, and a large chair was drawn before it. At the sound of Miss Tolerance’s footfall, the chair’s occupant rose and turned to greet her. He was a wiry, elderly man in a long black coat in the old skirted style; he was old-fashioned enough not only to wear a wig, but powder upon it. He was no taller than Miss Tolerance, with a long face, a long nose, and a long upper lip that made him look rather doggish. His expression of amiable, slightly foolish pleasure was belied, she thought, by the shrewdness of his eyes. Miss Tolerance was interested to note that he was the third of the crowd of men she had seen Lord Trux join on Bond Street two days before. Very curious.

“My Lord Balobridge?” Miss Tolerance bowed.

Lord Balobridge bowed also—a courtesy hardly owed to her station by his, which gave her a good impression of his manners. “Miss Tolerance? I am delighted to meet you.”

Miss Tolerance took the chair opposite Balobridge’s. She waited until he had settled himself again in his own seat, leaning heavily upon a handsome ivory-headed cane.

“I apologize for my tardiness, my lord, and my apparel.” Miss Tolerance raised a finger to summon the waiter who hovered in the back of the room, obviously under orders from Mr. Jenkins to see that their distinguished visitor lacked for nothing. “My earlier appointment kept me longer than I had expected, and left me no time to change my dress.”

Balobridge shook his head. “You must not apologize to me, my dear child—you will not mind that I call you so? I am old enough to be your grandsire, after all. I have been very comfortable: I had this excellent fire to warm my old bones, and a cup of good tea as well.”

The waiter appeared at her side; Miss Tolerance requested another cup and a fresh pot of tea. When both had been procured and the waiter had again retired across the room, she asked politely to what she owed the honor of his summons.

“Directly to the point, I see!” he crowed as if her question gave him pleasure. “I can tell it will be a pleasant thing to deal with you, Miss Tolerance. Well, now. I understand that you are involved in an inquiry for a certain person?” He laid coy emphasis on the last two words, and waggled his heavy eyebrows.

“I am usually involved in an inquiry for some person or other, my lord. To whom do you refer?”

The eyebrows knit. “Ah, I would prefer not to engage in particularities just yet, my dear girl. Let us speak hypothetically. You understand what I mean by that?”

Miss Tolerance spoke coolly. “You mean, let us speak in such a way that if I am later asked about this conversation, I cannot swear that you meant what you obviously hope to make me understand that you mean, my lord.”

Balobridge cackled. “How rarely one meets with a woman who has a sense of humor! Very good, my child, I see we understand each other. Now, hypothetically, if you were involved in discovering the whereabouts of a certain item, and someone were to offer you a considerable compensation to have that article diverted into his own hands, rather than those of your patron, what would your answer be?”

Rather than look at her now, Balobridge took a gold-and-enamel snuffbox out of his pocket and proceeded to serve himself a pinch of the stuff, finishing by dabbing carefully at his nose with a neat linen handkerchief. He left a spill of snuff down the front of his buff waistcoat. Miss Tolerance waited until he had finished the performance before she replied.

“My lord, I would be delighted to oblige you—hypothetically—but for one consideration. A person in my profession has little to recommend her if her patrons cannot rely upon her discretion and integrity. If I did what you suggested and my client learned of it, I very much doubt that I should ever get another client again. I have lost my reputation as a woman, sir. I have no particular hankering to lose my professional reputation as well.”

Balobridge nodded sympathetically. “I understand entirely, my dear. Unfortunately, this is a matter upon which I might not be able to indulge your scruples. I might be brought—oh, very reluctantly indeed—to persuade Bow Street that the matter of the death of an old woman in Leyton ought, really, to be investigated.”

“I wish you would, sir,” Miss Tolerance said firmly, giving no indication of her surprise. “Nothing would please me better. I tried to persuade Mr. Gilkes, the justice to whom I reported Mrs. Smith’s death, to bring the matter to the Coroner’s Court.”
How did Balobridge come to know of the matter?
Miss Tolerance wondered.
And does he realize how much he reveals by speaking of it?

“Ah, did you so?” Balobridge turned his teacup around and around on its saucer, seemingly fascinated by it. “The Runners might not believe that was anything but a ruse, my dear.” Despite the foolishness of his expression, Miss Tolerance could not doubt the steeliness of the viscount’s intent.

“They might not,” she agreed. “But I believe I can establish that I was not responsible for her death.” Miss Tolerance smiled. The conversation was taking on the character of a fencing match, a milieu in which she showed her best. “’Twould be an inconvenience to me at best. Certainly not a fatal one.”

Balobridge smiled. “How would you accomplish it, my dear?”

“Surely it would be unwise of me to tell you, sir. For all we are speaking hypothetically, a woman must not give away all her stratagems.”

If Miss Tolerance’s unwillingness to cooperate bothered him, Lord Balobridge gave no indication of it. He tilted his head back, tapping lightly on his lips with the fingers of his right hand, regarding her from lidded eyes. His expression was quizzical. At last, he folded his fingers into a fist and rested his chin upon it, still regarding her calmly.

“This is a very anxious time for our nation, Miss Tolerance,” he said. “The opposition hopes to appease Bonaparte and withdraw from the war; the peasantry here is being stirred up by poets and madmen, and at the highest level of the nation, there are matters afoot which threaten our very way of life.”

“How very vague these threats are! I am not political by nature, but if pressed, I must say that I have more sympathy for the peasants—and the poets and madmen—than you would probably find comfortable.”

“But surely to a woman of good family—”

“Which is what I no longer am—”

“The principles learned at your mother’s knee?” Balobridge leaned forward insinuatingly. “A sense of the fitness of things, the proper way of life? This stays with you for life, my dear, regardless of less savory experience.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “The principles I learnt were at my nursemaid’s knee, sir, and perhaps from the grooms in my father’s stables. My ‘way of life,’ as you put it, is far closer to theirs than to your own. Now, as to the great matters you mention, you will have to be more explicit for me to feel myself concerned in them.”

“To do that, I must place myself fully in your confidence, Miss Tolerance, and beyond the precincts of the hypothetical.”

“And you are not prepared to do that just yet, I believe.”

“I fear that I cannot, while you are in the pay of the opposition.” Lord Balobridge took a long, noisy sip of his tea. Miss Tolerance poured more into her own cup and, upon his gesture, filled his cup as well. It was a shame that the viscount wanted something from her that she could not perform; she believed she would have enjoyed working for the old man.

He took one more sip from his cup, then set it down and regarded her seriously. “Miss Tolerance, I understand from my discussion with Mr. Gilkes that he was far from satisfied in the matter of the death of Mrs. Smith.”

Miss Tolerance permitted herself an expression of polite disbelief. “The justice? Indeed, he must have revised his opinion after I spoke to him; he could not, then, wait to rid himself of the matter, and more or less threatened me with sanction should I press him upon it. I apprehend that it was your discussion woke in him this great dissatisfaction?”

Lord Balobridge nodded solemnly. “I urged Mr. Gilkes to keep the matter quiet, as a favor to Sir Adam Brereton.”

Miss Tolerance blinked.
“My brother?
Is he in some wise concerned with Mrs. Smith’s death?”

“He knows nothing of Mrs. Smith, I believe, but I cannot think he will wish to have his sister dragged through the ignominy of a public investigation into her activities,” Balobridge said smoothly.

Miss Tolerance laughed so loudly that the waiter at the end of the room started from his doze. “Adam would not care if I were hung at Newgate, my lord. I was declared dead to my family long ago. My brother might not thank you, were such an investigation to occur, but that would simply be for fear of damage to his
amour-propre.
Sentiment is not my family’s besetting sin.”

“Perhaps not, Miss Tolerance. But as you say, the sullying of his own name—”

“My lord, I hope you will spare yourself concern on that head. I took my present name to spare my family, who on their part cast me off without a second thought. My parents are dead; I do not consider that I owe anyone—save my aunt, who did extend a familial hand to me—anything. More tea, my lord?”

Balobridge shook his head. “I am afraid I shall not be able to stay much longer, Miss Tolerance.”

“I am sad to hear it, my lord. I have enjoyed your visit. Oh …” Miss Tolerance paused for effect. “May I inquire after the gentlemen you sent to summon me last night, sir?”

He looked at her impassively. “Gentlemen?”

“Perhaps I use the term too broadly. The men with swords, who accosted me outside Mrs. Brereton’s.”

He did not scruple to deny it. Balobridge chuckled and shook his head. “Ran home with their tails between their legs, Miss Tolerance. You used them mighty hard, from what they told me. But how did you know that they were my emissaries?”

“Propinquity suggests it, sir: an attack last night, followed by an invitation this morning. Of course, I did not know for certain until now. May I presume that someone in my aunt’s house is in your employ as well?”

This time Balobridge was not to be caught. He assumed an expression of saintly innocence as he assured her he knew nothing of what she was saying. “You are a redoubtable woman, Miss Tolerance. It would grieve me to cause you distress.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “Then, by all means, my lord, please do not do so. If I cannot be of use to you in this matter, it may well be that someday I will be of assistance in some other.”

Balobridge shook his head. “It must be this matter and no other, my dear. I must have the fan—” He stopped himself. “I must have the item we were discussing, must see it, at least, before your client does. Would your scruples permit that?”

She shook her head. “I am afraid they would not, my lord.”

The viscount rose, a sober expression on his long, doggish face. “I hope your refusal will not push me to more desperate measures, Miss Tolerance.”

She refused to rise to the bait. “Why, I hope so too, my lord.” She rose and offered her hand. “Thank you for the honor of your confidence.”

He looked surprised. “You will not apprise your client of this conversation?”

“Ought I to? It was hypothetical, was it not?”

The viscount raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I see that despite your condition, Miss Tolerance, you are a lady still.”

She found herself unexpectedly moved, but felt it unwise, with this very shrewd man, to let him know it. “Merely a businesswoman, sir.”

Balobridge bowed and turned on his heel. The toadying waiter at the door bowed and followed him, and Miss Tolerance returned to her seat to finish up the tea in her pot.

Seven

T
he name Blackbottle was not unknown to Miss Tolerance, but she did not immediately place it—and its owner—in its proper context. After meeting with Lord Balobridge, she had returned to her house to find Matt Etan waiting glumly by the door. It was late afternoon; the sun was yet high enough to wash Mrs. Brereton’s garden with red-gold light, but Miss Tolerance’s cottage stood in the shadow of the garden wall. It, and her visitor, looked gray and chilly.

“It’s locked!” he said irritably. “You’ve never locked the door before, Sarey! What’s amiss?”

Miss Tolerance had a brief impulse to tell Matt her suspicion of a spy in Mrs. Brereton’s household, but the habit of discretion won over. “I’m trying to stop the wholesale plunder of my larder, parasite.”

“Locked your door against
me?”
He looked, if anything, more dejected. “I come seeking a friend and this is what I find: a locked door, a nipfarthing lack of hospitality—”

“Stop, I pray you.” The door swung over and Miss Tolerance waved Matt through it. “When you have the whole of my aunt’s establishment—and kitchens—in which to seek friendship, why come to me? Has something driven you from my aunt’s house? Have you no custom this evening?”

He shook his head. “None so far. I’m unwanted. If this keeps up, your aunt will decide she cannot afford to keep me—”

“Unlikely. At worst, she’ll keep you as an ornament to the establishment. You’re such a pretty fellow.” In fact, the gray and purple shadows that filled the cottage did not become him; he appeared haggard and ghostly. Miss Tolerance hurried to light a lamp.

“I shall wind up in the stews in Cheapside, drinking Blue Ruin, my looks quite destroyed,” he continued, as if she had not spoken. “In the end I’ll probably hang myself with my last remaining silk stocking and be buried at the crossroads.” He dropped onto the settle in a theatrical attitude of dejection.

Miss Tolerance laughed.

“Idiot! With your turn for drama, you should be in Covent Garden rehearsing with Mrs. Jordan. I’ll wager you anything you like that within an hour someone from my aunt’s will be here to announce that you’ve a visitor. Or more than one. And if you have no taste for gin now, why would you start? Furthermore, you have far too much
amour-propre
to allow yourself to be disfigured by hanging. Your face would turn purple, your eyes swell up, and I understand that at the moment of death—”