Point of Honour (25 page)

She turned away, closing her eyes, and leaned back into the inadequately upholstered seat. The carriage rattled on through the foggy countryside, and some of the chill outside seemed to leak inside. The silence between them lasted perhaps a quarter hour. When Versellion spoke, it was in tones of quiet inquiry.

“I cannot believe Trux is behind everything. The attack in Richmond? The men at the inn?”

Miss Tolerance turned back to her companion. “As for that, I agree. If you will forgive me, Lord Trux may be a good cat’s-paw, but he’s no schemer. The subtleties of this plot are not of his authorship.”

“I had come to the same conclusion,” Versellion said. “And now he knows we are on to him.”

“Does he? Lord Trux’s vanity is considerable. He may convince himself that he has played a deep hand and that we have no idea of his involvement. You’ll note that I did my best to see him taken care of—and damned awkward it was, too. It never hurts to have one’s opponents underestimate the extent of your information.”

“Do you think Trux’s master will be likewise deluded?” Versellion sounded very tired. Miss Tolerance was suddenly sorry for her earlier impatience.

“I think that he will at least have room for doubt, whoever he is. When we are returned to London, I will do my best to find out. Now, my lord, you must rest awhile. Here: you may lean your head on my shoulder. Good. Now close your eyes—”

“Edward,” he prompted.

“Close your eyes, Edward,” she said, sounding less like a lover than the stern overseer of a nursery, but she raised her hand to stroke his forehead and brush the thick, dark hair away from his brow. “Close your eyes, my dear, and rest awhile,” she said softly. She listened as his breathing slowed into sleep, and turned her eyes unseeing to the landscape outside the carriage window, thinking.

R
ain fell off and on throughout the day, and by the time they reached London, it was nearly dark. The chaise rattled along through patches of fog, and as the ruts of country roads gave way to the regular jolt of paving stones, the sounds and smells of London grew more insistent. Miss Tolerance had slept awhile herself, with Versellion’s head still pillowed on her shoulder. Now she was awake, her eyes closed, listening to the quarrels and cries in the street.

“We’re nearly at Versellion House,” the earl said quietly. “You will come in, I hope. My aunt Julia may be about, preparing for the ball she is hosting here, but we may easily elude her—”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. It was a question which had featured large in her meditations. “Only so long as it will take us to settle accounts, my lord.”

Versellion paused as if to fully parse what she had said. “Certainly. We may do so at once,” he said stiffly.

Gently, Miss Tolerance said, “We are in London again, sir. I must keep our business on a businesslike footing. I regret that I will not be able to offer up a full accounting of expenses incurred in your behalf until tomorrow, but as I have accomplished the task I undertook—”

“You require payment. I see. Then you will not pursue the matter of the fan any further for me?”

“As far as you like. You have only to ask. The terms are the same as before.”

Versellion looked out the window onto the rainy street. “This is cold, Sarah.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Cold, sir? No, it is merely common sense. My position does not permit me to allow sentiment to interfere with business. I hope you will not take it amiss.”

The carriage jolted over broken cobblestones.

“You must think very little of me,” he said.

“If I thought little of you, sir, I would not have become your lover.”

“Well.” Versellion sat back against the cushions. “Come in and I will pay your wage. I would like to engage you again to settle the matter of the fan for once and all. Find out if what we hold is the true fan, and what mystery it holds. I should not mind knowing,” he added more lightly, “how my fan is tangled up with this circle of obscure treasonous horticulturists that has exercised the government so.”

The carriage halted before Versellion House and the guard Miss Tolerance had engaged, soaking wet but impassive, stood at the door to usher his charge into the house.

“One more word, Versellion. The minute we leave this carriage, you will be pulled into the thick of your politics, so I remind you now. Hire bodyguards. Extend the hire of this poor fellow waiting here, or hire others of your own choosing, or I will find men for you—but make sure you are protected at all times. Everywhere. I am in deadly earnest about this, and so should you be.”

“Why cannot you be—”

“You have just hired me to uncover the secret of the fan. I cannot do so while protecting you. Please, Versellion.”

The earl nodded. “As you say. You think I should keep this fellow on?” He nodded at the man standing outside the door. The rain was falling harder still.

“I think he should be allowed a change of clothes and a cup of soup before you speak to him about it,” Miss Tolerance said, and opened the carriage door.

Half an hour later, with a draft for the first sennight of her employment in her pocketbook, Miss Tolerance took her leave of Versellion. It appeared, from his demeanor, that the earl had believed she would yield to his persuasions and stay, even become a fixture in his household. Miss Tolerance had resolutely refused his hospitality.

“I have business to see to, my lord.”

“Return tonight. No? Tomorrow, then.”

Again she shook her head, although it cost her some little effort to refuse him. “I cannot say when, sir. I’ll be about your business. If you need me, you can reach me at my aunt’s establishment. But have a care with any message you send; I’m not certain there is not someone there in the pay of your enemies.”

“You must bring me reports, then. Daily.” He smiled.
“Detailed
reports.”

“I cannot direct my inquiries from your bed, Edward.” She smiled to take the barb from the words. “I shall be around and about in London for the next few days, I imagine.”

“Do you mean to consult Mrs. Cunning? You will need this.” Versellion drew the fan from his pocket and held it out to her. Miss Tolerance examined it for a moment, then slid the fan into her own pocket.

“Versellion, until I have some report to make to you, please be careful whom you trust.”

Versellion took the hand she offered and turned it palm up, to his lips. “I place my trust in you alone,” he promised, folding her fingers as if to hold the kiss in its place. She put her hand in her pocket, sketched him a bow, and left.

The rain had stopped. Miss Tolerance walked to Manchester Square.

Her little cottage, empty for only three days, was musty and cold. Miss Tolerance lit a fire and changed at last from the secondhand clothes she had bought in Reading into a round gown and kid slippers. Across the garden the lights of Mrs. Brereton’s establishment glowed, warm and attractive in the drear of the night. Mourning for Matt, she thought, had not been permitted to interfere with business for long. She found herself reluctant to go across to the big house, but common sense—a wish to see if any mail had arrived, and a sudden powerful longing for her dinner—made her throw on a cloak and cross the garden.

She was greeted as a prodigal returned. First the cook, seeing her in the kitchen doorway, threw her ladle into the soup and bustled forward as if she would gather Miss Tolerance to her substantial breast. The woman simultaneously scolded her for making them all worry, and promised her the best of a fine supper. Keefe, who encountered her as she passed through the pantry, was less demonstrative, but admitted that he was relieved to see her returned. “’Tain’t no secret we was all a mite concerned, miss, the house already in mourning and all. And in the usual course of things, you give word when you plan to be away. All well, miss?”

Miss Tolerance, who was not accustomed to the notion that her whereabouts mattered to anyone but herself, assured him that all was very well. “I’m sorry to have worried anyone, Keefe. Is my aunt here?”

She was directed to Mrs. Brereton’s private parlor and found her aunt seated before the mirror and applying a last delicate touch of rouge. Mrs. Brereton broke her habitual attitude of calm upon the sight of her niece, cast down the hare’s foot, and rose to greet her.

“Sarah, my dear child! Where have you been? First, Matt dies, then you
disappear
for days on end. Can you not conceive of how worried we have been? And now—I’ve a guest coming for a
souper intime
. But will you stay and take a glass of wine?”

“Happily, Aunt Thea. I am heartily sorry to have caused such concern. How does business?”

Mrs. Brereton frowned. “Don’t change the subject. Where in heaven’s name have you been?” It was difficult to discern, from her tone and manner, whether Mrs. Brereton was the more relieved to see her niece safely home, or angered by her disappearance.

“I was in the country, Aunt. Following an investigation.”

“You missed Matt’s funeral,” Mrs. Brereton said. Angry, Miss Tolerance thought. “I would have thought you would be particularly keen to attend.”

“Keener to catch his killer. I did want very much to be there, Aunt. How was it?” She noted now that on the sleeve of her garnet-red dress, Mrs. Brereton wore a narrow black mourning ribbon.

Mrs. Brereton smiled. “The funeral was small but handsome. All Souls Chapel and everything Matt might have wished. None of his particular favorites came, of course, but Matt had many friends in the profession. Afterward we had a gathering here, and a cold collation, and many tears were shed quite honestly, since there was none but each other for the girls to impress. We missed you.” Mrs. Brereton handed her niece a glass of Madeira. “And you were pursuing his killer?”

“I believe I was, ma’am. Did my absence cause comment?”

“A little. Some of the girls were surprised, as you and Matt had been such friends. There had been some speculation that you and he …” Mrs. Brereton paused delicately.

Miss Tolerance choked on her Madeira. “You should know better, Aunt. Lovers? Not unless I had learned to shave.” She took another sip of wine. “What word of your political pursuits? I saw notice in the
Times
of the Queen’s illness—”

“No one cares for the Queen now,” Mrs. Brereton said. “It’s all the Princes—Clarence and Kent and Wales—and which is most like to be named Regent in her stead. I have heard that the Queen would not hear Clarence’s name spoken in the last few years—he has been heard too often criticizing her—and there is such a stink that attaches to his name on Mrs. Jordan’s account. Kent’s military history is so sad no one seriously believes he will be made Regent. Wales is really the most savory of the elder Princes: he merely wed a Catholic, and she had the kindness to reform him and die, removing herself as an obstacle and transforming him into an object of sympathy.”

“Remarkably thoughtful of her,” Miss Tolerance agreed.

“The parties are all in disarray. Lord Balobridge sent an emissary to Wales—by report—who utterly bungled the conversation. The Whigs should have jumped upon the occasion, but their best man has disappeared and no one else is so close in Wales’s favor. It’s catch as catch can. Every politico is trying to drop a persuasive word in the Prince’s ear.”

Miss Tolerance trod gently. “So the Crown party has irritated the Crown, and the opposition—lost an entire Whig? One would have thought they were too large to misplace.”

Mrs. Brereton laughed, but her niece detected a speculative look in her eye. “The Whig in question being a strapping fellow, I—Yes?” The last was directed to Keefe, who had appeared at the door. There was a murmured conference between them, and Keefe withdrew.

Mrs. Brereton set her glass down. “My supper guest has arrived, and I must say goodbye for now.” She offered Sarah her cheek to kiss. “I am glad to see you home safe, dear child. Are you done now with the business that took you out of Town?”

“I hardly know how to answer you. One bit of business has led to another and another, which I think may lead me to Matt’s killer. I shall be in and out for the next few days, I think, but I will call on you when I can.”

With a smile that nearly masked her urgency, Mrs. Brereton brought her niece to her dressing room, which let onto the back stairs. “You will not mind, my dear?” she said, and watched until Miss Tolerance started down. From this urgency Miss Tolerance surmised the visitor was of considerable rank, or at least a man with considerable money to spend.

She went down to inquire with Cole for her mail.

Three bills, a new, and very welcome, bank draft from the estate of the late Sir Evan Trecan—not the full amount due, but above half, which was more than she ever expected to see on that particular account—and one item of personal correspondence. This Miss Tolerance took to a quiet spot just outside the kitchen to read. Its author stated that he was investigating the death of a Mrs. Smith of Leyton, and desired to speak with Miss Tolerance at her earliest convenience. It was signed Sir Walter Mandif.

Miss Tolerance regarded this letter with resignation. Balobridge had apparently made good on his threat and raked up the matter of Mrs. Smith. She did not anticipate a meeting with Sir Walter with any eagerness, but ignoring such a summons was not to be thought of. She wrote offering to call upon Sir Walter at his earliest convenience, went to the blue room, where the usual informal dinner had been spread for the house’s patrons and employees, and collected a plate of food—she did not much notice what she took—which she carried back to her cottage.

The fire had taken the chill from the air. She had brought the new number of the
Gazette
with her and turned, as always, to the Dueling Notices, gratified to find that none of the recently deceased owed her money. Miss Tolerance ate her supper, drank a glass of wine, and went to bed, noting that since she had slept there last, it had become unaccountably large and empty.

M
iss Tolerance was finishing her breakfast when Keefe brought word that she had visitors: two men from Bow Street, and a magistrate, whose card he delivered to her. Sir Walter Mandif had evidently been unwilling to wait until she should call upon him. Considering the matter, Miss Tolerance decided that Mrs. Brereton’s establishment was not the proper venue for such a meeting, and requested Keefe to show her visitors to the little house. It was the work of a moment to tidy the room; when the three men appeared, she was just sitting down again, settling the skirts of her blue morning dress around her.