Point of Honour (39 page)

Miss Tolerance said something in reply, although she was not certain what. Her mind was very full of what she had learned; she now had a motive for Sir Henry Folle in Mrs. Virtue’s death—only, to prove him a murderer, she risked making public the old whore’s secret. She needed urgently to speak to Versellion, but could not do so until tomorrow, when his cursed ball, and his appointment with the Prince, would be over, and he could hear the revelations she had to share with him with a ready mind.

T
he ride back to Mayfair was no more pleasant than the ride to Greenwich had been; the hackney carriage was badly sprung, and the heat, if anything, more oppressive than it had been earlier. Miss Tolerance, lost in thoughts that knit the whole of Versellion’s case together, barely noticed her discomfort. It was midafternoon when she arrived in Manchester Square; with the notion of occupying herself, she changed into breeches, shirt, and waistcoat, and took to the garden to do fencing drills until she was exhausted. The heat, rather than lessening as the hour grew later, was greater; her shirt stuck to her arms and shoulders, the hair she had tied at the nape of her neck was sweat-soaked. She advanced and retreated upon a target, thrusting in
tierce,
in
quarte,
feinting and beating—as much as she could do without a partner to work with—in hopes that the activity would quiet the thoughts that milled through her busy mind.

She had completed a complicated pattern that ended in the boar’s thrust, a lunge so deep she finished it on one knee, her point up and under the breastbone of her imagined opponent.

“Bravo, Miss Tolerance.” Lord Balobridge’s voice was as dry as the whispering of the ivy along the garden wall. “I see now how you vanquished my men.”

Miss Tolerance was at once on her feet, sword sheathed. “I don’t believe I had to resort to anything so elaborate, sir,” she said pleasantly. “How may I be of service to you?” She drew her sleeve across her forehead, very much aware of the picture she presented, hair tangled, clothes sweaty and disarrayed.

Balobridge appeared to be as discomfited as Miss Tolerance. “Mrs.—your aunt said I might find you here,” he began. “Ordinarily I would have sent a letter.”

“I collect that your business is urgent, then?” Miss Tolerance invited him with a gesture to enter her cottage, and led the way. “May I offer you tea, or a glass of wine?”

Balobridge shook his head. Either he was genuinely upset, Miss Tolerance thought, or it suited his purposes to appear so. He did not immediately tell her what the matter was; Miss Tolerance decided to wait until he was ready to say. She sat quietly.

“This is difficult,” Balobridge said at last. “I am concerned; indeed, I think I must be in part to blame for what has happened, and I pray God that I am not too late.” He looked about the room. “Have you no clock? Do you know what time it is?”

“There is a watch upon the mantel,” Miss Tolerance informed him. “Is the time so important to you?”

“I don’t know. It may all be nothing, but I fear—I fear—” Balobridge took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed carefully at his upper lip. “Miss Tolerance, I may have loosed a tiger into your patron’s ball.”

“I collect you mean Sir Henry Folle?”

Balobridge nodded. He folded the handkerchief neatly and returned it to his pocket before he spoke; when he did, his voice was low and uncharacteristically agitated.

“I make no excuse for my aims. To change governments while we are at war would be disastrous. But my tools—it made sense to ally with Folle; he’s always had the devil’s own temper, particularly where his cousin was concerned, but the squabbling of the Folles has been a matter of gossip for generations. How could I not turn him to my party’s advantage? And to give the devil his due, Versellion has always tried to maintain a cordial face with his cousin—which only made Folle angrier, of course, any fool could have—I am running on.”

“Yes, sir, you are.”

Again Balobridge took the kerchief out and blotted his upper lip. “’Tis hot today, is it not?”

“My lord, Sir Henry Folle’s temper is known to me also. What has happened today to bring you to my door in such a state of alarm?”

“Miss Tolerance, I beg you will believe how difficult this is. A man in my position makes compromises, decisions others not steeped in political life might find …”

“Vile?” Miss Tolerance suggested pleasantly.

“Questionable.” Balobridge gave her a look of dislike. “I never intended an innocent’s death; all I have done I have done for the good of my country and my party.” He paused heavily, as if waiting.

“And what
have
you done, sir?”

“Not an hour ago Folle and I were walking in Bond Street. We encountered His Highness.”

“The Prince of Wales? Was this a chance meeting or by design?”

“Accident, a damned unfortunate chance. His Highness spoke with us for a few minutes—polite piffle, you know the sort of thing. But in the course of the conversation, he nudged Folle as one who is in on the joke, and asked if he would see Folle at Versellion’s ball tonight. ‘Your cousin means to speak to me—means to cut your party quite out, hey?’” Lord Balobridge pinched his nose. “I have known the Prince since he was a boy, and still I am not certain if he is a clever man who sometimes plays the fool, or a fool who makes inspired moves. Had he thought for a month, he could not have said anything better calculated to cause trouble.”

“I take it Sir Henry did not take kindly to the Prince’s comment?”

“I thank God Wales moved on soon after—Christ knows what Folle might have said in his presence else. Miss Tolerance, the man was mad. He was crazed with rage, shaking with it, walking along Bond Street with his hands fisted, muttering to himself like a Bedlamite. If I could make plain to you—he paced along, his voice first low, then loud, and what he said to me made so little sense I am almost afraid to credit it—muttering of Versellion, and you, and The Old Woman. Then—and this was the more frightening—he stopped. As suddenly as one might snuff a candle! He smiled at me and said he would see me at Versellion House, and that he was quite looking forward to it.”

For a moment Miss Tolerance and Lord Balobridge sat quiet, each considering what this might mean. A bird sang outside in the garden, and distantly Miss Tolerance could hear a woman’s voice on the street, hawking violets.

“Clearly, my lord, you believe Folle to be dangerous,” Miss Tolerance said at last.

The old man looked Miss Tolerance squarely in the eye, an edge of anger replacing the fear in his voice. “Do not you, Miss Tolerance? I think he means to do something to keep Versellion from cementing his interest with the Prince tonight.”

“What could he do that would not do his cause more damage than Versellion’s?”

“Kill Versellion,” Balobridge said baldly.

Miss Tolerance looked at him in dismay. “At a ball, in full sight of hundreds of people—including His Royal Highness? What does he think he would gain?”

“He is not thinking. It’s gone far beyond that. Now he does not care that our party takes the prize, so long as he can keep his cousin from it. Not all my persuasions could calm him, and then he was gone, before I thought to have him restrained.”

Miss Tolerance imagined Sir Henry Folle walking the streets of London like a rabid dog, waiting for the moment when he could tear out the throat of his hated cousin. Indeed, the image fit easily with her idea of Folle and his crimes, but she considered the source and frowned.

“My lord, you have all my admiration, but I think that altruism has no great part of your nature. Why are you here? If Folle killed Versellion, would not your party be that much closer to fixing its interest with the Prince?”

Balobridge attempted a shocked demur, then stopped. “’Twould be a false benefit, Miss Tolerance. Folle kills Versellion, and the sympathy of the people, and very likely Prince and Parliament, will be with the Whigs. It would be as well to turn the nation over to Bonaparte—the result would be the same, ruled by the whim of tradesmen and farmers—”

“Better to let the tradesmen and farmers starve at the whim of the peerage?”

Lord Balobridge spoke through his teeth. “Argue philosophy with me another time, Miss Tolerance. Whatever my politics, I do not want to see your
employer
slain.”

Miss Tolerance caught her temper. “No more do I, sir. But I learned from Lord Trux that you were behind an attack on the Richmond road that purposed to kill him. Perhaps you would explain why you wanted Versellion dead on the Richmond road, but do not want him dead tonight?”

Balobridge smiled unpleasantly. “Dead tonight, at the feet of the Prince of Wales, with half of London privy to the details? At the hands of a man known everywhere to be my protégé? Miss Tolerance, lowering as it is to admit, I have set something in motion that it seems I no longer control.”

This admission Miss Tolerance found more compelling than any demur that had gone before. “You have no idea where Folle is?”

Balobridge shook his head. “I have men watching his house—I am quite willing to hold him there, should he return—but he has not appeared yet. I may be able to stop him, Miss Tolerance; I am not without resources. But should he elude me—I do not like to think what will happen.”

“Tell Versellion not to let him be admitted,” Miss Tolerance suggested.

“I have sent a note to his aunt, who acts as hostess for the party. But Julia Geddes has always had a soft spot for Folle; I fear she will not listen. Miss Tolerance, your credit with Versellion is greater than mine. I tell you all this in hope that you will persuade him to be on his guard—”

“Deny his cousin the party, only to find there was no danger and he has given Folle a grievance in London’s eyes? Or better still, delay his conference with the Prince so that you might speak with him first?”

Balobridge rose from his chair, leaning heavily on his walking stick. His doggish face was pale, his lips compressed into a line; the tip of his nose was red and there were small, feverish patches of color on either cheek. “I had thought better of you, Miss Tolerance. I have explained my motives as much as I care to do; regardless of whether you believe me or not, Versellion is in danger. You may act as you see fit.” The old man turned on his heel and went to the door. Miss Tolerance watched him start across the garden and called to him.

“My lord—I will do all that I may.”

M
iss Tolerance wrote out a note, outlining Balobridge’s story for Versellion, and took it across for Cole to bring to Versellion House. “Go yourself, please, and give it to no one other than the earl himself,” she instructed. Then she wrote out another note, directed to Sir Walter Mandif, and sent it off, too.

At seven o’clock Miss Tolerance inquired if Cole had returned from Versellion House yet, and was surprised to learn that he had not. Keefe brought her a note, a reply from Sir Walter in which he thanked her for her information, but noted that as Folle had as yet committed no crime for which there was ready evidence, his own hands were neatly tied as to action.
But should you think of a way in which I may assist you
—Miss Tolerance balled the note up in her fist and tossed it into the fire.

At half past seven Cole appeared, wearing the look of dejection common to hirelings who have defaulted of a command. “I never did see the earl, Miss Sarah. Waited all this time, and finally Lady Julia’s maid come in to say that my lord was very busy, and if I had a message, I’d best give it to her. I didn’t think I should do that, so home I come. I’m that sorry, miss.”

As Miss Tolerance assured Cole that it was not his fault, she was already calculating what was best to be done. Possibly there was no danger. Balobridge might have overreacted or, worse, schemed to force her or Versellion into overreacting. Folle might well have rethought his anger, perhaps decided to avoid the party altogether. Versellion
had
sworn to rehire the bodyguards he had let go; they would see to him.

But if not?

“Wait a moment, Cole,” she said, and wrote out another note.

Sir:

If you wish to assist me, will you serve as my escort to the ball at Versellion House this evening? I shall be ready to leave Manchester Square by 9 p.m., if you will call upon me then. I realize this is short notice, but I hope you will believe me that I do not make this request lightly. Your very humble servant …

Miss Tolerance read it over, deploring the melodrama of the request, but sanded it, sealed it, and sent Cole off with it to Sir Walter Mandif. That done, she went upstairs to her chamber to take the blue ball gown out of its bandbox and approximate the appearance of a woman of virtue and means.

A
a quarter after nine o’clock, Keefe returned to announce the arrival of Sir Walter Mandif. The magistrate wore evening dress and an inquiring quirk to his eyebrow, but bowed politely over Miss Tolerance’s hand and presented his compliments upon her appearance. With little time, no hairdresser, no more jewelry than a chain and locket for her neck, and gloves and a pair of slippers, she had borrowed from her aunt Miss Tolerance had managed to create a version of herself that was demure yet presentable. She thanked Sir Walter for his help and explained more fulsomely what the situation with Folle was.

“How do you imagine we will gain entry to the last great party of the season? I was not invited; those are not the circles in which I move,” Mandif said.

Miss Tolerance smiled. “I am known to Versellion’s staff; unless he has specifically forbidden me the place, which I do not believe to be the case, I think they will admit me.”

“Well, then.” Sir Walter helped her to arrange a scarf over her shoulders and offered his arm. “My carriage is waiting in the street. We will arrive unfashionably early … .”

“’Tis my first ball,” Miss Tolerance said. “I do not wish to miss anything.”

The ballroom at Versellion House was not large, and might have passed under other circumstances for a large gallery or salon; but it easily supported musicians, tucked in a corner below ornamental galleries, and could hold two dozen couples—if they did not mind scraping elbows as they moved through the sets. There were as well a profusion of smaller public rooms on the ground and first floors, all brightly lit and slowly filling with guests. The gardens behind the house had, as well, been opened for the ball. Miss Tolerance, despite a note of pleasure deep within her—eight—and—twenty and it was her first ball!—still damned the party for having so many rooms in which Sir Henry Folle might have secreted himself.