Point of Honour (16 page)

“Fanny?” Miss Tolerance asked.

“Mrs. Virtue, runs my house in Cheapside.”

“Of course. Well, sir, I have been commissioned by a patron—I need not tell his name—who wishes to reclaim a gift that was given to a woman some twenty years ago. It was a decorated fan, gold sticks and brilliants, and painted silk. You bought it, I believe, from Mrs. Deb Cunning—”

“There’s a name I’ve not thought of for dogs’ years!” Blackbottle sucked on his teeth reminiscently. “She’s one as has gone respectable, that’s sure as eggs. She was the type for it, couldn’t sell her little treasures direct, had to have some fellow do it for her. A fan, d’you say?” He took another draft from his tankard, then waved it imperiously until the fair-haired woman took it off to refill it. “Gold sticks and brilliants, and stretched-out looking trees. I remember it.”

Elation and disbelief clashed within Miss Tolerance. “After nigh on twenty years, sir? Truly?”

Blackbottle stared over the rim of his tankard at her. “I remember every damned thing I spend a farthing on, girl! I couldn’t have reached my current lofty position”—he waved the tankard in a broad circle, indicating the slovenly room; a good deal of wine sloshed out and spattered the table and his dressing gown—“if I didn’t keep a tight rein on my money!”

“I’m sure, sir,” Miss Tolerance said. “But as to the fan?”

“You’d as well to have told Fanny the whole tale, girl. All your chasing about has been for nowt. I gave the thing to her, years ago.”

Miss Tolerance felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over her, but she forced a bright smile. “Well, sir, I thank you for your help. At what hour do you think I might call upon her again?”

Sir Humphrey guffawed. “You know your way around right enough, don’t you, sweet? Unless you’re planning to go there now, I’d not show my face in that house again until late in the afternoon. Fan don’t go to sleep much before dawn. But I’ve been forgetting my manners. Will you take a little wine with me?” This as the fair-haired girl advanced again to refill his tankard.

“You’re very kind,” Miss Tolerance said. “But I won’t take your time further. Thank you very much for your assistance, sir. If I might …” She slipped her hand into her pocket to take up her pocketbook. “I should like to buy you a bottle to drink my health.” She put a few coins on the table—she was not about to pay the man more.

But Sir Humphrey slid the coins back to her. “No need for that among friends, my love. P’raps someday I shall need a favor of you, eh?”

Miss Tolerance was unwilling even to play at indebtedness to a whoremaster of such longevity and reputation as Humphrey Blackbottle. “Sir, I insist,” she said gently. “If not for you, then perhaps your friends will be so kind as to drink my health? If you ever have need of my services, we can, of course, discuss the matter.”

Blackbottle did not seem to be offended by her refusal. He smiled appreciatively and slid the coins into his pocket. “You’re a knowing one, you are, my darling.”

Miss Tolerance agreed that she was, and took her leave.

T
he sun was almost up, a dirty glow that barely cut through an unseasonable fog, when she arrived back in Manchester Square. She was so tired that she did not bother to walk round to her own entry, but knocked at the door of her aunt’s establishment and, when admitted, went straight through to the kitchens. The cook was working dough into floury rolls for the oven; a scullerier was setting chocolate pots on trays; and she found Matt Etan slouched in front of the fire, drinking tea.

“Lord, Sarey, where have you been?” he drawled. “Your coat is all a-mud.”

“Is it?” She shrugged out of the Gunnard coat and examined the back, which was indeed badly spattered. She dropped it on the table.

“Leave it there, I’ll take it up with mine and have Perry clean it for you,” Matt offered.

Miss Tolerance smiled wearily. She would have enough to attend to when she woke. Then a thought occurred to her.

“Matt, may I call in our wager?”

“What, at this hour?”

“I really think so.” Miss Tolerance sat down at the table, took up a pencil, and began scribbling out a note. In two minutes she had finished, sealed it, and told him to whose hand it should be delivered.

Matt grinned and agreed to undertake the commission. “But why not give it to Cole or Keefe?” he asked.

“I will tell you about that once this business is concluded. My God, I’m tired.” She yawned broadly. “Good night, parasite, and thank you.”

“Good morning, Sarey. I’ll see you when you wake.” He put the note in his pocket, threw her coat over his arm, and sauntered off, whistling.

Eight

I
n the light of late afternoon, the precincts of Bow Lane were perhaps less threatening, but no less squalid, than they had appeared the night before. Miss Tolerance, rising very late after her night abroad, had made it her first order of business to revisit Mrs. Fanny Virtue and inquire for the Italian fan. As she walked down Bow Lane toward the narrow alley wherein Blackbottle’s Cheapside establishment was situated, she regretted that she had not taken the time to stop at Mrs. Brereton’s and reclaim her Gunnard coat from Matt’s valet: the sky threatened rain. Miss Tolerance thought philosophically that if this visit yielded the fan, she would hire a hackney to return to Manchester Square, make up a final report—with a reckoning of expenses—for Lord Versellion, and ask to meet with him at his earliest convenience. He would be primed for good news; the note she had sent with Matt desiring a meeting had been optimistic as well as discreet. There had been no reply waiting when she woke; perhaps when she returned from Cheapside, there would be one, appointing a time and place to conclude their business.

With an unhappy glance at the brassy, unpromising sky, Miss Tolerance turned into the alley and in another few steps was at the door of Blackbottle’s establishment. The door was again opened by the hulking doorman; his ears and nose by daylight clearly bore the marks of one who has been a member of the pugilistic fraternity. Miss Tolerance recalled that his name was Joe, and greeted him by it.

“Come back again, ’ave ye?” He did not seem unpleased to see her, and admitted her immediately to the house; something that might have been a grin creased his unshaven cheeks.

“I have,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “Has Mrs. Virtue risen yet?”

“Still a-takin’ of her chocolate, an not ezzac’ly dressed for visitors.” His tone told Miss Tolerance that he considered the drinking of chocolate while abed a silly affectation, but also that he was proud to belong to an establishment prosperous enough to indulge the abbess’s affectations.

Miss Tolerance pressed a half crown into Joe’s hand. “Perhaps someone could inquire if I might have a word?”

Without turning, Joe gestured behind his back and called out, “Becky! Go see!” A woman from the salon—tired and creased in a white muslin gown most likely intended to create an impression of despoilable innocence—rose and trudged heavily up the stairs toward Mrs. Virtue’s rooms. Joe hurried her on with a casual slap at the woman’s posterior; she gave a titter by rote but did not look back.

After a few minutes the woman returned and jerked her head toward the stairs. “She sez yer t’coom on ooop,” the whore murmured, and went back to her seat in the salon.

Joe grinned again and stood aside. Miss Tolerance suspected he would like to make the same gallant gesture to her as he had made to his messenger a few minutes before. She gave him a level glance; he raised one eyebrow, his grin widened, and he retired to the doorway again. Miss Tolerance continued up the stairs unmolested.

Like the streets outside her door, daylight deprived Mrs. Virtue of a good measure of her mystery. Miss Tolerance found the madam reclining on a divan, propped upon a pile of somewhat grubby pillows and wearing a frowzy negligee of copper-colored satin. The flame-colored hair was largely concealed under a highly ornamented cap, tied rakishly with a bow under one ear; the exquisitely applied maquillage that had passed in candlelight for a fine complexion was blurred and faded.

“You come back to us, Miss Tolerance? Did you not find Sir Humphrey? And will you take a cup of chocolate?” Mrs. Virtue’s accent was more apparent this morning—foreign, but neither French nor Dutch, the two languages best known to Miss Tolerance. The woman waved at an old-fashioned Sevres chocolate service on the table nearest her elbow, and despite her dislike of the stuff, Miss Tolerance accepted a cup of chocolate as a useful prop for her negotiation.

“I did find Sir Humphrey, ma’am, but he directed me to you again.” She sipped the chocolate and was surprised to find it heavily sugared and far more palatable than the usual bitter brew.

Mrs. Virtue’s sculpted eyebrow rose. “Sir Humphrey directed you to me? Then perhaps I will now know what it is, this object you are seeking?”

“Sir Humphrey informed me that he had given the object—a fan with gold sticks and a painted scene upon ostrich skin—to you some years ago.”

Mrs. Virtue made no pretense of consulting her memory. “He did,” she agreed. “A very pretty thing. Is that what your employer wanted?”

“Do you have it, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance asked neutrally.

“I have all the gifts that were ever given to me, my dear. They are for the security of my old age. So,” she said briskly, “what is the worth of this fan to your employer?”

Miss Tolerance recognized the opening gambit of a seasoned negotiator. She smiled. “If it is the object I seek, what would be an acceptable price?”

Mrs. Virtue laughed. “As much as possible, my dear! I collect that a thousand is probably too much?” She did not wait for her guest to agree, but began to reason aloud in a singsong voice. “If he is paying you to find the fan, then it is of more than common interest to him. Which means it might be of more than common interest to other parties as well—although one must wonder why. It is a pretty thing, but not out-of-reason expensive. Say a hundred pounds for the thing itself. But of course, I have kept it safe all these years, and that must be worth something.”

Miss Tolerance smiled politely.

“Ah, I hate to place a value upon sentiment, do not you, Miss Tolerance? But I think—perhaps your employer would pay as much as four hundred?”

Miss Tolerance made a great show of considering the figure. “I think,” she said slowly, as if the matter required some stretch of the imagination, “I think that with persuasion, his generosity can be brought to extend that far.”

Mrs. Virtue nodded and put her chocolate cup down. “Well, then it seems we are both fortunate today.” She rose from the bed—uncorseted, her body strained at the seams of the satin negligee, but the effect was less of blowzy overripeness than of comfortable sensuality—and disappeared through a door behind the divan. She came back a few moments later with a fan and handed it to Miss Tolerance.

“You will wish to assure yourself it is the fan you seek, yes?”

Miss Tolerance opened the fan and turned it over in her hands—gold sticks, tiny rubies and diamonds at intervals along their length; a landscape of cypress trees, sheep, and distant mountains against a cerulean sky painted upon the ostrich skin of the fan—a relic of the last century, rather dry and in need of oiling. Everything just as Trux had told her.

“All is in order?” Mrs. Virtue asked. She held her hand out for the fan.

“It does indeed appear to be the item I am seeking.” Miss Tolerance kept the fan, turning it over and over as if she were still examining it.

“I presume you did not come here with four hundred pounds in your pocket,” Mrs. Virtue said. She took the fan from Miss Tolerance’s hand and smiled. “When I have the money, I will be happy to release it to you.”

“I can probably bring you the cash this evening, once I speak with my employer. I would, of course, prefer to take the fan with me—it will certainly make a better argument for disbursing the full amount that you require.”

Mrs. Virtue laughed. “The best argument for that is that I will not release the fan for any less than four hundred pounds. Indeed, if there is some difficulty about the price, I can easily sell the fan to the next person who seeks it. It matters nothing to me whose money I take.”

“Is someone else seeking it?” Miss Tolerance asked blandly. “I don’t recall having said so.” In fact, the memory of Lord Balobridge’s insistent interest in the fan, and her suspicion that the viscount had a spy in her aunt’s house, made her determined to bring the fan away with her now. “I should like to present my client with his prize this evening, ma’am. Is there no way I can persuade you to let me take it?”

“If I am to trust a woman I have never seen before, an oh-so-respectable woman in breeches who wanders the night doing errands for anonymous gentlemen … I really think I must require an additional sum. As … what is the word? As security of my cooperation. Five hundred, total?” Mrs. Virtue held the fan just out of Miss Tolerance’s reach, as if she were teasing a child.

Miss Tolerance swore a silent oath, but her own smile did not waver. “Is a few hours’ patience worth one hundred pounds?” she asked mildly.

“I became more sentimental when I held the fan in my hands. And as I say, there is a risk that I will never hear from you—or your employer.”

Miss Tolerance silently weighed her own series of risks and rewards, and at last made an offer to Mrs. Virtue. “If I can be certain that you will not have another burst of sentimentality before I return with your money, I can offer you my own note as security. For four hundred and fifty.”

The old courtesan laughed.
“Your
note? Has an
agent
like yourself the wherewithal to offer such a sum?”

Miss Tolerance rose from her chair. “You are not the only one who saves against the rigors of old age, ma’am. If you have pen and paper to hand, the matter is resolved in just a few minutes.”

Mrs. Virtue regarded her visitor for a few moments, then nodded. “You do not do this easily, whatever you say. Which makes me believe the money is there, and you could lose it. Very well. Four hundred and fifty. How soon can your note be redeemed with cash?”