Point of Honour (32 page)

W
hen she rose the next morning, Miss Tolerance felt more herself than she had done for many days. She had arrived home from Luton Street, taken another dose of her aunt’s vile tisane, and fallen into a heavy, dreamless slumber which lasted until the middle of the night. Waking in darkness and unable to sleep, she settled herself in with
Art of the Small Sword,
regretting
Tom Jones,
which Marianne had taken back to the house, and regretting Versellion’s absence even more—until sleep overcame her again. Sleep, it now appeared, had been the medicine she most needed.

It was near noon when she woke, clear-headed and very hungry. She dressed in breeches, shirt, and waistcoat, and went across to the house to break her fast. Cook gave her a mountainous plate of food and instructed her to eat every bite, and Miss Tolerance retired with it back to her cottage to go through the mail Cole had brought her. There was a note from Versellion wishing her better health and hoping she would feel able to make a report on her progress to him shortly—into this she could be pardoned for reading a degree of warmer feeling than the words expressed. There was also, she saw, a note from Lord Balobridge, dated the day before. He had requested a meeting with Miss Tolerance on a matter of mutual interest.

Conscious of some apprehension, Miss Tolerance wrote to Balobridge regretting that she had not seen his letter earlier, and suggesting a meeting that evening at seven at Tarsio’s. She sent it off with great curiosity; she had not thought Balobridge likely to make direct contact with her again after their first meeting. She was frankly curious to know what he thought he might gain now that he had not before.

At last Miss Tolerance left the house for Cheapside to call again on Fanny Virtue. The sun was very hot; she began to regret she had not decided upon a light muslin gown instead of men’s clothes. The midday streets were crowded and odorous; she was happy to hire a hackney and draw the curtains to shut out the noise and smell a little. Once she stepped out of the coach in Cheapside, the heat and stench had redoubled force. She picked her way along Bow Lane to Blackbottle’s house and inquired for Mrs. Virtue. The doorman, not Joe whom she had met before but some other fellow, saw the color of Miss Tolerance’s coin, inquired for his employer, and was back to usher Miss Tolerance up the stairs within a minute.

Recalling her meeting with Sir Randal Pre in Clink Street, and the consequent scene with Sir Henry Folle, Miss Tolerance looked about her as she climbed the stairs to Mrs. Virtue’s apartment. She saw nothing and no one of note, but heard rather more of the household’s activities than she wished to. When she rapped on Mrs. Virtue’s door, she was admitted at once.

Mrs. Virtue was seated at a desk this afternoon; several piles of coin and paper, and an imposing ledger, indicated that she was settling accounts. The curtains had been drawn to let in the sunlight, which flattered neither the gaudy-cheap furnishings nor their owner. There was no fire in the grate, but Miss Tolerance had the impression of smoke on the air, a sweet, earthy smell that clung to the upholstery and drapes. Mrs. Virtue’s smile was brilliant as she waved Miss Tolerance to a seat and offered her refreshment.

“I begin to think you enjoy your visits here, Miss Tolerance.” She let the accent fall musically on each syllable of Miss Tolerance’s name. “Is there another piece of jewelry you wish to acquire?″

Miss Tolerance took the chair and refused the tea.

Mrs. Virtue smiled. “It is not drugged, I promise you. See, I drink it myself!” She poured out a cup of tea and sipped at it delicately. Her gestures had been honed, Miss Tolerance observed, so that any simple act—taking up a pen, drinking tea, or turning the page of a ledger book—appeared as a promise of carnal pleasure. That it had not the desired effect upon her visitor did not appear to bother the madam at all. She replaced her cup in her saucer.

“I only come to ask a question or two. Your assistance would be greatly valued.”

Mrs. Virtue smiled and noted that she had thus far been most gratified at the value put on her assistance. “You have a most openhanded … employer.”

“Where his interest is involved, I believe I have. Ma’am, in one of the sticks of the fan I received from you, I found a letter, and was hoping you could explain it to me.”

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Mrs. Virtue’s ripe smile faltered. The artful rose of rouge upon her cheeks suddenly stood out as her skin paled. “I know nothing of such a letter,” she said.

“And yet it was there, ma‘am. And written within the last year or so, when the fan was in your hands.” Miss Tolerance softened her tone a little. “I don’t mean to alarm you, ma’am. Neither my employer nor I particularly care about the contents of the letter; my only concern is how it came to be there.”

“What sort of a letter?” Mrs. Virtue asked. “How could I explain such a thing?” Her color was returning; her brown eyes were flinty, and Miss Tolerance had the impression of much rapid thought taking place behind them. The continental accent Miss Tolerance had noted on prior visits was more marked.

“It is a note between horticulturists,” Miss Tolerance said. “Regarding vines. The letter is writ in Italian, and destined for a monk somewhere in that country. All I need to know, ma’am, is how that letter came to be secreted in the sticks of—of my employer’s fan, which I had thought was in a box, quite forgotten, for nearly twenty years.”

“Did I tell you that?” The older woman looked troubled. “I have sometimes a weakness for certain diversions which can affect the memory—”

“Opium?” Miss Tolerance asked. “I thought I recognized the scent of it. Did you forget the letter had been placed in the fan, ma’am?”

For a moment, it seemed Mrs. Virtue would respond to the sympathy in her visitor’s voice. Then the madam collected herself. “What if I tell you I have no idea how this letter comes to be in the fan?”

“I will, of course, believe you,” Miss Tolerance lied. “But perhaps I needn’t ask about the Italian letter at all. Perhaps I need only ask if the fan remained in your hands for all the years after Humphrey Blackbottle gave it to you.”

“In my hands?” Mrs. Virtue faltered for a moment, then smiled. “Ah, in my possession. Yes, it was.”

“So no other correspondence could have made its way into—or out of—the fan without your knowledge?” Miss Tolerance watched the other woman closely. “It is an excellent hiding place, after all.”

“You are pleased to joke with me, Miss Tolerance.” The woman regarded Miss Tolerance with hauteur, her soft chin raised defiantly. The music of her voice had become a growl of displeasure, making of Miss Tolerance’s name
Tolla-ranze.

Miss Tolerance was struck with inspiration.

“As you are, I believe, Italian, I thought you might be acquainted with
Frate
Ippolito.”

The cup which Mrs. Virtue held shook. She looked down at the drops of tea which marred the gauze of her gown.

“Why should you think me Italian?”

“Your accent is not strong, and your command of English is excellent, ma’am. But when you are distressed, it has a distinctly Italianate lilt. May I assume
Frate
Ippolito is not unknown to you?″

Mrs. Virtue regarded her visitor with dislike. She looked, now, years older than Miss Tolerance had previously believed. “What is it you want, Miss Tolerance?”

“I believe I have been clear on that point, Mrs. Virtue. Information, which will go no farther than to my employer’s ear, I promise. You put the letter destined for Friar Ippolito in the fan?”

“If I did?”

“Was there anything else hidden in the fan before you put the letter there?”

“What sort of thing are you looking for, Miss Tolerance? An elephant? A diamond of great worth? There was nothing in the damned fan until I placed that cursed letter there.”

“Why
did
you place it there? Why didn’t you send it on?”

“When it came to me, I could not—the one to whom I was to give it was delayed on the continent. Later, the risk was too great! Have you not heard some other scientist is being questioned about the letters? He has not yet been arrested, perhaps he has powerful friends. But I am a woman, a whore, and a Catholic. What do you think would happen to me?”

Miss Tolerance could imagine all too easily.

“I was very young when I came to this country, but I have prospered in my way. I have no wish to leave, and still less wish to be hanged for treason. So I hid the letter. Later, when you inquired for it, I was … out of myself. I take the opium for headaches. I heard the offer of sterling and forgot about the note—the habit of selling things is a hard one to break off.” She shrugged.

“But if I may ask—what is your interest in all this? Why send the letters at all? You are not a botanist, surely.”

“My cousin, the friar you spoke of, asked me to help him. I am very fond of my cousin, Miss Tolerance. He came between us: my father, my brothers—″

“Interceded?”

“Yes. After I was ruined, he interceded so they did not come after me when I ran away.”

Without thought, Miss Tolerance said, “At least
your
father wished to bring you back.”

Mrs. Virtue laughed. Her dark eyes glittered. “My father wished to
kill
me. To remove the stain on his honor, you understand. Were it not for my cousin, I would have been dead before you were born. My family—I was renamed Fanny Virtue before I was twenty, but I was born Francesca d’Ippolito.” She spoke the name as if claiming a dignity long lost.

“I was Sarah Brereton,” Miss Tolerance said quietly.
“My
father only
wished
me dead.”

“There you see the difference between your nation and mine, Miss Tolerance.” Mrs. Virtue stood up. “Whatever your master thinks to find in that fan, I give you my word of honor …“She paused as if the humor in the phrase had just made itself felt.”I give you the word of Francesca d’Ippolito that there was nothing in the fan I received from Sir Humphrey.”

Miss Tolerance stood also. “Then I thank you. I am sorry if my questions have called up painful memories, ma’am.” She bowed and started for the door.

“But Miss Tolerance, you said earlier that your openhanded employer would be grateful.”

Mrs. Virtue was clearly not about to let a moment of shared feeling interfere with prosperity. Miss Tolerance sighed and took out her pocketbook. “I trust this will be sufficient?” She offered a few coins to the madam.

Mrs. Virtue examined them philosophically. “I suppose I cannot expect more for the little I have told you,” she said. “Thank you, Miss Tolerance. As I do not think you will call again, it has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. And if you ever find your current profession no longer suits you, I beg you will come to me for advice.”

“I thank you for your consideration, ma’am, but I am not likely to do so.”

Miss Tolerance bowed and left.

Sixteen

"R
eturned to Manchester Square, Miss Tolerance spent a useful several hours thinking and darning stockings. Her visit to Dr. Hawley she regarded as an intriguing cul-de-sac. Had she been hired to establish the criminality of that suspicious correspondence, she was confident she could have assured the Home Office that Dr. Charles Hawley, of Oxford and London, posed no threat to the nation. She had also gained a new appreciation of the extraordinary fervor with which some persons approached botany. From Hart, the tough she had waylaid, she had testimony that the attacks upon Versellion derived from his cousin Folle—some of the attacks; she was not yet prepared to acquit Lord Balobridge of involvement. And from Mrs. Virtue—nee Ippolito—assurance that no correspondence other than the peculiar letter to her cousin had ever been hidden in the fan.

Of course, she thought, one must ponder the veracity of Hart, and Mrs. Virtue, and even Dr. Hawley.

At length Miss Tolerance put aside her darning, changed her dress, and asked Cole to procure a chair to take her to Tarsio’s.

Despite, or perhaps because of, its raffish reputation, Tarsio’s included among its members a fair number of men of good family who were drawn there by the eclectic nature of its membership and the scent of adventure that hung about the place. At a little before six in the afternoon, however, the respectable membership were at home, dressing for dinner and the evening’s diversions. At this hour the actresses who held court here were gathering themselves for their departure to the theaters; the gamers nodded over gazettes and pints of ale, resting their eyes until the deep players arrived at the tables rather later in the evening. Wishing for more privacy and more discretion than this crowd was likely to afford her, Miss Tolerance took the precaution of securing a private parlor, and of warning Steen that Lord Balobridge was likely to ask for her. She then—since the hour was considerably removed from the time set for their meeting—settled down to stare at the paper and think.

Versellion would have to be told about his cousin, and Folle himself would have to be confronted. If Hart had told the truth and Folle had hired the attacks on Versellion, did it follow that he was behind the deaths of Matt Etan and poor Mrs. Smith? If Lord Balobridge featured in any of this—and he must, else why had he sent the swordsmen out after her the evening she returned from Versellion House?—why had he asked for this evening’s meeting?

And the fan. That small, pretty, useless trinket. What had Versellion set in motion by looking for it, by hiring her? What would the end be?

A footman entered and announced that Miss had a visitor asking for a moment of her time. Something in the footman’s manner implied that the visitor was not up to the standards of the establishment, so when Miss Tolerance asked the visitor’s name, she was surprised by the answer. She looked at the mantel clock: her meeting with Balobridge was almost an hour away.

“You may desire him to come in,” she said. “But I have only a little time to give him.”

Lord Trux was shown into the room, but it was Trux as she had never seen him, nor imagined he could appear. It had been three days since she had spoken with him downstairs in Tarsio’s Ladies’ Parlor; it appeared as though Trux might have slept in an alley that whole time. The man was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair rumpled; his clothes were creased, wilted, and begrimed. Recalling the modish peacock who had first spoken to her on the matter of the fan, Miss Tolerance could barely believe this was the same man.