Point of Honour (4 page)

Miss Tolerance had been engaged in peeling a pear. She gave the work her whole attention for several minutes, as she attempted to master the feelings which rose in her breast. “I am sure my story is not unknown, ma’am. A young woman of good family does not elope from the schoolroom in the middle of the night—and reappear in London almost a dozen years later—without it causing some gossip. But I took a new name and I’ve done what I could to keep the talk quiet—”

“Did you think it would soften your father’s heart toward you?”

“Father’s heart? Good God, no!” Miss Tolerance was startled into a laugh. “I hope I am not so foolish or so sentimental! My father made it plain that any affection he had had for me—not much, I think—was lost forever when I eloped. But I had hoped that my mother would suffer no further hurt than she had already. Aunt, this is ground we have trod before. I wish you will not ask me again. I love you, and admire what you have built here, but I’ve no ambition to be any part of it.”

Mrs. Brereton sipped her tea with a look of one much resigned, and said no more.

After a time, Miss Tolerance spoke again. “Aunt, do you know a woman named Deb Cunning?”

Mrs. Brereton began to gesture in the negative, then stopped. “Deb Cunning? I—no, I do remember something. A very pretty girl from the—the country somewhere, just barely a gentleman’s family. Gently reared, too gently to be really successful, those nagging, shabby-genteel scruples can freeze a whore’s best instincts. But she was pretty, very pretty, which served her well enough for a few years. Is she part of some business of yours?”

“You know I cannot tell you that. Discretion is part of the service
I
provide, no less than it is for you. I was hoping you could tell me what became of her, though.”

“Became of her?” Mrs. Brereton laughed. “Sarah, that sour reformer Colquhoun said there are fifty thousand whores in London. Do you expect me to know them all?”

“I believe he included in that figure the women who only prostituted themselves casually. The figure for professed courtesans must be rather lower. You remember nothing?”

“I cannot recall—but when I consider it, that surprises me. I always thought Mrs. Cunning would bring herself, or the people around her, to grief.”

“Really? The woman you describe? A sweet, pretty innocent?”

“Sarah, you’re no fool. It cannot have escaped your notice that certain naïfs attract disaster as candles attract moths—by their very naivete. I always took Deb Cunning for one of those. What
did
become of her? Did she learn common sense?”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “I was hoping you could tell me, Aunt.”

“Of course you were,” Mrs. Brereton said tartly. “Let me think. The last I recall—she had lost her protector and taken rooms in some dreary suburb. Leyton, Hornsey, something like that.”

“Richmond?”

“Perhaps. No, she did live in Richmond, but that was when she was younger, with a well-set-up protector. After they parted, she was kept by a man who moved her north of the city. I think it was Leyton. She had one or two other lovers after that, I think, but I suspect she fell upon the sort of hard times which force one to juggle three or four lovers just to make ends meet—all the while pretending to each that he is the only. I cannot imagine she came to a good end, but if she died spectacularly, I would surely have heard of it.”

“So the last you know of her, she was in Leyton.”

“I think so. It was a long time ago, Sarah—you would still be in the cradle.”

“In the cradle? Really.” Miss Tolerance offered her aunt a slice of pear. “Well, if I discover what became of Mrs. Cunning and I may do it without breaching my client’s privacy, I will certainly share the story with you.”

“I can ask no more.” Mrs. Brereton dabbed pear juice carefully from the corner of her mouth.

“Now, Aunt,” Miss Tolerance said, with the air of someone conferring a special treat, “you must tell me what you think of this by-election. Will Montjoy take the seat, do you think?”

They began to talk of politics, one of Mrs. Brereton’s passions, until they were interrupted by Mrs. Brereton’s dresser, in haste and much distressed.

“Madam.” Frost’s voice quavered. “Miss Chloe is having a problem with her gentleman.”

Mrs. Brereton stood at once. “Something that Keefe cannot handle?” Keefe was the chiefest of Mrs. Brereton’s footmen, a massive Irishman with a sweet smile and three years of pugilistic training under the master boxer Cribb. He had been hired specifically to deal with customers unruly or in their cups.

“Keefe can’t—madam, Sir Randal’s drawn
steel—”

“Pre. I ought to have known. Has he hurt Chloe?”

Frost shook her head. “Not yet, ma’am.”

Miss Tolerance had already risen to her feet. “Which room?”

“Sarah, you can’t—”

Miss Tolerance paused at the door. “Don’t be stupid, Aunt. Of course I can.”

Mrs. Brereton’s voice followed her niece out of the room. “But your dress—”

Frost ran up the stairs, with Miss Tolerance close behind. There was no question as to which room, since half the staff (and their customers) were clustered around the open door. Marianne, a plump woman in daffodil sprigged-muslin, was silently watching the scene in the boudoir beyond, clutching the arm of her client, an elderly dandy in a coat of blue superfine with buttons the size of saucers. Miss Tolerance noted the smallsword that hung from his left hip, pushed past him with a murmured “Your pardon, sir,” and drew the sword in one smooth motion, her back to the room all the while.

“I say,” the man protested. He was fat, tightly corseted, and his stays creaked in unison with Marianne’s murmured, “Hush!” Despite his protest, his eyes were all for the scene in the room. “What do you—”

“Your pardon, sir, but I must try to help my friend,” Miss Tolerance murmured. She took the smallsword in her left hand, hidden in the folds of her dress, and turned to survey Chloe’s dilemma.

The room itself was quiet—all Miss Tolerance heard were Sir Randal Pre’s labored breathing and Chloe’s quieter, shuddering breath, broken once or twice by a sob. Sir Randal stood over the whore with a smallsword in his hand, the forte pressed to her throat edgewise, as if it were a carving knife. He wore no coat, his waistcoat hung open, and his neckcloth lay crumpled on the floor. Chloe sat pressed against the foot of the bed, straining away from the steel at her throat. Her dress was torn off one shoulder, leaving one breast bared; a trickle of blood from a cut on her neck was staining the lace and muslin of her gown, and Sir Randal’s left hand was tangled up in Chloe’s fair hair, holding her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

Miss Tolerance strove to recall what she knew of Sir Randal Pre: from the West, country-bred, not above thirty. He looked full of himself and full of wine, a bad combination. Mrs. Brereton had hinted that he was difficult, but not how, so she would have to take action and hope, for Chloe’s sake, that it was right.

She relaxed her posture slightly, cocking her left hip out; she raised one hand to her bodice and pulled it down so that her breasts were more clearly visible; when she spoke, it was in a soft Somerset burr that turned her esses into zees. “What’z zis, then, loove?” She took two steps into the room—not so close as to move Sir Randal into action, but near enough to make herself a part of his tableau.

Sir Randal looked up from Chloe, surprised. He was panting hard and, Miss Tolerance noted, he was aroused. “The bitch bit me!” he snarled.

Miss Tolerance smiled. “Did she, loove? There’s some as likes a bite from time to time—don’t you?” She took another step, raised her right hand to her mouth, and mimed nibbling along the length of the finger. Her smile grew broader. Behind her, she heard her aunt’s murmured warning; she clasped the hidden smallsword more tightly in her left hand.

For a moment Sir Randal was distracted by Miss Tolerance’s question. The sword in his own hand dropped an inch or two away from Chloe’s neck.

“Or are you the sort as likes to do the biting?” Miss Tolerance asked. She locked eyes with Sir Randal for a moment and took another step forward. “Reckon a gentleman strong as you’d have to be gentle with a girl like me.” She nipped her lower lip between her teeth for the briefest moment, then released it to smile again. “Happen a gentleman would have to show a girl like me how he likes to be bitten. Then there’d be no need of steel.” She ran her fingers along her throat and downward, and stopped with her hand cupped around her own breast, as if offering it to him. “Happen a gentleman has steel enough of his own, see?”

Sir Randal loosed his hand from Chloe’s hair, and her head fell back against the footboard of the bed. He still held the sword at Chloe’s throat, his hand wobbling up and down.
Drunk as a lord,
Miss Tolerance thought disgustedly.
Stupid, vain, and drunk.
She smiled more broadly. There were now only six or seven paces between them.

“Old Chloe, there, she needs eddicatin’,” Miss Tolerance went on. She kept her voice low and her tone even. “Happen maybe you and me could teach her something. She’s not a bad sort, old Chloe. So if you show me what you like, see, I can tell her—or show her, if that’s to your liking. If you like to watch.” She closed the distance by another step. Sir Randal dropped the blade from Chloe’s throat and turned more toward Miss Tolerance. Behind him, quietly, Chloe began to edge away.

“What would we teach her?” Sir Randal asked. His voice was hoarse.

“Whatever you like, sweet.” Miss Tolerance kept the West Country vowels in her diction. “Whatever you desire.” She hit the last word with clownish emphasis; she was only a pace or two away now.

Behind him, Chloe moaned softly. Her dress was trapped under Sir Randal’s heel. Distracted, he started to turn back to her, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. Miss Tolerance abandoned subtlety.

“Never mind her!” she said sharply, closed the distance between them with a step, and reached with her right hand to run her fingers along his neck. Sir Randal’s mouth opened wetly.

Blessing the man who’d taught her, Miss Tolerance brought the sword in her left hand up between them, knocked his sword from his hand, and circled her blade up to rest against his throat; her right hand was tangled in his hair, holding his head still. “Never mind her,” she said again in her own right voice. “You’ve more than enough trouble with me, haven’t you, sir?”

Without taking her eyes from Sir Randal’s face, Miss Tolerance called back, “Keefe? Would you take custody of Sir Randal, please? I think he’s ready to leave.”

The footman was at her side at once, locking Sir Randal’s arms behind his back. Another footman gathered up the man’s coat, neckcloth, and smallsword. Miss Tolerance stepped away and bowed to her opponent.

“In future, sir, if you have a complaint, I suggest you take it up with the management before trying to resolve it yourself.”

Pre stared at her in befuddled stupefaction. Then the fury he had felt at Chloe was back, redoubled. “Whore!” he roared. “Trollop! Harlot! Damned bitch!”

Miss Tolerance smiled again. “That last, very probably, sir. For the former, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I doubt you’ll be admitted to Mrs. Brereton’s again. Good night, sir.”

Keefe wrestled Pre out the door, past the few servants, employees, and patrons still clustered there, and toward the stairs. Mrs. Brereton took charge, dispatching them to their duties or their pleasures, then joined Chloe on the rumpled bed, speaking soothingly and dabbing with gauze at the cut on the side of her neck. The woman wept fiercely for a few moments, then less and less. Mrs. Brereton, still with her arm about Chloe’s shoulders, turned to her niece.

“I understand the imposture as one of my girls, Sarah. But was it necessary to sound so provincial and underbred? As if I would ever have a woman in my establishment with vowels like those!”

“I was once told that if you could speak to a man in the same accents he heard from his wet-nurse, it unmanned him, made him more susceptible. A nice trick, don’t you think?”

“When it works,” Mrs. Brereton said grudgingly.

“And so it did. I never disdain an advantage, Aunt.”

“And who was the author of this sage advice?”

“Charles Connell, Aunt. Reaching from the grave to assist me. Chloe, how are you?” Miss Tolerance turned the topic.

Chloe had begun to hiccup through her tears. “Better now, thank you. It’s really only a scratch. Thank you, Sarah. I truly thought he was going to kill me.”

Mrs. Brereton shook her head. “Nonsense. You don’t think I would have permitted that? Still, it was very quick-witted of you, Sarah. I’m glad to see your fencing master taught you something.”

Chloe nodded. “Yes, yes, thank you, Sarah.”

Miss Tolerance had opened her mouth to respond to her aunt’s jibe, then shut it again firmly. Peace was worth more than a truth her aunt would not listen to.

“If you don’t mind, Aunt, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening. If you can manage without me,” she said dryly, “I am going home, and to bed. Tomorrow I’m for Leyton and my mystery woman.”

Mrs. Brereton nodded absently to her niece and returned her attention to Chloe’s wound; a damaged worker would not draw in custom.

At the door to the room, Miss Tolerance returned the smallsword to the fat gentleman. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for the imposition, but the need was—”

The fat man, red-faced and creaking still, kept his arm about Marianne’s shoulders, but his admiration was all for Miss Tolerance. “Not at all. A pleasure—no, a privilege to have been of assistance.”

“That was finely done, Miss Sarah,” Marianne said firmly. She looked sidewise at her elderly beau, obviously amused at his outbreak of hero worship. “Chloe might have died but for you.”

“Nonsense. You heard Mrs. Brereton. She would not have permitted any harm to come to Chloe. I simply moved matters along a bit.”

“But are you new, my dear?” the fat man asked. His gaze had drifted past Miss Tolerance’s face and settled predictably upon her décolleté.
God preserve me,
Miss Tolerance thought.