Point of Honour (43 page)

“Well, you’ve stirred things up properly, haven’t you?” Marianne leaned into the corner of the settle and grinned, as if stirring things up were a very good joke upon all concerned. From the calico workbag at her side she took out a piece of knitting and began to work.

“What have you heard?” Miss Tolerance asked.

“Nothing of account from your aunt or anyone in the house except Cook, who said you had a long face when you passed through the kitchen. But some of the guests in the house was buzzing with This One’s ruin and That One’s scandal. And it seems you caught our Matt’s killer after all. I feel bad about that—Folle was one of mine.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Miss Tolerance assured her.

“No, I couldn’t,” the whore said calmly. “And you, you got your heart broken, did you?” Marianne tilted her head sympathetically. “No, no one has said so, but you’ve the look of it. If you want to talk, I promise it will go no further.”

“I believe you,” Miss Tolerance said. “But there’s little to talk about. He—I fell in love with a client.”

“He didn’t love you?”

Miss Tolerance laughed sadly. “Oh, yes, he did, I think.”

“Well, then, where’s the heartbreak in that?”

“My client was the Earl of Versellion.”

Marianne’s mouth pursed in an “O” of appreciation. “The one you turned in to Bow Street? That’s
hard
. You could have let it slide, couldn’t you?”

“Let murder slide?” Miss Tolerance asked incredulously.

“No, I suppose not,” Marianne murmured. “There’s some as might.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “You think it was harsh of me to turn him in? The woman he killed was old, Fallen, no great loss to society. Was it not hard for her to die in such a way?”

“Hard for you to make such a choice.” Marianne leaned forward to inspect the teapot. “I think it’s ready. May I pour you another cup?”

The watch on the mantel ticked. Marianne’s knitting needles clacked quietly, and the fire hissed and popped. Miss Tolerance took up
Tom Jones,
and began to read aloud from the point where Marianne had stopped. She leaned closer to the fire; the summer light was fading, and she had not yet lit a lamp.

Miss Tolerance was sufficiently engrossed in reading that she did not at once hear the knock on the door. When she answered, Cole put his head in.

“Miss, a gentleman has brought a message.” He offered the letter to her.

Miss Tolerance sighed, marked her place, and put the book down. She needed to work, after all. New business would give her something to think about beyond her own woes. She broke the seal on the letter and read it with increasing surprise.

My dear Miss Tolerance:

The Crown is likely to forget to proffer its thanks for your assistance in the matters lately resolved. I cannot. I realize that your assistance came at no little hazard, and at some personal cost. I would like to call upon you to offer my congratulations, my appreciation, and, perhaps, my sympathy, for the cost you have borne in settling this affair. It is difficult to make such an offer without misinterpretation to a woman situated as you are, but with all respect I beg you will consider me your friend to command.

Your servant, Walter Mandif

Miss Tolerance was dismayed to find tears welling in her eyes as she read, and reread, this missive.
I must be very tired indeed,
she thought.

“Well?” Marianne asked, and at the same moment, Cole said, “The gentleman is waiting for a reply, miss.”

“Is he?” Miss Tolerance looked about her uncertainly.

Marianne rose and gathered up her knitting. “I’ll be off. You have things to do, I’m sure.” She was past Cole and out the door before Miss Tolerance could think of what to say. Miss Tolerance watched her go, thinking: the business of the fan had cost her, but she had gained as well. At last she turned back to Cole, still waiting for an answer. He was plainly curious and concerned.

“Well, Cole. Will you ask my friend Sir Walter if he will take a cup of tea with me?”

The footman bowed and went back to deliver the message. Miss Tolerance lit the lamps, put the kettle on again, and waited for a knock at her door.

Also by Madeleine E. Robins

The Stone War

A Note on History,
and of Thanks

I
t didn’t happen like this. As any friend of the English Regency will tell you, George III recovered from his initial bout of madness in 1788. Despite several subsequent periods of derangement, he ruled the country until 1811, when his son, the Prince of Wales, was installed as Regent for the remaining nine years of his father’s life. Queen Charlotte was never Regent. Wales
did
secretly marry the Catholic widow Maria Fitzherbert, but the marriage was never publicly acknowledged (an early trial of the “don’t ask, don’t tell” system, and about as successful) and Wales did not forfeit succession to the throne. He later officially (and bigamously) married Princess Caroline of Brunswick, and the two made each other very miserable indeed; he had many liaisons after Mrs. Fitzherbert, but it is interesting to note that he was buried with a miniature portrait of her tucked close to his heart. In other words, I made a whole bunch of this stuff up, while trying to stay true to much of the history of the era.

There are many things I didn’t make up: the vehement anti-Catholic sentiment of the late 1700s and early 1800s; the vogue for botanical and agricultural research, much sponsored by George III himself; the lack of options open to “Fallen Women” of good family; and the extraordinary number and range of houses of prostitution in London at this time. The reformer Patrick Colquhoun estimated that there were fifty thousand prostitutes at work in London in the late 1700s, some three thousand of them of “good family.” I doubt that there was ever so forward-looking and broad-minded a house of joy as Mrs. Dorothea Brereton’s, however. Likewise, the custom of
noms
d’amour
I made up, as I did the Dueling Notices in the newspapers Sarah Tolerance reads; although the laws against dueling were flouted constantly, it was never on so systematic a basis. And, of course, the anticipation of Gregor Mendel’s research by Dr. Charles Hawley’s international cabal of scientists is wholly a fabrication.

Playing around with history is a tricky thing. One twitch to the real past and a dozen new questions show up. A generous double handful of people helped before, during, and after the fact to make the book work, and I cannot thank them enough.

A formal salute to my stage combat teachers, Richard Rizk, T. J. Glenn, David Brimmer, and M. Lucie Chin (particularly David, who read over the fight scenes herein and saved me, and thus Sarah Tolerance, from any fatal mistakes). They inspired me with their grace, the wit of their choreography, and their ability to roll with the punches—literally.

I got enormous support and encouragement from a number of sources: the members of my writers’ workshop, who were willing to enter a world they knew nothing of while trying to critique the story it contained. My friends on-line and off, particularly Gregory Feeley, Sherwood Smith, Ed and Elena Galliard, Greer Gilman, Susan Shwartz, and eluki bes shahar, all of whom suggested sources or sent along material that helped me build my skewed Regency convincingly. Andrew Sigel loaned me books, read the first draft of the book, and asked many hard questions about issues of royal succession, closing loopholes while opening possibilities. My friends Steven Popkes and Claire Eddy offered both constructive suggestions and their unflagging faith that I could make this book work. Barbara Dicks, my very first editor, got me started as a writer and a fan of the English Regency. I owe more than mere thanks to those friends in Tor editorial who came up with the notion of a “hard-boiled Regency” one rainy afternoon years ago and dropped the plum in my lap; I hope they like the result of their brainstorm. My agent, Valerie Smith, energized me with her faith in me and in the project.

To Patrick Nielsen Hayden, my editor, thanks for his enthusiasm and his patience on those occasions when I broke into auctorial neurosis; Teresa Nielsen Hayden, ditto. Thanks also to the copy editor, Dave Cole, and other production staff who labor unsung, and to Irene Gallo, Empress of Design, who sets the stones to look like jewels. Thanks, too, to the staff of Barnes and Noble’s Cafe at the Broadway and 83rd Street store in Manhattan, where most of this book was written!

Merest decency requires that I acknowledge my debt to Jane Austen, one of the sharpest, funniest writers in the English language, whose meticulous examination of her social scene inspired Sarah Tolerance’s dilemma; and Dashiell Hammett, whose works inspired the shape of her story.

Finally, thanks to my husband, Danny Caccavo, whose love and support keep my feet on the ground when the story lures me up into the ozone; and our daughters, Julie and Rebecca, who inspire me every day.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

POINT OF HONOUR

Copyright © 2003 by Madeleine E. Robins

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden

A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

eISBN 9781466805187

First eBook Edition : December 2011

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Robins, Madeleine.

Point of honour / Madeleine E. Robins.—1st ed.

p. cm.

“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

ISBN 0-312-87202-X (acid-free paper)

1. Women private investigators—England—London—Fiction. 2. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3568.O2774P65 2003
813’.54—dc21

2002045486

First Edition: May 2003