Point of Honour (9 page)

Miss Tolerance took up her writing desk, sharpened her pen, and put out a few sheets of paper. She wrote a series of notes. First, to the stables asking them to arrange the hire of another horse for the morning. Next, a reply to the shop clerk who had so obligingly provided Mrs. Cunning’s whereabouts, sending her thanks and a half-crown note. And finally, a note to Lord Trux detailing what she had accomplished. He had not asked for a report, but she felt the better for providing it.

In a few minutes she gathered up her notes and walked them across to Mrs. Brereton’s, where Cole undertook to have them delivered. Then she went upstairs to call upon her aunt. Mrs. Brereton was in conference with her cook regarding the evening’s refreshments. She nodded cordially to Miss Tolerance, finished with the cook, and offered her a glass of wine.

“Well, my love, what do you make of our news from Whitehall?” Mrs. Brereton asked. It seemed there would be no escape from politics that afternoon.

“Which news is that, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance asked blandly, not wishing to implicate Cole in the one great sin of the establishment: gossip. However, Mrs. Brereton, an ardent supporter of the Whig party for many years, appeared to find the news too important to pretend ignorance.

“You mean no one has told you? A visitor this morning has given out that the Queen Regent had an apoplectic stroke four days ago, and her life was quite despaired of.”

“It is no longer so?” Miss Tolerance asked.

“They do not fear her immediate death. But I believe she is quite feeble, partly paralyzed. No official word has gone out, even the opposition papers are mute upon the subject—the government trying to avoid a panic, most like. But I imagine the Tories are all in a twist! If she cannot carry on the business of government, a new regent will have to be found, and whoever it is might well call for a new government.”

“Which would mean, perhaps, a shift in power. But since Mr. Fox’s death, who have the Whigs to lead a government? There does not seem to be a clear leader—”

“Grenville, I suppose,” Mrs. Brereton said thoughtfully. “Or Lamb or Versellion, although neither has held a cabinet post yet. Versellion was too new to his title the last time his party held government—”

“And Mr. Fox was still alive and in control of the party.”

“And his rivalry with the old Lord Versellion was well known. But Fox is dead,” Mrs. Brereton said sadly. In her youth she had traded considerably more than kisses for votes in support of her political idol. “The real problem is who would be regent.”

“Would it not have to be the Duke of Clarence?” Miss Tolerance asked. She did not share her aunt’s passion for politics, but it was impossible not to be concerned with the succession to the throne itself. “Since York died, and the Prince of Wales was removed from the succession—”

“But Clarence’s liaison with Mrs. Jordan will be a problem for those who don’t fancy his handful of bastard FitzClarences. As for Wales—at least he married his widow and has legitimate heirs, which is more than can be said for Clarence or Kent! There’s been more than one resolution raised in Parliament to restore Wales to the succession.”

“And he was a friend of Fox’s and said to favor the Whigs, which would suit your purposes admirably,” Miss Tolerance said teasingly.

Mrs. Brereton refused to be drawn. “The Whigs’ purposes.”

“So I apprehend that the author of this tale, whoever he is, is not of the opposition party? I wonder that you admit such persons to your house, Aunt.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sarah,” Mrs. Brereton said comfortably. “A Tory’s coin is as good as anyone’s.”

“And some Tories are better than others. I imagine a good deal of them are richer than Croesus.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Sarah,” Mrs. Brereton recommended without heat.

Miss Tolerance smiled and said nothing further on the subject. Instead, she inquired after Chloe, and whether Sir Randal Pre had attempted to return. Mrs. Brereton waved the matter away, as if an assault at sword’s point were a matter of no account for one of her employees.

“She’s occupied at the moment, and I expect will be for several hours. Did you want to speak with her?” Miss Tolerance shook her head. Her aunt continued. “Young Matthew has an engagement out of the house this evening; he asked that I convey his regrets that he would not be able to come and take tea. I wish I understood why you permit him to batten upon you in that fashion.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “He amuses me. He’s so thoroughly frivolous, everything I am not. It’s like keeping a particularly gaudy butterfly for a pet.”

Evidently this was too much for Mrs. Brereton, who went into a spasm of coughing that threatened to disarrange the neat stacks of papers before her. “A butterfly raised in the Ratcliffe Highway, as low and thieving a monkey as I ever saw, until I laid hands on him.”

“He’s a credit to your tutelage, Aunt, as I’m sure you know. Well, as I don’t intend to take my supper here tonight, I’ll thank you very kindly for your wine, and leave you to keep your counts.” She rose and kissed her aunt’s cheek. As Miss Tolerance left, her aunt was already reviewing a bill for wine.

I
t was Miss Tolerance’s custom, when walking through her aunt’s establishment, to give the appearance of one who neither heard, nor saw, anything. In fact, it was often impossible to descend from one floor to another without hearing and seeing a good deal. Often Miss Tolerance learned useful things by listening without the appearance of doing so; today she was genuinely in a reverie, her mind drawn back again to the death of Mrs. Smith in her tiny cottage. She was startled, then, when Keefe stopped her to deliver a note, closed with green wax but without a seal.

Miss Tolerance took the missive. “Who brought this, Keefe?” “It came with a man in a carriage, miss; he wore no livery. They’re waiting, for a reply, I imagine, miss.”

She broke the wax seal and opened the note. It was written on smooth, heavy paper in a clear, bold hand unlike the spidery script she had seen on Trux’s card. There was no subscription at the end, but the contents were intriguing.

It has become evident to me that I have neglected to bring you as fully into my confidence as I should have done in the matter of the Fan. I would greatly appreciate it if you could call upon me this evening so that we can discuss the entire matter. My carriage will wait and bring you to me.

Miss Tolerance spared a look out the window at the waiting carriage, a closed affair built for respectable and comfortable conveyance over fairly short distances, not a fashionable vehicle. Where a crest might have been painted on the door there was only a scratch of black paint, and the driver as well as the footman were in anonymous black.

She smiled at Keefe, who stood awaiting her instructions.

“Well, Keefe, must I anticipate adventure, do you think?”

“I beg pardon, miss?”

“I’m bade to return with the carriage and talk with its owner. A great mystery—but then, I have always been unable to resist a mystery. If you would desire the carriage to wait a few moments, I will collect my greatcoat.”

Keefe looked disapproving. “You’re never going alone with them, are you, miss?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “By the look of it, I shall have two footmen—and the driver!”

Keefe shook his head urgently. “Take Cole with you, miss. Or one of the maids. Mrs. Brereton would lend you the use of one of them.”

“Like a pocket handkerchief?” Miss Tolerance smiled. “I think not, Keefe. My patron requires discretion as well as any of Mrs. Brereton’s do, and bringing a whole cartload of people with me is clearly not to his taste. I appreciate your concern, and that there might be some danger,” she added.

Keefe shook his head again. “A lady alone—”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “I am no more a lady than any in this house, Keefe. Don’t fear for me, I promise I will take precautions. Tell the driver I will join him in a moment.”

The footman bowed stiffly, clearly disapproving.

Well. Miss Tolerance crossed the garden to her house.
I cannot conduct my business to please my aunt’s servants.
In fact, she appreciated Keefe’s concern. She had started the day in sight of death, and the memory was still with her. She had no desire to end up as Mrs. Smith had. The project of stepping into a carriage to rattle into the rising dusk for a tête-à-tête with an unknown person was fraught with hazard. But she had promised to take precautions, and so she did: loaded her pistols and put them in the pockets of her Gunnard coat, then took up her sword and hanger. She had not bothered to change into feminine garb upon her return to her cottage earlier; now she was glad it was so. In breeches and boots, well armed, she felt ready to confront whatever came. And, as her aunt often observed, business was business, and a client, whenever possible, must be allowed to have the ordering of the day. She had known almost from the start that her pursuit of the Italian fan was based in half-truths and evasion. She could not pass up the opportunity to gain the truth that would help her finish the job. And curiosity had always been her besetting sin.

Miss Tolerance crossed back to the house, went through it and out to the street. She ignored the footman’s offered hand, climbed into the carriage by herself, and settled back for her mysterious journey.

Five

T
he carriage was well sprung and handsomely outfitted, the footmen and driver polite, well trained, and closemouthed. Miss Tolerance attempted several times to ask where she was being delivered; the best she got was a terse “I regret, miss, I cannot say,” from the footman who had brought the note to the house. Nor would the attendents say who had sent the carriage for her. Still, whoever had done so had provided for her comfort: There were pillows and rugs in the carriage to make her ride more comfortable—at the sight of them, Miss Tolerance grinned to herself, for whoever had obscured the crest on the doors of the carriage had not thought to remove the crests visible on each of the lap rugs and pillows. These gave her a new, and quite intriguing, notion of where she was going and with whom she would meet. Greatly relieved in her mind, Miss Tolerance sat back to look through the half-curtained window, considering how to play out this latest hand in the game of the fan.

The carriage rattled first south, along Hyde Park, then westward through the suburbs. Miss Tolerance reflected briefly on the possibility of highwaymen, but was not much concerned; there had been a considerable reduction in such crimes in recent years, and even were the carriage stopped, she did not doubt the footmen were well armed. They rode for considerably more than an hour. By the time the carriage turned onto a graveled drive, the sun was long gone, and Miss Tolerance could see nothing more than the circles of light cast by the coach lamps. She listened to the spit of gravel under the wheels for a good quarter mile, at which point the carriage came to a stop before a large residence, well lit by flambeaux. The footman leapt down and handed Miss Tolerance from the carriage.

She was met at the door by a manservant who attempted to overawe her, looking down his nose at her (and her breeches, boots, and riding coat) as if the sight pained him. He frowned in clear disapproval as he bowed her into a small room and closed the door firmly behind her. Miss Tolerance had an unpleasant sense of imprisonment, for the room was not above twelve paces square, paneled in dark wood that made the space seem smaller even than it was. It was furnished with one large chair and one very small table, opposite which a coat of arms had been carved into the dark paneling. Miss Tolerance sat down to wait and whiled the time parsing the Latin motto under the crest of a crouching lion crowned with flames:
impavidus fiducia.

When the door swung open again some minutes later, a different man stood before her. Miss Tolerance was not altogether surprised to find that he was one of the men she had observed on the street with Trux the day before: the man in blue. As she had noted then, he was tall, although perhaps not so tall as the small room made him seem.

“Did they put you in here? I must apologize, Miss Tolerance. If you will have the goodness to join me in a more comfortable room?” Her rescuer’s tone was entirely pleasant, but he did not stop to see if Miss Tolerance would follow; he turned and led the way across the hall to a much larger room, furnished in a more modern style and lit with branches of candles. “Won’t you be seated? Good. And take some refreshment with me?” He waved a hand at a row of decanters. “There is sherry here. Or I can have tea brought, if you prefer.”

Miss Tolerance sat and crossed her legs. It was high time, she thought, to take some control of the situation. “Is that whiskey in the third decanter, sir?”

“It is.”

“I would take a dram of it,” she said pleasantly. “If you would join me.”

Her host smiled. “I would be pleased.”

He was tall, as she had observed, and only a few years beyond thirty. His dark hair was untouched by gray, close-cropped as if to suppress unruliness. His eyes, Miss Tolerance thought, were his best feature, large and well set, and a dark brown. His face was handsome, but not distractingly so. He wore his excellent clothes casually, as if they were a matter of no importance, and his boots—despite the hour, he had not yet changed to evening dress—were well made and beautifully kept. Miss Tolerance’s impression was of wealth, style, and intelligence.

“There.” He handed her a glass of tawny liquor. She sipped at it, rolling the whiskey on her tongue.

“Whiskey is not usually a lady’s drink,” he noted.

Miss Tolerance smiled politely. “If I were a usual sort of lady, I would hardly be here.”

“Perhaps so. But I cannot imagine you as a usual sort of lady under any circumstances, Miss Tolerance.” He bowed and smiled, making it a compliment, and Miss Tolerance added charm to her list of the gentleman’s qualities. Considerable charm, which he was not above using for his own ends. She returned his smile.

“Now.” Her host took a chair near her own. “Having brought you out here, I must make myself known to you. I am Versellion.” He did not pretend she would not recognize the name.