Point of Honour (24 page)

“You cannot know that.”

“I certainly cannot know that here, Sarah. I
must
return to London tomorrow. Take what precautions you like, hire a battalion of Hussars or let us return to the city with a company of trained bears. But I return to London tomorrow, if I have to take the stagecoach.”

Miss Tolerance looked at her companion mildly. “Have you ever ridden a public coach, sir? It would be an education for you.”

He glared at her.

She sighed. “I do not think a battalion of Hussars will be necessary, Versellion. I will hire bodyguards in the morning—the only reason I did not today was because—”

“Our whole attention was on translating the damned letter. You’re right.” He sat down again. “Perhaps there was never anything to this damned fan, perhaps it was some sort of fever dream of my mother’s.”

“That is possible. But do not forget that two people have died in this matter, one of them my friend. Pursuit of the fan is important in some way, and we will discover why.” She gathered up the sheets she had covered with her transcription of the letter. “Are you tired, sir?”

Versellion looked at Miss Tolerance and appeared to read something in her face of which she herself had been unaware. “Not in the least,” he said, and smiled.

It was not in Miss Tolerance’s heart to deny that smile. “Then let’s to bed,” she said.

T
he next morning was foggy and cold. Miss Tolerance quitted her bed with considerable reluctance and took herself to the Mitre, the coaching inn on High Street where a chaise and four might be bespoken. For just a moment, as she stood by the bed waiting for Versellion to empty the contents of his pocketbook into her hands to defray the cost of the hire, she shivered. How like a scene of prostitution this might seem: herself, at dawn’s breaking, hand extended to take her lover’s money. The reality, she assured herself, was of course different. Still, the thought was as oppressive as the day itself.

Chaise and horses arranged for, Miss Tolerance entered into a far more delicate negotiation with the landlord of the Mitre to suggest, or provide, a burly, trustworthy, and closemouthed man to ride beside the driver. “My uncle’s of a nervous temperament,” she explained. “And deadly afraid of highwaymen.” The amount she offered was sufficient to acquire a bodyguard of considerable short-term loyalty, as well as the landlord’s convenient amnesia regarding the arrangement. Pleased with her work, Miss Tolerance turned east along High Street to return to the inn for breakfast.

They left the inn within a quarter of eight by St. Clement’s bells. Versellion was once again in the sorry secondhand coat and hat she had procured for him. He had arranged to stable their horses until a groom could be sent to collect them, so they had very little to carry with them on their brief walk to the Mitre. They crossed the Magdalen Bridge, the Cherwell flowing beneath almost invisible in the fog, and up Bridge Street, past the great arched entrance to the Physick Garden on their left.

“Good God, Versellion! What the devil are you doing here?” The words seemed to emerge from the fog itself, somewhere within the garden gate. Miss Tolerance spun to face the sound, hand on the hilt of her sword, with the earl only a step or so behind her.

“Trux? I might ask the same of you.” Versellion stepped from behind Miss Tolerance.

Lord Trux stepped out of the thinning fog, a smile on his lips. “My dear fellow, half of London is wondering where you are!” He extended his hand, clapped an arm around Versellion’s shoulder, withdrew it fastidiously upon contact with the greasy wool of the secondhand coat, and drew the earl into eager discussion.

“My lord, must you do this now, in the middle of the street?” Miss Tolerance muttered.

At the same moment, Trux pressed again, “What are you doing in Oxford? And in that coat!”

Versellion lied smoothly. “I had some business with my old college—and my own coat was ruined by a serving wench with a bottle of claret. But what of you, George? How do matters stand—” He left off meaningfully, as if Trux must know precisely of what he inquired.

“My lord,” Miss Tolerance said more urgently.

“The chaise will wait for us,” he said over his shoulder. “I want to know—”

“Take a turn with me, Versellion. I’ll tell you all that I know!” Trux had Versellion’s elbow and was steering him into the Physick Garden.

“My lord, this is not wise
,” Miss Tolerance said.

Versellion was already entering the gate with Trux at his side, their heads bent together. Damning men and politics equally, Miss Tolerance followed. There must be roses somewhere, she thought, as the smell of them when they entered the garden was quite powerful. She could not, however, see beyond five or six feet.

When the first man stepped out of the fog, she was not surprised.

Swearing under her breath, Miss Tolerance stepped forward, drawing her sword, to stand between Versellion and the newcomer. Another man appeared just beyond the first.

Lord Trux, who had been a few steps ahead of Versellion in their progress into the garden, stumbled backward with a screech, reaching out in panic to grab the earl’s arm, as if he would thrust the earl forward in his own place. Versellion shook his arm to dislodge Trux, who clung stubbornly; as Trux thrashed, the first of the attackers moved to the right around Miss Tolerance and swung a cudgel at Trux, catching him a glancing blow on the head. Trux loosed his hold on Versellion and crumpled to the ground, moaning. Freed of Trux’s grasp, Versellion drew his sword. Miss Tolerance stepped in again; she had time to note that they appeared to be armed with nothing more than cudgels, no swords and no pistols. Still, a well-aimed blow might break her small sword in two. She waited
en garde
.

The forward of the two, who wore a red kerchief around his neck and a villainous black hat that obscured his face, took a step forward and swung at her. Miss Tolerance dodged the blow, bringing her point up to pink the man on the forearm. The cut did not stop him; he swung again, she dodged again, a much nearer blow. Again she cut the man, this time on the shoulder, the cut deeper than the last. He stepped back for a moment.

The other man had been eyeing Versellion, or rather his blade, without advancing. Now he stepped forward and swung his cudgel at Miss Tolerance. With a murmured prayer for luck, she stepped in under the blow, grabbed the man’s neckcloth in her left hand, and brought the hilt of her sword up in a blow to the chin that stunned him. She turned to find that Versellion was advancing on their first assailant, sword drawn.

Red Kerchief feinted back a step, then took his cudgel in his left hand and swung it at Versellion. The earl dodged the blow—or would have, but Trux, who had half raised himself, one arm across his bruised face, reached out blindly and grabbed the earl’s left arm, knocking his balance awry. The blow missed dashing Versellion’s brains out, but it caught his shoulder and he went down at once.

Before Red Kerchief could deliver another blow, Miss Tolerance stepped in with a thrust to the man’s thigh. She felt the meaty impact—this was no neat pink but a full thrust—and she felt the muscle grip at the steel of her sword when she pulled it out. The man did not fall to the ground, but hunched, bloody and panting, against the wall of the garden.

Miss Tolerance took her kerchief from her pocket and handed it to the man.

“Stanch the bleeding,” she said curtly.

The man took the cloth and pressed it against the wound on his leg, shuddering as he did so. The smaller cuts on his forearm and shoulder still bled as well. Miss Tolerance did not judge them likely to be fatal; she lifted the point of her sword up to flick the hat off the man’s face so that she could observe it. It was not familiar to her, but the look in her opponent’s eyes—of pain at war with rapid thought—was.

“Who hired you to set on us?” she asked.

Behind her, Trux was still moaning. To her left she could just see Versellion rise to sitting, his right hand on his left shoulder as if to reassure himself that the damage was no worse than it was.

Red Kerchief lowered his eyes. “No one hired us. Looking for a purse or two is all.”

Miss Tolerance brought the tip of her blade to Red Kerchief’s ear. “Who hired you?” she said again.

Eyes flickering from Miss Tolerance to Versellion to his companion, the tough said, “Man at the tavern. Said ’f we saw a pair answering your description, we was to take you.”

“What was this man’s name?”

Red Kerchief shrugged. “Dun’t know. Some swell, high in the instep, couldn’t hardly bear the smell of the likes of us. Money was good, though: promised two guineas, gave us half a crown on account.”

Miss Tolerance stepped back and sheathed her sword. “I’m sure your half crown will go some way to paying a surgeon to patch up your wounds.” She backed away from the man and assured herself of the unconsciousness of his companion. “When your friend wakes, he will gladly help you home, I’m sure.”

Versellion had risen to his feet, pale and unsteady. Trux was still seated on the ground, one hand to his head, moaning loudly.

“We’d best get out of here—we’re in no condition to take on a further gang,” Miss Tolerance murmured. She moved to take Versellion’s good arm. “Can you walk? How are you?”

“Nothing broken, I believe, but I’m damned dizzy.” As Miss Tolerance took a step toward the garden gate, he added, “We cannot leave Trux here. I can manage. Help him.”

Miss Tolerance bit down on several comments. Her objective now must be to get her charge as quickly as possible to the Mitre, then into their carriage for London. There was no point in arguing. She bent solicitously over Trux, assisted him to stand—no mean feat, as the man was heavy, ungainly, and completely uncooperative. By some effort the three of them left the Physick Garden and proceeded along to High Street, thence to the Mitre. Such passersby as observed them most often looked away again, either too absorbed in their own abstracted thoughts to be concerned, or unwilling to engage so disreputable a party as theirs appeared to be. At the Mitre, Miss Tolerance put Trux in the care of the landlord, explaining that he’d been set upon by footpads and advising the immediate application of a beefsteak to the rapidly developing bruise on the side of his face. That done, she was introduced to the bodyguard she had hired, a satisfactorily large and humorless man who swung himself up beside the driver of their chaise. She and Versellion climbed into the chaise and at last were on their way to London.

O
nce the chaise was under way, Miss Tolerance helped Versellion to remove his coat, and probed his injury with fingers as gentle as the jolting of the carriage would permit.

“Nothing broken,” she confirmed. “You will have a nasty bruise in a few hours, and for some days it will hurt a good deal.”

Versellion smiled wearily. “It has already begun. At least I have you to minister to me. Poor Trux, left to the gentle mercies of the innkeeper at the Mitre! You were rather brusque with him, don’t you think? Trux has never claimed to be a man of action, after all.”

Miss Tolerance regarded the earl with curiosity. “I should think he had had enough action for one day. Did you truly not see—” She stopped, looking at him.

“Not see what?”

“That Trux engineered the whole attack?”

Versellion stared at her. The carriage hit a rut and he clenched his teeth on a gasp of pain.

Twelve

T
here was a silence in which Miss Tolerance assumed Versellion was seeking to subdue both the pain in his shoulder and the shock of his associate’s betrayal. At last he inquired how she had reached her conclusion.

Miss Tolerance said quietly, “This is unpleasant for you. I know you reposed some trust in Trux. But consider.” She ticked her points off on her fingers. “First: Did he say why he was in Oxford, and how he happened to be lurking at the gateway to the Physick Garden precisely at the right moment to encounter you? Leaving aside the question of how he came to be in Oxford, Lord Trux does not strike me as a man in the habit of early rising—it was not yet eight in the morning when he found us. Second: Why insist that you take a stroll in the garden on a cold, foggy morning, rather than inviting you to take a cup of coffee or a mug of ale in some public house? Or is Lord Trux so avid a horticulturist that even the dreariness of the morning could not deter him from walking in the garden?”

“Do you imagine that your tale is improved by sarcasm?” Versellion asked.

“Forgive me.” Her tone was as cool as his. “Very well, then. The third point: When the attack came, Trux thrashed and kept you from drawing your blade. His clumsiness was deliberate and well timed.”

“You’re mistaken. I told you, Trux is not a man of action.” The earl’s voice was emotionless.

“I think you wrong him. That was a performance worthy of Covent Garden. No, Versellion, let me finish. Fourth point, and the last: The only moment of genuine terror I saw on Trux’s face this morning was when the fight was finished and I was talking to the man in the red kerchief. When I asked who had paid for the attack, Red Kerchief’s eyes went to you, to me, to his accomplice—everywhere but to Trux. That made me look at Trux; he was regarding the tough with complete dread, which I take to mean that he was afraid the man would give him up to us.”

Miss Tolerance leaned back against the seat and stared out the window, meaning to give Versellion a few minutes to consider the charges she had made against his ally. But when he spoke, it was to challenge her.

“What would Trux gain by betraying me?”

“You told me once that Trux wished very much to be of service to you. Perhaps he did not feel adequately rewarded by your patronage. Perhaps someone else made him an offer that was richer than yours.”

“Damn it, this game is not played for money—”

Miss Tolerance lost all patience. She leaned forward and said with fierce slowness, “Because money is not what motivates
you
, don’t make the imbecile mistake of believing that all men must be motivated as you are. I have told you: this is not a game. I lost a friend on your business, and I don’t know how I shall count that when we settle our accounts. Your life is in danger. Even now. Does the pain in your shoulder tell you nothing about the seriousness of your opponents’ intent? God protect me from men who think their positions exempt them from danger!”