Point of Honour (29 page)

“What a happy match for the woman who is providing the money,” Miss Tolerance murmured. “Whatever his ambitions, I’m not certain Trux would have arranged the attack in Oxford without something greater at stake, some pressure, perhaps. I suspect Lord Balobridge has got hold of some ancient scandal about Trux and threatens to brew a new broth of it. If he—” She stopped.

“What?”

“I apprehend that Trux was acquainted with Matt.”

“Matt?”

“Matthew Etan, one of my aunt’s … workers. The man who was killed when I sent him to you with a message.”

“I wasn’t aware that your aunt ran a molly-house,” Versellion said. He frowned. “Are you saying that Trux and this gussie were—”

“Stop,” Miss Tolerance said loudly. Versellion looked at her, obviously startled by the force of the word. She went on a little more gently. “I won’t hear such names, not even from you. Whatever Matt was, he hurt no one. And he was my friend. As for the rest: Trux knew his name, and that he had been killed; everything else is but supposition. For a moment I wondered if he might have been complicit in Matt’s death, but …” She shook her head. “He was too upset when I spoke of the manner of it. And you saw him in Oxford; Trux could no more beat a man to death than he could fly. He says the men he hired were told only to see you did not return to London.”

“You believe that?”

Miss Tolerance sipped her wine. “
He
believes it. He would not tell me who hired the toughs who attacked us on the Richmond road. I suspect it was Balobridge; Trux would have peached on someone he feared less. But I have no evidence, and evidence is what we need.”

Versellion reached across to push a curling strand of hair off Miss Tolerance’s forehead. “You have been hard at work. I am afraid you have had little time to think of the fan.” The hair tucked back, he continued to stroke the skin and hair by her temple. Miss Tolerance felt her cheeks flush.

“You underestimate me.” She reached up, captured his hand, and returned it to his knee. The smile she gave him was, she hoped, both sympathetic and businesslike. She described her trip to see Mrs. Cook in Greenwich, and the subsequent visit to Blackbottle’s Clink Street brothel. “It appears that the fan in our possession is the one we sought, and that it went almost directly from Mrs. Cunning’s possession to Mrs. Virtue’s. Whether it ever held a message or token that would be a threat to you or your family, I cannot say. Mrs. Cook swore she knew of no secrets to the fan when your father gave it to her; she is not the most astute observer, but I think she tells the truth as far as she knows it. As for Blackbottle—”

“Can you trust his word?”

“I had to tread delicately, as I did not want him to infer more from the questions than he gave me in answer. I don’t doubt he’d try to turn matters to his own advantage if he could. He directed me back to Mrs. Virtue, the bawd from whom we bought the fan. Tomorrow I’ll see her. I wonder too …” She paused to think.

“What?”

“If I should not seek out Mr. Hawley, who seems so absorbed by the topic of peas. The
Times
portrays his correspondence as a code designed to overthrow the government, if not support a French invasion; as he is not yet in prison, either the actual evidence is weak or he has powerful friends. I must say that the letter we saw did not appear to be coded—but whatever the message’s meaning, I’d like to know how it came to be in your fan.”

Further conversation was halted when dinner was announced. Miss Tolerance went in to dinner on Versellion’s arm, imagining the conjecture their meeting must be subject to in the servants’ hall. The meal was very fine, overample for two diners; the remains of the sole and mutton were carried off to be finished belowstairs. Miss Tolerance had little appetite and, confronted at dinner’s end by an elaborate pastry and a tray of fruit and cheese, took a pear and began to peel it. She felt tired and a little melancholy.

Their conversation had been pleasantly general, suited to the ears of the footmen who waited upon them. With the servants gone from the room, “How does the Queen?” she asked.

“The same. Dying, I think, but slowly. A group has risen within the Crown party that wants to make the Duke of
Clarence
Regent, despite the bad blood between him and the Queen, and his irregular household. Balobridge will have a mutiny on his hands led by Perceval, who stands Clarence’s friend. I’ve spoken to Wales again—he is determined that the Regency should not go to his brother, and asks me to act his friend.”

“You will do so?”

“Of course. I only wish I were certain that he would commit to dissolve the Tory government once he is made Regent, and order a new one. He’s playing it politically, smiling upon Whig and Tory alike. I have hope—he’s always been a friend to the Whigs. It remains to see if he will be a friend to
me
.”

“You have worked so hard for this. I’m sure …” Miss Tolerance began. Exhaustion seemed to lower itself upon her like a veil, and assurance deserted her. What did she know of politics and princes? “And you have hired the man from Oxford to watch after you?”

Versellion smiled. “He and another. One is in the house with me at all times—and damned irritating it is, I must say. I thought I had done with nursemaids years ago.”

“I beg you will continue to take the threat seriously, Versellion. I’m glad to hear you are guarded.” She sighed. “Well, it is late. I must go.”

“I was hoping you would stay.”

She shook her head.

“Sarah, if the things my cousin said upset you—is that why you’re so cool to me?”

“I dislike the name he gave me, but … no. I should go home tonight.”

“Why?” Versellion challenged her. “What waits for you there?”

“A quiet bed and a disturbed sleep,” she admitted ruefully. “I miss my friend; Matt would have teased me out of my funk at your cousin’s name-calling.”

“Will you not let me be your friend?” Versellion asked quietly. He moved to sit beside her, head tilted to one side to regard her seriously. Miss Tolerance longed to do what he suggested: abandon common sense and take the comfort offered her. “Sarah, stay with me.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow. Always.”

“Are you offering to put me under your protection, Versellion?” Miss Tolerance smiled sadly. “Your generosity does you credit, but you forget where and how I have lived. I have seen too much of what happens to women who rely upon the men who keep them outside of marriage. I am not meant to be kept that way.”

“You think I would use you so badly?”

Miss Tolerance bit her lip and shook her head. “That’s not the point. It would ruin me all over again. I’ve lost my reputation once; I cannot afford to lose …” She sought the words to explain. “My
professional
reputation. If I am your acknowledged mistress, moneyed women will think the better of hiring me for fear I will seduce the men they want me to follow, and men who engage me may fear I’ll let your interests come before their own. Some men will believe that my services compass the use of my body. The work I have done in the last few years to create my odd profession would be for naught. I would either starve—or prove your cousin right in the name he called me.”

“Your liaison with Charles Connell did not ruin you
professionally
.” His emphasis on the last word was bitter.

“My liaison with Connell was over when I returned to London. I was as good as a widow—and years distant from my elopement. And to be fair, if I were the mistress of a coachman or a farmer, no one would remark it. But to be the present mistress of that notable politician, that marital prize the Earl of Versellion? How could I ply my trade and play that role? And I
must
ply my trade. Sooner or later you will want a son—a legitimate son who could inherit the title and be groomed to the political life—and you and I would part.”

“If we married—”

Miss Tolerance laughed tiredly. “After two nights together, am I so irresistible you would offer marriage? For pity’s sake, Versellion, you were raised to be a political force! A kingmaker! You need a political wife, rich, expedient, well connected, and well spoke—”

“You are—”

“
Not
rich.
Not
well connected, as you saw in Briarton—I could not even get us a room at the inn!
Not
expedient, for while I do know some shocking things about society’s best families, I will never tell them. I’m
Fallen
, Versellion.
Ruined
. Good for none of the commonplace uses of well-bred young ladies.”

“Are we to part, then?” Versellion asked at last.

Miss Tolerance closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair.

“Sarah? Do you honestly tell me you don’t wish to be with me?”

Eyes still closed, she shook her head. “I cannot say that … honestly.”

He took her hand again. “Is there nothing we may give each other, then?” he asked.

Miss Tolerance opened her eyes to regard the hand which clasped her own. She thought for a long moment, as desire warred with common sense. At last she raised his hand to her lips. “Comfort, I suppose,” she said. For the second time in their acquaintance, she felt as if she had stepped out into a void with nothing more than hope to buoy her up.

Versellion smiled. “Comfort is no little thing.” He turned her hand in his and raised it to his lips as he might a glass to toast with. “Wait but a few moments.”

He rose, went to the door of the dining room, and spoke with someone in low-voiced conference for several minutes. Miss Tolerance closed her eyes again.

“Most everyone but my valet and Murrett, the guard you had me hire, have gone to bed. I have sent word up to Park that I will valet myself tonight. Which leaves only Murrett, and like you, discretion is part of the service he undertakes to provide for me. I cannot swear that no one will know or imagine that you are here with me, but I will promise not to blazon it about—however much I might like to do.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “I suppose your cousin may have my aunt’s house watched to see if I return,” she teased.

If mention of Folle disturbed him, Versellion did not let her see it. “I thought all you required was that it
not
be seen that you were stopping here—I did not think to establish that you were sleeping elsewhere.” He sat next to her again and took her hand, as easily as if they had been lovers for a score of years. Miss Tolerance smiled. For half an hour they sat, handfast, talking easily of very little. At last they went upstairs.

A
t some point long after they slept, Miss Tolerance woke, disoriented by her surroundings. She lay quietly for a few moments, taking in the warm fall of velvet curtains around the bed, the gleam of moonlight on the silver candlesticks on the table near to hand, and Versellion sleeping soundly beside her. It occurred to her that all these things might once have been hers by right. She mused upon this until she felt a danger of self-pity; then she turned, shaped herself to Versellion’s body, and closed her eyes to sleep again.

T
he sun was only barely risen when she woke again. This time Miss Tolerance rose and dressed, intending to leave the house before her inevitable discovery by Versellion’s servants. She permitted herself to sit beside Versellion, still sleeping, for a few moments before going; there was a writing table across the room and she considered leaving him a note, but in the end could not think of anything to say that would not be sentimental or pathetic. Instead, she pushed his dark hair from his face, as if she could communicate by touch those sentiments which she could not voice.

“‘Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near dawn,’” he murmured. His dark eyes opened and he looked up at her with evident pleasure.

“It’s some time past dawn,” Miss Tolerance replied matter-of-factly. “I ought to have gone half an hour ago.”

He laughed at her. “Literalist! Will you not stay to take a cup of chocolate?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “And undo all your discretion? Two cups of chocolate delivered to one room will earn you a reputation for gluttony, or tempt more conjecture on the part of the kitchen staff. I must go.” She meant to brush her lips against his in farewell, but he caught her face between his two hands and kissed her thoroughly.

“Come tonight,” he urged her.

She threw caution to the winds. “If I can,” she agreed. Then, because to stay longer at his side seemed to invite disaster, she left him and slipped from the room, and out of the house unnoticed.

M
iss Tolerance was aware, walking back to Manchester Square, well wrapped in her cloak, that she was more tired than she liked. It had not been late when they retired, but in the natural order of things, it had been some time before they slept. Her sleep had been disordered by dreams and waking. All the exertions of the last ten days seemed now to be making themselves felt; she ached, her head felt gluey, and the bustling dawn streets of London seemed vague to her.
A cup of tea,
she thought.

She let herself into the garden through the gate on Spanish Place. The notion of a cup of tea was so enticing that it seemed she could not wait until her own water was drawn and heated. A kettle would be on the hob in Mrs. Brereton’s kitchen; she went there first. Cook was making scones and overseeing the slicing of bacon; one of the sculleriers was hulling berries, another stirring something in a bowl, and another readying dishes to receive all this food. Cook, who had looked up from her labors, commented that Miss Tolerance looked like death and prescribed tea and scones.

“I’ll have Jess bring ’em round to you if you like, miss.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I’ll take a cup of tea back with me, and thanks. You’ve all enough to do, I see.”

Jess, the youngest of the scullery maids and the most recently in Mrs. Brereton’s employ, grinned. “Ma‘am’s got that great old lordship this morning, and the ol’ man likes to be out and about before the neighbors know what’s what. I already took up her tray-”