Point of Honour (3 page)

Trux frowned and shook his head. “It was not stolen, no. The article in question—”

“Which is?”

“A fan, Miss Tolerance. A very old, antique fan, an heirloom of my friend’s family which he rashly gave away as a token … a token of … that is, he was young—”

Miss Tolerance nodded. “It is not an original story, my lord. A young man is smitten with a young lady, and gives to her as a token of his affection some item which he ought to have left home in its drawer. These tokens are more usually jeweled necklaces or brooches that the young man has no right to pledge, but I suppose an antique fan is as good a gift as any other.”

“The fan was his to give,” Trux said defensively.

“Well, then, what is to prevent him from going to the lady now and asking for its return?”

“The situation is a delicate one.”

“Is this a sort of delicacy I should understand, so as not to bruise its tender flesh?” Miss Tolerance asked dryly. “I frequently find that the more particulars I am acquainted with, the more delicately I can perform my task.”

“I’m afraid the particulars are not within my power to give, Miss Tolerance.” Trux looked smugly pleased to be able to deny her something. “I can tell you only that the fan is delicately made, of ostrich skin painted with a copy of an Italian landscape, stretched upon golden sticks that are studded with rubies and brilliants. The lady we believe to be in possession of the fan is—” Trux stopped. “But you have not yet agreed to undertake the commission.”

“Very true, my lord. I would be happy to perform this small task for you. I must warn you, however, that as I am a woman alone in the world, I must charge a good fee for my work.”

“We are prepared to pay.” Trux paused; she watched as he did a sum in his head, saw his cheek twitch in displeasure, then watched him, as she fancied, revise the sum. “We offer you two guineas for recovery of the fan. Plus expenses,” he added kindly, as if offering her a special treat.

Miss Tolerance did a calculation of her own, guessing what Trux’s original sum was to have been. “Obviously your patron little understands the nature or the expenses of work such as mine, my lord. I regret to inform you that the cost for such an errand would be three guineas a day, in addition to any reasonable expenses I should incur. I will, of course, produce a written summary of such expenses when the commission is completed.”

Trux frowned. “That’s a great deal of money. We could as easily hire a Bow Street man—”

“It is a delicate commission, sir? Finesse is expensive.”

He shrugged and nodded. “As you say. The woman to whom you should apply for the fan—”

“Can I expect that she will simply release it to me?” Miss Tolerance asked in surprise. “Then I truly do not see why you or your patron could not save yourselves some money, hire a chair, visit the lady in person, and have the matter done with.”

“We do not expect that she will part with it without remuneration,” Lord Trux said stiffly. “You may offer her up to five hundred pounds. If she requires more than that, you will kindly let me know by directing a note to my attention at my club, Boodle’s. I will let you know how to proceed.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. On the table at her side, the cup and the teapot stood, both quite cold. She raised two fingers quietly to summon a waiter, and gestured to summon a fresh pot of tea. “Shall I ask for another cup, my lord?”

Trux shook his head. “My business is almost concluded. The lady to whom you must apply is Mrs. Deborah Cunning. Her last address, so far as my friend knows, was Richmond.”

“And how long ago was that?” Miss Tolerance asked. Trux did not answer. She sighed. “I see. Is that another of those delicate details about which I must not inquire? You tie my hands, my lord, and make my task doubly difficult.”

Trux stood. “From what I have heard of you, Miss Tolerance, I do not believe that a little difficulty will keep you from earning your fee.”

Miss Tolerance rose likewise. “It is kind in you to say so, my lord. May I ask from whom you heard of me?”

“Your name is known in the circles I frequent, ma’am.” Trux tilted his chin up slightly, with the air of one conferring a killing blow.

Miss Tolerance laughed, a full, delighted sound that rang through the hush of the room. The heads of the card players, of Harriet Delamour and her followers, turned toward the unexpected sound; Lord Trux looked embarrassed and angry.

“Very good, my lord. Well, I shall send reports of my progress to you at Boodle’s. If the task is as simple as you seem to believe, it should be concluded before too long.” She extended her hand.

Lord Trux took it, but looked uncertain whether to bow over it or shake it as he might have a man’s. Miss Tolerance decided the matter by shaking his hand and withdrawing her own. He turned to go, then turned back again. His eyes gleamed with malice.

“I must say, Miss Tolerance, you seem a very genteel sort of woman. I cannot understand how a lady of good family, no matter what her past, could arrive at such a pass, and in such a position, as yours.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “Society offers a woman like myself very few choices, my lord. Some become whores, some madams or hatmakers. I became an investigative agent. In the end it is all the same: a woman who can fall no farther has little choice but to go into business for herself.”

“I see,” said Lord Trux, who clearly did not see at all. He bowed, bade her good afternoon, and left.

Two

M
iss Tolerance dined at Mrs. Brereton’s house that evening. Her aunt’s parlor was a handsome room at the back of the house on the second floor. The drapes were blue and a soft gold; the furniture was in the sleek style favored by the first Empress of France and her court, although with a good deal less gilding. Several well-chosen pieces of statuary in the Grecian style framed the window that looked onto the rear garden; the roof of Miss Tolerance’s cottage was barely visible through the trees. The effect overall was of restful quiet, and of a good deal of money spent to excellent effect.

Mrs. Brereton was at her desk when Miss Tolerance arrived, attending to a stack of invoices and her counts-book, with her pen moving smoothly across her paper. Mrs. Brereton’s hair was dark, short-cropped and pomaded in the style of the day, and becomingly threaded with silver. Despite her years and the silver in her hair, her profile was as firm as Miss Tolerance’s own; her dark, intelligent eyes and full mouth gave the impression of a far younger woman. She was tall, like her niece, and had been a slender girl. Now her figure was beginning to thicken, but a clever dressmaker and good carriage gave the impression of slimness still. Unlike most women of her calling, she did not paint her face, but let her well-tended complexion and hair give the lie to her years. “Artifice cheapens,” she told the women in her employ. About her neck she wore a necklace of pearls which contributed to the youthful impression she made. Mrs. Brereton’s jewels were always entirely real, and of excellent quality.

Miss Tolerance took a chair by the fireplace and waited in silence until the scratch of pen upon paper should stop.

At last, Mrs. Brereton looked up from her work. “Good evening, my dear.” She presented her cheek for her niece’s kiss.

“Good evening, Aunt. Fretting over money again?”

“Paying bills. What this house uses in sea sponges and siliphum seed, not to say wax candles and laundering soap, is scandalous.” Mrs. Brereton spoke lightly.

“At least you may comfort yourself that the price of sea sponges and vinegar is less than for the fostering of bastard children, ma’am. And given the throng of custom I see coming and going, I cannot believe that money is a concern for you.”

Mrs. Brereton closed her books and capped the inkwell. “Don’t be foolish: money is always a concern. I need not only pay my bills and deal straightly with my staff, but save against my retirement. There is no such thing as too high a profit, Sarah.”

“I will remember that, Aunt,” Miss Tolerance said.

Her aunt sniffed and changed the subject. “Well! I hear that you have pitched the Maugham household into a mighty state of confusion.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Not I. I merely confirmed for Mrs. Maugham what she already suspected. I would rather say that Mr. Maugham was responsible for the turmoil in his home.”

“Perhaps, my dear. But if you had not uncovered his secrets—”

“Someone else would have done so, or he would have revealed them himself. Mrs. Maugham is not the sort of woman to suspect and sit meekly by.”

“No, from what I hear of the matter, she is not. Well, may I assume she paid well for your work? That is, of course, the main thing,” Mrs. Brereton said comfortably. “And I don’t suppose Hermione Maugham will go so far as to kill her husband, so you really needn’t have a qualm, need you, my dear?” She reached gracefully for a handbell, then rose to lead her niece to a table with covers for two elegantly laid.

Miss Tolerance frowned. “I’m less concerned for Mr. Maugham than for the girls he was keeping. I doubt he’ll spare a thought for them.”

“Oh, they will doubtless find some other keeper.” Mrs. Brereton appeared unconcerned.

“They might starve instead.”

“If they have had the enterprise to find a keeper once, I don’t doubt they shall find another,” Mrs. Brereton said. “And here is Cole with our dinner, so neither one of
us
shall starve tonight.”

Acknowledging to herself that to debate her aunt on female enterprise was useless, Miss Tolerance turned her attention to the dinner laid before her. As they ate, Mrs. Brereton regaled her niece with bits of gossip which had come to her ears in the last few days, and Miss Tolerance obliged with information her aunt might find useful or entertaining—most particularly with word of the gold-shot silk she had heard of that day.

“Do you know which warehouse it was to go to?” Mrs. Brereton asked.

“If you like, I can inquire.”

Mrs. Brereton nodded. “Chloe has been receiving Sir Randal Pre of late, and frequently. He’s not the most pleasant of her visitors, but it is profitable business, and she deserves a reward. A new dress would do nicely.”

“What about Sir Randal is so difficult that it calls for shot silk?” Miss Tolerance asked.

Mrs. Brereton raised one expressive eyebrow. “You know I cannot tell you that, Sarah. I sell discretion—”

“As much as flesh. So I have heard you say before. I was merely curious as to what makes one man an agreeable patron, and another a problem.”

“Manners and madness, as much as anything else. Gentlemen who go beyond what is permitted—”

Now Miss Tolerance raised an eyebrow. “Beyond what is permitted? I thought that anything was permitted, so long as your
staff
was willing.”

Mrs. Brereton ignored her niece’s satiric tone. “A gentleman who cannot manage his passions when he is in his cups; a gentleman who not only plays at brutality, but indulges his tastes with someone who is reluctant; a gentleman—well, there are tastes to which we do not cater, as you well know.”

“Goats, I suppose. Or swans?” Miss Tolerance’s tone was deceptively mild. “And where does Sir Randal Pre fit into this moral continuum?”

Mrs. Brereton refused to be drawn. “Why, my dear, I’ve already said I will not discuss particulars. Even with you, whom I trust implicitly.”

Miss Tolerance laughed. “Gods, Aunt, don’t trust me, for heaven’s sake. My livelihood depends too much upon learning things which others would keep hidden.”

“Just so,” Mrs. Brereton agreed mildly. For a time the two women applied themselves to their dinner, going from pork roasted with apples and prunes to a course of savories, and thence to fruit and tea, which they took at table.

“So, Sarah, how does your business?” Mrs. Brereton asked at length.

Miss Tolerance sighed. When her aunt asked this question, it was inevitably followed by a predictable set of further questions. “It does well enough, Aunt Thea. Some pay their bills, some don’t, but on the whole I am able to earn my keep, which is all I require.”

“Have you no aspirations beyond that?” That was question the first.

“Not really, Aunt. I am not a burden to anyone, I meet my obligations, I have a new dress”—she smoothed her hand over the rosy sarcenet of her skirt—“and new boots. I save against the day when I cannot play these games any longer. What other aspirations need I have?”

“But surely you work very hard for very little money?” That was question the second.

“Hard enough, Aunt. But I enjoy it. I was always happy to poke into corners when I was a child; this work suits me.”

“It’s dangerous, Sarah. And unfeminine.
Why
won’t you come to work for me?” That was question the third, and the heart of the matter.

Miss Tolerance looked bland. “Why, Aunt, have you a commission for me? It would be my pleasure to help you.”

Mrs. Brereton fixed her niece with the same look which she used to put riotous lordlings in their place. “Don’t willfully misunderstand me. Why won’t you work for me, Sarah? You would earn far more money, make connections that would see you through your life, and at the end I could make you a partner in the business. You’d be a great help to me, you know. The running of this establishment is not a simple matter. You would be far more comfortable—and you could even keep the little guest house for your own, if you like, to safeguard your privacy.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Aunt, your offer is very kind, but I haven’t the temperament to be a whore.”

“And what temperament is that?” Mrs. Brereton asked coolly.

Miss Tolerance smiled. “The temperament to be accommodating—or to feign it. I’m far too prickly. I’ve had but one lover, I’m more widow than courtesan, and I’m eight-and-twenty. Surely that’s too old to appeal to most of your clientele.”

“Lisette and Marianne are almost thirty. Chloe is six-and-twenty.
I
still entertain a caller or two. You have looks and you have character—”

“Character? Is that a trait much admired in a courtesan?”

Mrs. Brereton frowned. “It is in a good establishment, among a decent clientele. There have been inquiries, you know. Your story is not unknown.”