Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Page 2

  At last, irritated, she relit her candle, propped herself on one elbow, and took up Mainley’s Art of the Small-Sword. She had read it often before and found it a remarkably soporific work, but should its tranquilizing power fail to lull her to sleep, she reasoned, at least it would reinforce her training. She read until the candle guttered and the book fell from her fingers, but still did not sleep. The best she could manage to do was to lie listening to the thrum of raindrops on the roof and the tap of rain on the window, the small, sharp crackling of the fire, and the slow, even sound of her own breath.

  Miss Tolerance woke the next morning to find the sun well advanced in a blue sky; only the gutters, still clogged with leaves, and her greatcoat, still smelling of damp wool and gunpowder, put the lie to the sunshine. She took her time in rising, calling across to Mrs. Brereton’s kitchen for hot water, and bathing the last memory of sodden chill from her muscles. Then, with no assignment before her and the pleasant memory of Mrs. Maugham’s account, paid in full, to comfort her, Miss Tolerance dressed for the day. As she did not anticipate any activity more taxing than luncheon or a game of whist, she allowed herself the vanity of going out in her new blue morning dress and ivory straw bonnet. She braided her hair, put it up in a coil on her head, and at last took up her gloves, half jacket, and reticule and left the house for Tarsio’s Club, in Henry Street.

  Making her way through the street past fruitmongers and a clutch of climbing-boys engaged in vociferous argument, Miss Tolerance felt the air sliding around her, warm, thick, humid; the hot breeze which blew from the river did nothing to improve matters. A few tendrils of her dark hair escaped their confinement and curled damply at the nape of her neck; her gloves felt too small and very sticky. She began to think with anticipation of a glass of punch in the cool white confines of Tarsio’s Conversation Room.

  The footman at Tarsio’s, who was an old acquaintance of Miss Tolerance’s, greeted her with a mixture of familiarity and respect, hoped that he found her in good health, and regretted that no messages were waiting her.

  “I hear there was trouble a few nights ago, Steen,” Miss Tolerance observed.

  Steen nodded. He was assumed, professionally, to be above gossip, but Miss Tolerance had more than once slid him a coin across a tavern table to acquire some choice bit of information. He had learned to speak freely to her, and was not infrequently the source of new business. “An ugly business, miss,” he said now. Several members were crossing the hall to the Billiard Room.

  Miss Tolerance waited until the hall was again clear, then asked, “Did it happen close to the club?”

  Steen looked mildly affronted. “Would I have let a gentleman of this club be beaten in my sight, miss? It were around the corner, on King Street. By the time we heard the commotion and Corton and I run around to see what was afoot, Mr. Mondulac was lying on the ground and all I saw of his attackers was the soles of their boots.”

  “More than one of them, then.”

  “Yes, miss. Might happen there was three of ’em, though I’m sure I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “Ah, well. Thank you, Steen. Oh.” Miss Tolerance took a coin from her reticule to press into the footman’s hand. “Should Mr. Mondulac be curious as to who his assailants were and wish to pursue the matter, you will stand my friend, will you not?”

  Steen permitted himself to smile. “I will, miss.” He pocketed the coin.

  From the hallway, Miss Tolerance repaired to the Ladies’ Salon, where a collation had been arranged on the sideboard in lieu of the more formal noontime meal which was commonly served in the Men’s Dining Chamber.

  In the Salon there were perhaps a dozen women of all conditions of respectability, Tarsio’s one criterion for its female members being that they were sufficiently funded to afford the yearly fee and commons. A recent and notorious author was listening with sympathy to the narrative of a woman Miss Tolerance recognized as the mistress of a well-placed peer; with each nod of comprehension or empathy, the author’s highly ornamented bonnet shook violently, with a rustling that could be heard throughout the room. A young opera dancer whose rapid rise had been recently matched by a precipitous fall from public favor entertained three dewy, blinking young men, chatting vivaciously; she was shopping for a protector so blatantly that Miss Tolerance was surprised she had not been politely ushered out. Despite a liberal attitude toward its members, Tarsio’s Club did have some standards to uphold.

  There were several women seated together at a table enjoying a quiet game of cards; Miss Tolerance nodded to the group but took a seat by herself near the window, drew a journal from the table nearest her chair, rethought the notion of punch, and ordered a pot of tea. She then settled in, intending nothing more than to spend the afternoon reading and dozing, like any of her counterparts in the Men’s Reading Room. As she read, however, she listened; before her tea had arrived, she had learned that it was indeed a dispute over the favors of that same Harriet Delamour, who now sat across the room choosing from among her three suitors, that had led to the untimely demise of Lord Henly; that there was a new shipment in of gold-shot silk at the docks; and that at any moment an Oxford scholar could expect to be sanctioned by the archbishop on suspicion of popery. No immediately profitable intelligence, Miss Tolerance thought, but less interesting news had proved valuable before.

  After a time she put her feet up on a footstool, folded the journal in her lap and crossed her hands over it, and stared out the window. The affair of Mrs. Maugham had been accomplished with a little less simplicity than she had led Matt to believe; she had left her rooms on Mrs. Maugham’s business nearer midnight than dawn, and the dissipations of the night, which had included being chased along a narrow footpath at the riverside by one of Mr. Maugham’s lackeys, had taken their toll of her. It was very pleasant to sit in a sunny window and think of nothing for an hour.

  “Miss Tolerance?”

  As she disliked to be taken unawares, Miss Tolerance did not move her gaze. She gave a small nod and said, “I am she, sir.”

  “Madam?” From the sound of it, her interlocutor was not sure that Miss Tolerance was, in fact, awake.

  “I am still she, sir. How may I assist you?”

  “I am Trux. You have heard my name before?”

  Miss Tolerance turned from the window and smiled. “Your name is known in the circles I frequent, my lord.” That, she thought, was a nice turn of phrase. He could believe she meant the gentry or the criminal classes, as he pleased.

  Trux flushed, bobbing his chin slightly, as if his neckcloth were too tight. Miss Tolerance motioned toward a chair, and observed him as he settled into it. He was stocky, not above medium height, and the fine-knit fabric of his breeches strained across heavy thighs as he sat. His clothes were of excellent quality, but his blue coat was just a shade too bright in hue, the buttons a quarter inch too wide, and his neckcloth was tied poorly in too elaborate a knot. He wore his dark hair cut fashionably short, in a style that made the worst of his features: small, peering eyes, ears that jutted from the side of his head, and jowls already too heavy for a young man’s face—she did not judge him to be much above twenty-five. Youth and money, Miss Tolerance thought, but decidedly no taste.

  “Miss Tolerance,” Trux said. “I understand that you undertake, from time to time, small tasks … .”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Tasks of a private nature … .” He paused as if to convey a sense of delicacy.

  “I try to keep all my business private, sir. It is not always possible, but I undertake that no disclosure will come from me.”

  “Rather from the sight of Hermione Maugham throwing a cup of Almack’s lemonade into her husband’s face?”

  Miss Tolerance cocked an eyebrow. “Did she so? Lord Trux, I can but complete my client’s assignment. What happens after, I cannot control.”

  Trux paused to consider this, then nodded. “Reasonable, I suppose. I will be brief, Miss Tolerance. I act as the agent of another, who has requested
that I find, or cause to be found, an article of his which is missing.” Trux raised his lace-edged handkerchief and delicately blotted the sweat on his upper lip. As he did so, Miss Tolerance noted the dark circles under his arms where the sweat was already soaking through his coat.

  “And was this article stolen from your … patron?” Miss Tolerance paused meaningfully. She had seen all too many people who pretended the work they required was not to be done for themselves.

  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

  Miss 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 fosteri
ng 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.