Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Read online

  Trux waited until the door closed on the salon, marched forward unsteadily, and planted himself before Miss Tolerance. He did not trouble himself to bow or even greet her. Instead, he stood and examined her, weaving slightly as he did so. He smelled of drink, and Miss Tolerance observed wine blots on his crumpled neckcloth.

  “Were you a man, I’d demand satisfaction,” he said at last. His voice was pitched so low, the words so slurred and sloppy with rage and drink, that it was hard to understand what he was saying. “I’d heard you was better than most of your sex, you pretend as if it’s so, but it’s lies. Don’t even know what you are—not a woman nor a man. Just the lying whore that’s ruined me.”

  He turned to leave. Miss Tolerance, more startled than if his attack had been physical, rose and called after him to explain what he meant. But Trux would not stop, except at the door, where he turned and spat the word “Bitch” at her before he left.

  What was she to make of this? Miss Tolerance sat down again, agitated and amazed, as much by the degree of rage Lord Trux had shown her as by his words. She went over her recollection of their last meeting; she had let him know that she believed him to have switched allegiance from Versellion, and she had speculated—to her mind, rather gently—that Trux had had a connection to Matt Etan which some other party was using against him. She had made no threats. She had done nothing to ruin him.

  At a few minutes past seven, Lord Balobridge was announced. Miss Tolerance, reasonably composed again, rose and made her curtsy to the old man. He wore handsome evening dress of dark blue which made her glad she had taken pains to make her own appearance as ladylike as possible. As Balobridge advanced toward her, leaning heavily on an ebony stick, Miss Tolerance realized that his countenance, which on their last meeting had been one of agreeable condescension, was grim. Pardonably sensitive in the wake of Trux’s abrupt visit, Miss Tolerance could not determine whether Balobridge’s expression was due to the discomfort which made his ebony stick a necessary assistance, or some other matter. With a sense of disquiet, she composed her own expression to a hospitable smile, curtsied, and bade Balobridge to take a seat by the fire.

  “Will you take some wine, sir? The club has a passable cellar.”

  Balobridge shook his head. ″I do not intend to stay that long, Miss Tolerance. Nor, frankly, would I care to share wine with you.″

  Miss Tolerance folded her hands in her lap. “That’s plain speaking,” she said quietly. “Will you tell me what the matter is, sir?”

  “You sit there, bald-faced as a strumpet, and tell me you do not know?” Balobridge stared at her coldly.

  ″I do more than that, my lord. I ask that you either tell me how I have offended you, or leave. I do not mean disrespect to you, but it would be bad business to permit any further name-calling; I have had quite enough of it for one evening. Lord Trux was here less than an hour ago—″

  Balobridge leaned forward. “Trux was here? Where has he been? How did he look?”

  “He looked like hell.” Miss Tolerance chose her words to shock. “He, like you, seemed to think I should understand why.”

  Lord Balobridge leaned back in his chair again and examined the gold-chased handle of his walking stick. “You maintain still that you are not aware? You may have heard, then, that Trux was betrothed to a very wealthy young woman of good family—quite a coup for both sides, as she was getting a title of fair antiquity, and he was getting a very considerable fortune. You may also have heard that Trux has been deep in debt for some time and was relying upon that money to mend his credit. And I am sure you must have heard that on Saturday morning a note was sent to the young woman, detailing some features of Trux’s past which caused her to cry off from the wedding in disgust. As for Trux, the ink was barely dry upon her letter to him when the bailiffs—somehow apprised of the estrangement—were at his door and he was forced to run to avoid them. It is very unlikely, despite his lineage and good title, that Trux will make another such match, since the matter has become unpleasantly public. It will be … difficult … for him to repair his fortune.”

  Miss Tolerance felt a coldness descend upon her.

  “You think I did this?” she asked. “Why?”

  “That has been the question I have asked myself,” Balobridge said silkily. “I confess, at first I did not see the advantage. Mere dislike for Trux—he is not a likable fellow, God knows—seems to me a paltry reason. There’s no money in ruining him, unless you were paid to do so—″

  “My lord, I think you mistake me. I did not ask your opinion of my motives, but why you accuse me. Has there been something in my behavior to you—other than my refusal, upon principle, to help you against the interests of my client—that suggests I would set out to destroy two lives?”

  “Your distinctions are too nice,” Balobridge said. “Did you not destroy Horace Maugham when you gave evidence to his wife about the wenches he had in keeping?”

  Miss Tolerance laughed. “Do you call that ruin? Mrs. Maugham probably railed at him for a fortnight. In a six-month he’ll have another set of rooms and another set of girls waiting for him. He will not starve, or lose his home. He will not be jailed, or pilloried and subject to the abuse of the mob, and I doubt that anyone but the high-sticklers at Almack’s will long remember the matter. Mr. Maugham might have avoided censure by moderating his behavior before I was brought in to uncover it. But this—I would not expose anyone to the disgust of society on a rumor, a whisper—and out of sheer malice or pique. Nor would I ruin the expectations of a woman who made a misalliance all unwary.” Miss Tolerance’s voice was cold and hard. “My own ruin has left me with little appetite for the ruin of others.”

  “I should have thought it would be just the opposite,” Balobridge said.

  “Then you do not understand me. My lord, I do not know the name of Trux’s affianced wife, nor her direction. I do not know who his creditors are, to alert them to the loss of his expectations. On Saturday morning, when you say this letter was sent, I was home in bed with a feverish cold; any of the staff of my aunt’s establishment could tell you so. None of this proves anything—I could easily have found out the woman’s name, I could have written a letter before I took to my bed. I have no way to clear my name, except to tell you, sir, that I did not write that letter. I would give you my oath, but what is the oath of a ruined woman?”

  Balobridge pursed his lips, his eyes still downcast, apparently studying his cane. “You’re very hot upon the subject, Miss Tolerance.”

  She gave a short choke of bitter laughter. “My lord, I have paid enough for the things that I have done. I refuse to pay for things I did not do. You must look elsewhere for your culprit.”

  Now Balobridge looked at Miss Tolerance directly.

  “Almost, you convince me, Miss Tolerance. I should like to believe what you say.”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. “You will believe what you wish, sir. I have no reason to ruin Lord Trux. The worst I knew of him was that he was complicit in an attack upon my client and was therefore not to be trusted. He is a dandy and, I suspect, a spendthrift. His manner is often haughty and unpleasant and his understanding is at best inferior. He has ambition, but I doubt he has talent; his only chance lay in the sponsorship of a more powerful man. Frankly, my lord, I was strongly under the impression that that man was you. None of these things would give me any reason to contrive Trux’s ruin.” Miss Tolerance was horrified to hear her voice shake. “But you will believe what you wish. I know that all too well.”

  In the quiet that fell, the hiss of the fire, the murmur of voices, and the rattle of bottles in the hall outside seemed shockingly loud.

  “If it was not you, then who?” Balobridge asked at last.

  “If the information given to the young lady was what I imagine it was—I had rather thought that was your weapon, my lord.”

  “Mine?”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “When last I spoke to him, Lord Trux certainly thought you were capable of using it, s
ir. He was quite terrified; it was not only the hope of preferment which persuaded him to cast his lot with you.” She watched as Balobridge’s cheeks reddened with rage, small precise patches of color in his pale face. “You see how unpleasant a false assumption is, sir. So: you did not expose Trux, and it’s plain you have as little admiration for him as I. Why are you here, then?”

  He gave thought before he answered. “’Tis a matter of appearance. I made certain assurances to Trux. He was, as you say, under my patronage. I cannot suffer an attack upon one of my protégés.″ Lord Balobridge leaned heavily upon his stick and stood up. “If I have done you an injustice, Miss Tolerance, you have my sincerest apologies. I do not know who else might have done this. Unless the whisper was true, and someone else, his …″ It appeared that words failed him.

  “His catamite?” Miss Tolerance prompted.

  Balobridge pursed his lips. “Such a person would not balk at blackmail, I imagine.”

  “Sexual perversion does not absolutely require that one be a liar, my lord.”

  “You appear to have a broad and varied acquaintance, Miss Tolerance,” Lord Balobridge said thoughtfully. “I wish—I wish you were not so firmly allied with the opposition. I think that you might have been a valuable friend.”

  Miss Tolerance rose and curtsied. “Thank you, sir.” A question came to her. “My lord, may I hope that you do not plan to make a show of vengeance upon me for appearance’s sake, perhaps send more of your messengers?”

  “Messengers?” Balobridge did not pretend to be perplexed. “The gentlemen you bested in Spanish Place? No, Miss Tolerance, I do not. Upon that″—he smiled slowly—″I would give you my oath, but what is the oath of a politician?”

  When Balobridge was gone and she was left alone in the salon, Miss Tolerance sat heavily in her chair again, upset beyond reason at the interview just past. There was no reason for Balobridge to believe her protestations of innocence—except that she knew she had not done it. She had no illusions about the sort of business she undertook: her trade was most often in information, and she could not afford to be overnice about how that information would be used. But there is a difference, she insisted to herself. There was a difference between finding out for Hermione Maugham the particulars of an infidelity she already suspected, and taking an episode of Trux’s past which, when brought to light, could do nothing but ruin Trux and the prospects of the innocent woman to whom he had been betrothed.

  And had she been hired to learn Trux’s secret? She might well have learnt it and told her client, but—how easy it was to distance herself—she would never have sent the note to his fiancée, never have called down the bailiffs upon the man.

  From his manner, Miss Tolerance believed Lord Balobridge’s denial of involvement. It made sense. Balobridge was better served by keeping Trux’s past as a threat to motivate his tool. What other reason could there be to expose him? Concern for the bride? Miss Tolerance rejected the thought immediately: while the girl might be better off without Trux, publishing the details of the scandal was not to her benefit. The only other reason to have done this, she thought, was to punish Trux.

  Miss Tolerance rose, left the salon, and desired Steen to fetch a chair for her.

  The servant who admitted her was plainly flustered by the appearance of a woman dressed handsomely for a dinner or card party, at a house where neither was taking place. It became apparent, after a moment or so, that the house did have guests, and guests of some importance, but that this was an exclusively male gathering. The footman stammered a few words, then left Miss Tolerance waiting at the door and went to take counsel with the butler.

  The butler appeared after a moment, apologizing for his subordinate’s stupidity and guiding Miss Tolerance up the stairs to a salon on the first floor. It was a pleasant room, not large but handsomely appointed, and despite the fact that it had been empty, it was well lit and inviting. She walked idly about the room as she waited, stopping to examine the cluster of paintings on one wall and to peer out the window into the shadowy street below.

  “Sarah!” Versellion stood in the doorway. “My dear, I wish you had come any night but tonight. The Prince and Grenville are below, and His Highness has been talking about the war—I am trying to talk him away from the belief that all Whigs hope for is a negotiated peace with Bonaparte, and—”

  “I have only a question to ask, and then I will leave you to the Prince.” Miss Tolerance stood by the doorway, not trusting herself to go too close, as if she might fall under the spell of his smile, or be stirred to rage by it. “Did you ruin Trux?”

  “Ruin Trux?” the earl repeated.

  “I must have the truth, Edward, if we are to continue together in any fashion at all.”

  Versellion frowned slightly. “I prefer to think that I saved Miss Ash from marriage to a man of unfortunate tendencies.”

  Miss Tolerance felt faint for a moment, as if the enormity of her emotions would overwhelm her. “Miss Ash? Trux’s betrothed? Are you so solicitous of her welfare?” She kept her eyes on Versellion, trying to read his expression, and sat heavily upon the nearest chair.

  Versellion shrugged. “She is probably hurt now, but I doubt there was great love on either side. With her fortune, she’ll find another suitor in short order.”

  “What a comfort that must be to her,” Miss Tolerance said coldly. It seemed to her that Versellion was having difficulty knowing what face to put upon the matter. “Let us agree that you did not do it for Miss Ash’s benefit. Why did you?”

  “Necessity,” Versellion said simply. He was clearly more upset by her distress than at the thought of Trux’s ruin. “’Tis the way politics are played, Sarah. Trux betrayed me. I had to punish him; I could not let myself be seen so weak. And I needed several persons in my own party and among the Tories to understand that I have the will to use a weapon if I must.”

  “And so you did.”

  “I did.” He was coming toward her now, hand outstretched. “All politics. But I don’t fathom why you are so distressed, Sarah. Your dislike of Trux—″

  “Where did you learn about Trux’s past?” she asked dully.

  “You said—″

  “I told you what I wondered. I had not come as close as to suppose anything, and I knew nothing for fact. You have made me complicit in this …″ Words failed her. She clenched her teeth together, rose from the chair, and went to the window, avoiding him.

  When she looked back, she saw Versellion standing in the middle of the room, watching her warily as if he feared a great hurt at her hands. Despite her anger and distrust, she was moved by the vulnerability of that gaze. One hand was still open at his side, as if at any moment he might reach out to implore her understanding.

  “I did not think,” he said at last. “It was a stupid, thoughtless, political thing to do. I did not think of you or Miss Ash or—Damn!” This last was in response to a knock on the door. A footman entered warily, looked from the earl to Miss Tolerance, then murmured something in a low voice to Versellion. “I will come,” Versellion said. “It is the Prince, I must go down. Sarah, for the love of God, wait for me. I will not be long, I promise. Please.”

  He turned and followed the footman from the room with a backward glance. Miss Tolerance watched him go, then resumed her restless prowling of the room, stopping by the window to watch a crowd of drunken revelers, young dandies with more money than sense by the look of them, baiting the Watch. She saw the Watch raise his rattle threateningly, saw the drunkards make faces of mock terror and reel away from the corner into the unlit street, and then she turned back, blinking in the light. She returned to the paintings.

  She knew little of art; she recognized some of the important names of an earlier day, but knew nothing of their styles or schools. There was an unappealing collection of apples in a silver bowl next to a dead pheasant: all, even the bowl, looked as if they might have been carved from wood. She rather liked one landscape, a scene looking over fields as the mist was clearin
g to reveal a fine rising sun. The painting reminded her of the country where she had grown up; for a moment she imagined herself as a girl, riding over such fields and returning to her lessons late, breathless, flushed, and wind-tossed, filled with uncomplicated joy.

  She looked away.

  There were several portraits on the same wall. Judging from the clothes their subjects wore, the oldest was more than a hundred years old, the most recent somewhat less than thirty. In the oldest, a fine-looking older man in the steepled wig and full-skirted coat of Queen Anne’s day stared reprovingly at her; there was no trace of humor about the face, only a simper of rectitude. There was a pretty portrait of a young woman with a rosy, dimpled face and powdered hair; her eyes were pale blue and round. The eyes seemed familiar to Miss Tolerance. They were not Versellion’s color or shape; with surprise she realized that Sir Henry Folle’s eyes were very like this unknown girl’s.

  The last painting she stared at the longest, seeking some clue, something that might help her to understand her lover better. The figures in the painting were clearly Versellion and his parents. The boy looked to be six or seven, his parents both appeared to be well into middle age. The father had the same dark hair and long, well-sculpted face as his son; his eyes were of a gray-blue which appeared to match the blue coat he wore and the glinting blue of the intaglio signet he wore on one hand. He smiled, his expression a blend of intelligence and confidence; Miss Tolerance recognized the expression from the Versellion she knew, but with rather more kindness. Versellion’s mother was slender, almost emaciated, the bones of her collar visible even through the fichu that crossed her bosom. She wore a pretty lace cap on hair that was an indeterminate color between yellow and gray, her eyes were watery blue, and her fine-boned countenance was curiously insubstantial, so that even the hint of color in her cheeks could not save her from looking ghostly. Her expression rather affirmed the impression of insubstantiality: her lips were pressed in a tight, anxious smile as she looked at a point halfway between her husband and son.