Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  Haskett’s jowly face seemed to swell in the moonlight. More than ever he appeared on the verge of explosion. “The scandal!” he sputtered.

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Scandal? A young man sows his oats with a woman several years older who has been the mistress of a gambler and whoremaster since she was fifteen. She approaches him in the lowest sort of gaming hell and convinces him it is an exchange of mutual pleasures with no cost to either. I have witnesses to their meeting, Mr. Haskett. I suggest the next time your mistress tries this trick, she do it somewhere less public. Now,” she slid her blade up to rest at Haskett’s throat, then leaned across him to take Bob’s pistols. “If you are clear on this, may I suggest we both get our companions home?”

  Haskett, outgunned, nodded. Miss Tolerance rose, slipped the pistols into the pocket of her greatcoat, and watched as the fat man got clumsily to his feet, wheezing louder than before. Haskett looked down at Bob without favor, shrugged, and walked away.

  Miss Tolerance leaned down to deliver a sharp slap to Mr. Waldegreen. He stirred slightly. One eye opened and shut.

  “Frenchy? Where the Devil are we?” His voice was sticky.

  “Outside Remsen’s and about to take a hackney back to Bourdon Street, Poggy,” Miss Tolerance said encouragingly. “Do you think you might stand up now?”

  Mr. Waldegreen was optimistic about his ability to do so; it took Miss Tolerance several minutes to get the young man to his feet and thence to the hired carriage, whose driver Miss Tolerance suspected had watched the altercation in the alley without inclination to help either side. At this hour and in this neighborhood, it was enough that the carriage had waited.

  In Bourdon Street Lord Pethridge was waiting. He did not ask to speak to his son, who was in any case now insensible, but sent two footmen out to retrieve him from the carriage. Miss Tolerance he led into a small office. The chamber was rather more meagerly furnished than others she had seen: a desk, a chair, a second chair for the accommodation of visitors, a shelf of ledgers, a Bible, and one painting executed by an amateur hand upon a Biblical subject—not, Miss Tolerance noted to herself, the parable of the prodigal son. It was a room designed to inspire little hope in a visitor expecting benevolence.

  In her dealings with him, Miss Tolerance had identified Lord Pethridge as a closefisted man with a superior sense of his own consequence, embarrassed by the need to seek her help, and therefore unfailingly impolite. He did not sit now, nor did he invite Miss Tolerance to do so.

  “Well? Aside from the bringing the boy home, have you accomplished anything?”

  Miss Tolerance responded to his words and not his tone. “Indeed, sir, the matter is concluded. Mr. Haskett, as we had anticipated, did attempt to contact your son this evening. I told him all I had discovered about his scheme. This, I believe, brought him to a full sense of its futility. I doubt you shall hear from Mr. Haskett again.”

  Pethridge nodded and cleared his throat, which miserly comment Miss Tolerance translated as “Very good, well done!” He took a key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked a drawer in the desk, and drew from it a small coffer.

  “Four days at three guineas a day?” Pethridge asked.

  “And my expenses, my lord,” Miss Tolerance said. “Totaling eight shillings fourpence. I can write you out an account of the monies spent if you like.”

  Lord Pethridge paused for a moment, caught, Miss Tolerance surmised, between the miser’s wish for an exact accounting and the prude’s wish to have the whole business done, and herself off his premises, with as much dispatch as possible.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said at last. Where Lord Pethridge’s son was genially ill kempt, Lord Pethridge himself was a man so tightly controlled that his clothes appeared to be lacquered in place. Of the two, father and son, Miss Tolerance preferred the son. It was the father, however, who was her client, and she was polite.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, as he pushed a pile of coins across the table. Pethridge, occupied in relocking the box and restoring it to its drawer, did not acknowledge her. When he looked up he appeared surprised to find her still there.

  “If I might make a suggestion, sir? I think you ought to find some occupation for your son which is more useful than gambling and wenching.”

  “Occupation? He’ll have occupation enough when he rises to the title and starts his way through my fortune! He clearly has no gift for responsibility.”

  Miss Tolerance put the coins in her pocketbook. “He’s not likely to develop such a gift without practice, sir.”

  Pethridge did not deign to answer. Miss Tolerance took this as her dismissal, bowed, and started for the door. He stopped her.

  “You’ll speak of this to no one,” he said, half command and half question.

  Miss Tolerance smiled politely. “I should have very little custom if I could not promise discretion. I do not talk about my cases.”

  “Not ever? The whole world knows that you brought the Earl of Versellion to justice—”

  “That the whole world knows it, my lord, is not my doing. When a murderer comes before the court he cannot expect to do so privately.”

  “You believe him guilty, then?” For a moment Pethridge’s icy demeanor slipped, revealing vulgar curiosity.

  “’Tis not a matter of what I believe. I gave what I knew of the facts last month in court, under oath. Anything I merely believe is between me and my conscience. If you will pardon me, sir?”

  Miss Tolerance bowed and left.

  The hour was now very late. Miss Tolerance found that exertion and her meeting with Lord Pethridge had left her wide awake. She was reluctant to return to the silence of her home. She thought briefly of going to her club, Tarsio’s, which at this hour was likely to be doing a brisk business. But she was still in her unconventional dress, and disliked to go to the club thus attired unless business was pressing. The management of Tarsio’s was liberal in its views (as the only establishment of its sort to admit women as members, it had a need to be) and would not bar her from entry, but Miss Tolerance preferred not to advertise her affinity for men’s garb. One never knew when the advantage of appearing to be something one was not would come in handy.

  Not to Tarsio’s, then. Miss Tolerance turned her steps toward Manchester Square and the brothel kept there by Mrs. Dorothea Brereton. It was a fogless night—rare for November—but dark. The law required that a light be hung at every door, but the lanterns and torches provided only a yellow smear of light at the doorsteps and did nothing to penetrate to the street or illuminate the passersby. And despite the hour there were people on the streets; mindful of the sorts of people they would tend to be, Miss Tolerance kept her hand lightly on the hilt of her sword. No one troubled her, however. Streetwalkers eyed her hopefully, then shrugged when she passed them by; twice she was aware of rhythmic shadows coupling in doorways. She walked up Davies Street, turned onto Oxford, and was near to Duke Street when she heard a woman cry out.

  Miss Tolerance paused. She heard the cry again, clearly one of pain or anger—in any case, not something she was capable of ignoring. She turned to look down Oxford Street for the source of the voice.

  A woman in an unseasonable muslin dress staggered out of an alley, pursued by a man. His clothes marked him as a gentleman; hers—the thin dress, cheap hat, and a limp, insufficient spencer jacket—marked her as a hedge-whore. Even in the dark, and at some yards’ distance, Miss Tolerance could see that the woman’s face was twisted in fear, and she moved forward to help. The woman—girl, rather, Miss Tolerance thought—bolted toward her.

  “Please, sir! He’ll kill me, sure!”

  The whore reached Miss Tolerance and took cover behind her, cowering. One hand was cupped over her eye, and a smudged trickle of blood at her mouth explained her fear.

  Her pursuer approached them at an easy pace; clearly he expected no trouble in reclaiming his prize. “Does the little bitch tell tales?” he called. His words were strongly accented but clear. French, M
iss Tolerance thought. Not so often heard in London as the endless war with Bonaparte wore on. “I paid for what I have not yet received,” the man said easily. “Come here, belle. We have business.” He smiled broadly; his black brows knit downward, giving the smile a demonic character. Miss Tolerance’s inclination to help the whore increased.

  The girl was shaking her head. “I’ve changed me mind,” she said. “You can have the coin back.” She fumbled at a little purse hanging at her waist.

  “But I have not changed mine,” the man said, and made to reach around Miss Tolerance to take the girl’s arm. Miss Tolerance shifted her stance and kept the girl away. The Frenchman did not like this: “Sir, this is nothing to do with you. If you do not wish to quarrel, I beg you will go your way.”

  “When I am certain the lady does not require my assistance, sir,” Miss Tolerance said.

  “The lady?” The man laughed. “The thing’s a convenience, like a chamber pot.”

  Miss Tolerance set her teeth. “Find another pot to piss in, then.”

  Behind her the girl had managed to open her reticule and find the coin she sought. “Here! Take your money! There’s some as like your kind of custom, but not me.” She reached out her hand to return the money and the man’s hand fastened upon her wrist.

  “’Twill be a matter of a few minutes, belle,” the man said, and pulled the girl toward him.

  Miss Tolerance had her sword out of its sheath and laid flat upon the gentleman’s wrist. “As the girl has returned your money I believe your business is concluded. You should let her go.”

  The man looked at the sword, then into Miss Tolerance’s face. His eyes narrowed, but he let go, stepped back, and dusted his coat off. He murmured something in French and turned away.

  Miss Tolerance replied in that language to his retreating back. The man stopped for a moment but did not look back. Then he walked on.

  The whore sighed. “Thank you, sir. A thousand times. If I’d known he was a foreigner I’d never ’ave let him come near me.” Her tone changed. “If you’ll let me thank you proper-like, sir—”

  Amused, Miss Tolerance replied that that would not be necessary.

  “No, really. No charge and all, sir. For the rescue.”

  “Go home,” Miss Tolerance advised. “It’s late, girl. Just—go home.”

  The girl looked confused. “Honest, sir. And I’m clean. For free, sir.” She started to run her hand along Miss Tolerance’s sleeve. Miss Tolerance stopped the hand with her own and pushed the girl away.

  “Go home,” she said again.

  The girl took a few steps away, then turned back, puzzled.

  “Was it what the foreigner said, sir? Did he say some lie about me?”

  “About you? Not really. He said he did not understand the such a fuss over a blow or two to a whore.”

  “And what did you say, sir?”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “I said when someone fetches him a blow or two perhaps he’ll understand it too.”

  The girl grinned. “I’ll dream of that, then, sir. Not likely, though, is it?”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. “No, not likely. Good night.” She turned toward Duke Street, grateful now that she was near home.

  Torches burned at the large, fine house on the corner of Spanish Place in Manchester Square. When Miss Tolerance knocked, the door was opened at once.

  “Miss Sarah! We’d not expected to see you this evening.”

  “Good evening, Keefe.” Miss Tolerance entered the house blinking in the sudden light afforded by a chandelier and branches of candles liberally stationed around the front hall. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that a brothel such as Mrs. Brereton’s must keep a chandler in business with the number of wax candles used there each week. “How is custom this evening?”

  The footman considered. “Solid, but not bustling, miss. When the quality finish with their shooting parties up north and come back to town again, then we’ll be on the hop.”

  “Passion is so seasonal a business?”

  Keefe, who after nearly a decade at Mrs. Brereton’s considered himself something of an authority upon the subject of brothels and their clientele, shook his head. “T’ain’t the season, miss. It’s the inconvenience. Not even the hottest buck’s like to come two hundred miles from the shooting for his piece. He’ll find a laundry maid or some obliging local girl to see to him until he comes back to London. And in course, them that stay in London at this time of year are not generally them that can afford a night at Mrs. Brereton’s. Come December, when Parliament meets again, we’ll see most of the government here.”

  “What a happy reflection upon the Nation.” Miss Tolerance shrugged off her Gunnard coat but kept it draped over one arm rather than surrender it to Keefe. “Surely there must be some MPs who do not patronize this house?”

  “Prigs,” the footman said dismissively. “Chapel evangelicals.”

  There was a murmur of conversation from the front salon, and a laugh. Miss Tolerance raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “A couple of gentlemen haven’t settled on their girls yet,” Keefe said. “Not regulars. And—Mrs. B is—engaged.”

  Again Miss Tolerance raised her eyebrow. Mrs. Brereton, as owner and manageress of the operation, had only a few patrons and entertained infrequently.

  “Marianne as well?” she asked.

  Keefe nodded. “All that’s in the salon is three girls: Emma, Chloe, and the new girl, Lizzie.”

  Miss Tolerance nodded. No one she wished to talk to. Fatigue, which had not touched her during her adventure on Oxford Street, suddenly came over her again.

  “Perhaps I shall go down to the kitchen and beg a cup of soup before I go home.”

  “Cook will have kept something for you,” Keefe suggested. It would have surprised Miss Tolerance to learn that she was something of a pet among the staff, one for whom favors large and small were often undertaken. It was not merely that she was liberal with her thanks, or that she gave generous tips whenever she was in funds; there was something about Miss Tolerance which commanded their imaginations. She was Mrs. Brereton’s niece, and rented the tiny cottage which stood in the rear of the garden. She had the appearance and manner of a lady but had, like the women who worked above-stairs at Mrs. Brereton’s, long ago lost her virtue and all the claims upon polite society to which it entitled her. Like the women above-stairs, she worked at all hours, and her work sometimes put her in peril. She had few friends and not even as much society as the whores, who when not employed spent their time in gossip and shopping.

  “There was gooseberry tarts for the supper,” Keefe said. “Tell Cook to put some out for you.”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “Perhaps I shall.” She stifled a yawn. “Or perhaps I shall forget my supper and go straight to sleep.”

  Keefe shook his head and looked as though he would offer advice, but did not.

  “You think I should eat something, Keefe?”

  “Miss Sarah, Cook would be hurt if you didn’t take a little something, you being in the house and all.”

  “Ah, well. I must on no account ruffle Cook’s feathers,” Miss Tolerance agreed. She thanked Keefe for his care and set off for the kitchen in search of gooseberry tarts.

  Two

  Rising early the next morning, Miss Tolerance dispatched a note detailing her expenses, and a receipt, to Lord Pethridge. With the matter of Mr. Waldegreen and Mr. Haskett so profitably resolved, she was able to turn her attention to another pending inquiry. A wealthy brewer desired that she determine whether the fortune of his daughter’s intended was as extensive as he claimed. Mr. Wheelock was short, stocky and mistrustful: “I’ll be frank with you, miss: I fully expected Betty to be wed for my money by some down-at-heels nobleman, but this fellow says his pocket’s as well lined as mine. I don’t mind she’s marrying up, as the phrase is—but I want to make sure the boy’s all he says he is.”

  It took her several days to run to ground all her sources; she then had th
e pleasure of informing Mr. Wheelock that Mr. Colcannon’s property was extensive, unmortgaged and, if anything, more productive than the gentleman had represented it. She turned in her account to the suspicious brewer, who sniffed as he read it and commented that his Betty had shown better sense than he’d ever expected of her. Miss Tolerance received her payment, and found herself at liberty.

  It had been some time since she had last achieved this enviable state. Country-bred, she liked to keep busy as much from a preference for employment as for the sake of her pocketbook (although that object was a matter of constant interest; a Fallen Woman may count upon no one but herself for security in her old age). In the last few months she had been unusually busy, taking any task that was offered her. As she had lately been a witness in a murder trial of considerable notoriety, her star had risen sharply and several interesting opportunities had been offered her. It came as a shock to her to realize that there was nowhere she need be that day, no question to ask or goal to pursue. One day of idleness was delicious. Two days was enjoyable. Three was torture.

  There were always a few matters of housekeeping and bookkeeping to attend to, but these barely filled the first empty day. The usual occupations open to a lady of leisure seemed singularly without luster. She enjoyed shopping as an occasional pastime. Her needlework was generally of the practical and not the decorative variety, and represented only duty. She was not addicted to reading for pleasure, rarely indulged in the theater, and only recalled how much she enjoyed musical performance when she found herself at one. She did not feel inclined to seek out the company of her small circle of friends; her two closest friends were Sir Walter Mandif, magistrate of Bow Street, and Marianne Touchwell, one of Mrs. Brereton’s whores. Sir Walter was in the midlands for the hunting, and Marianne had professional constraints upon her time which Miss Tolerance was bound to respect. There was no one else she wished to call upon, and while Miss Tolerance spent part of each day at Tarsio’s, making herself available to anyone who might look for her, no one did.