Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  “Ladies and their accomplishments! It appears that your life has been far more exciting than mine,” Beauville said dryly. He bowed and returned en garde.

  Poised upon the moment, both fencers hesitated. Then Beauville moved to attack, mixing thrusts with sweeping cuts with a speed which allowed Miss Tolerance no time for thought, only instinctive response. She parried each cut economically, beating a cut to her hip away strongly; she thrust, and caught her blade along Beauville’s side. He reeled away from the scratch and, enraged, slapped the flat of his blade against Miss Tolerance’s left arm. It stung like a whip. Miss Tolerance pulled her blade back, out of the entangling folds of Beauville’s coat, and shook her left arm, which was numb with pain. For his part, Beauville gingerly tested the wound on his side with his bloodied left hand.

  “We must finish this,” he said. He had abandoned amused condescension. “Give way or I will kill you.”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I regret I cannot, sir.”

  “Very well.” Beauville swept a cut at her head; Miss Tolerance parried and returned the cut with one to his shoulder. Beauville danced to the side, seeking to maneuver Miss Tolerance away from the door. Miss Tolerance stepped in to his attack and kept herself between him and his escape. When one of the rugs rucked beneath her feet Miss Tolerance kicked it blindly away. Beauville was distracted for a moment, then snapped his eyes back to Miss Tolerance’s face. He swung his sword in a wide, elegant moulinet which, unfortunately for him, telegraphed his intent to slice his opponent’s head off. Miss Tolerance ducked beneath his blade and lunged, making an upward thrust which came in under his guard. Beneath her foot the carpet slid again, just enough to give her arm extra momentum. The sword pierced Beauville’s coat and waistcoat, stopped for a second upon a rib, then slid in deep. As she felt the sword slide into resisting flesh Miss Tolerance knew it for a mortal wound.

  Beauville made a sighing noise of pain and surprise.

  Miss Tolerance pulled back at once and tried to support Beauville as he slumped forward.

  “Lie back, sir. Here, let me make you more comfortable.” Miss Tolerance eased Beauville’s weight onto the floor and, after a glance around the room, pulled one of the drapes from the window, rolled it up, and put it under Beauville’s head. She took up the cloak she had seen before—brown with sable trim—and covered him with it.

  Beauville gasped; there was a wet, sucking sound to his breath.

  “I should—should have believed you,” he said.

  “Hush, sir. Don’t try to talk. I will summon someone—”

  Beauville shook his head. “By the time they come I will be dead, I think. Who taught you to fence? I should like to give him my compliments.”

  Miss Tolerance was winded and near tears. “‘Twould be difficult, sir. He died some years ago.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps not so difficult after all.” Beauville coughed. “What was his name? If I see him in Hell I will tell him you do him credit.”

  “His name was Charles Connell, sir. Lie quiet; you do yourself no good to keep talking.”

  Beauville ignored her warning. “You will use this to free the little widow, mademoiselle? My death?”

  “She is already free, sir. With Mr. Boyse’s testimony exploded and the link to you—”

  Beauville gave a ghastly, coughing sound Miss Tolerance realized was laughter.

  “I had Boyse lie, it is true, but—”

  “But?”

  “Mademoiselle, I am much of what you think of me. I set the fire in your little house. I killed Josette—Camille demanded it, and Josette could have linked me to d‘Aubigny’s death. She went there that night a-purpose to leave the door open for me, all by Camille’s design. I do not think she cared to be in another’s power—she preferred to be the one holding the reins. She paid him one time, visited him another, hoping to steal the letters away then. But no—” Beauville paused and gave a long shuddering sigh. “I was to kill him and retrieve the letters. But d’Aubigny was occupied”—he gave the word a peculiar emphasis—“when I arrived. I heard him, and the woman’s noises. So I waited in the hall, behind a cabinet. I—” another horrible laugh. “I fell asleep for a time. When I woke, all was quiet. She was gone, Etienne was dead. The bloody box.” He laughed again. “The one place I would not look.”

  “Who was the woman, Beauville?”

  “Am I to do your work for you? Who else could it have been?” The man stared over her shoulder at someone or something or someone invisible to Miss Tolerance. “Christ, in the box. The bloody box, the bloody box, why did I not …”

  He drifted into silence, still panting.

  Miss Tolerance went to the stair, called for the porter and gave the alarm, asking for a surgeon and the watch. In an afterthought she sent to Great Marlborough Street for Mr. Heddison as well. Then she returned to sit by Beauville’s side as he fought a solitary, hopeless battle with death.

  Nineteen

  The surgeon was the first to arrive. He was a tall, gaunt man, several days unshaved, with a spill of snuff on the cuff of his black coat. He introduced himself, in a strong Welsh accent: “I am the surgeon, Jones. A man is dying here?” Miss Tolerance directed him to his patient; Jones cast one impatient look at the disarray of the room—candles guttering, the smears of blood on the wall and the floor, and the bloody cloak with which Miss Tolerance had covered Beauville—and went to work. He spoke bracingly to Beauville, but aside, with Miss Tolerance, he was grave.

  “He will be lucky to last the night,” the surgeon said. “Was he lying thus when you found him?”

  “When I—” Miss Tolerance would have corrected Mr. Jones, but an elderly man, wrapped in so many disreputable scarves that they nearly covered his caped coat of office as well as his face, wheezed into the room. The watch, Miss Tolerance surmised, and would have advanced to explain matters to him, but he was seized by a fit of coughing so profound that Mr. Jones went to offer assistance, and Miss Tolerance returned to Beauville’s side. Jones had apparently explained his mistaken idea of the situation to the watchman, for as soon as his coughing had stopped the man reeled away out the door, muttering rather thickly that he was going to fetch “the authorities.”

  “Gin,” Mr. Jones diagnosed tersely.

  Miss Tolerance nodded. There was little to say. She and the surgeon sat quietly, watching the wounded man. Beauville had sunk into a kind of sleep; his breathing was wet and shallow.

  Miss Tolerance was roused from her thoughts by the percussive sound of boots on stairs. Mr. Heddison, with Greenwillow at his heels, was at the door. The boy who had fetched them lingered in the doorway, gratified to play even a small part in so glamorous an event. The sudden commotion was too much for the surgeon, who began to scold, explaining that his patient was unlike to last the night unless he was untroubled. Heddison, identifying himself, in turn explained to Mr. Jones that as Mr. Beauville was like to die in any case, a declaration must be obtained. The two men glared at each other in a wordless battle between the flexed muscles of the legal and medical professions; Jones gave way first, with a muttered warning to Heddison that he would not be responsible for the outcome. Heddison nodded, paused long enough to direct Miss Tolerance to stay, and bent over Beauville.

  Miss Tolerance took a seat and composed herself. She had told Beauville the truth; she did not fence for sport, but in defense of herself and her clients. She knew from experience that it would be several days before the physical memory of the fight faded: she would suddenly feel again her sword point penetrating her opponent’s resisting flesh, see the surprise in the other’s eyes and smell the warm, coppery blood. She knew as well that the emotions of the event would take far longer to dissipate. She had disliked and distrusted Beauville, but in dying he was showing a bravery that she could not but admire. She could not think of his imminent death with anything but regret.

  The law would have its say in regard to Beauville’s death as well. Miss Tolerance was fairly certain that any honest verd
ict would be in her favor. The two swords which lay in proximity to Beauville’s body attested to the fact that she had not attacked the man unprovoked. For a moment she was distracted by the idea of the affair written up in the Gazette’s Dueling Notices: By the sword, fatally, Mr. Henri Beauville, engaged with Miss Sarah Tolerance in a matter of treason. Beauville murmured unintelligibly to Heddison across the room.

  At last Heddison left Beauville and joined Miss Tolerance.

  “I had only just finished reading your note and the materials it contained when your second summons arrived,” he told her. His wide mouth turned down. “Beauville says you fought to keep him from escaping.”

  Miss Tolerance nodded.

  “He also says he has no idea whence Mrs. Touvois has fled. Before you go, please give Greenwillow a description of the woman. Perhaps she may be stopped at a port—she must try to leave the country. Dover or Southampton, most likely.”

  “Indeed.” Miss Tolerance waited, feeling strongly that there must be something more to be said, either about the plot she had unearthed or her own participation in it.

  “Well, it is late. I will not keep you, but be prepared to make yourself available.” Heddison bowed curtly and beckoned Greenwillow forward. He gave instructions to his constable, then went back to Beauville. Greenwillow, with a notebook and a stub of pencil, waited until Miss Tolerance had given Madame Touvois’ height and hair color, then followed his master’s lead in dismissing Miss Tolerance into the night.

  She went home to Manchester Square, exhausted and depressed.

  She was wakened by Jess, carrying a tray of coffee and rolls, with several of the London papers upon it. The hour was very advanced—the light had dropped to the western side of the house and Miss Tolerance judged it must be nearer to one than noon.

  “Ma’am said she thought you’d want to see these, miss,” the maid explained. “She said I was to bring you your breakfast up, seeing as you might be wanting to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” Miss Tolerance said blankly.

  “That’s what she said, miss.” Jess settled the tray before Miss Tolerance and poured out her coffee. “Good morning, miss.” She curtsied and was gone.

  The papers were filled with news, much of it characteristically muddled. The story in brief was that a vile plot against a royal person had been uncovered—unfortunately too late to save the lives of several persons who had been involved in the treasonous actions, including, Miss Tolerance was fascinated to read, “a beautiful innocent who was murdered solely to implicate the Royal Person in her death.” Josette Vose had given a fair impersonation of beauty, but innocent? She had been innocent of nothing except, most likely, conniving at her own death. She was similarly interested to learn that the Chevalier d’Aubigny featured in the reports as a patriot who had died because he had uncovered the vile plans of Madame Camille Touvois and her lackey, Mr. Henri Beauville. Mr. Beauville’s death was attributed to unknown persons, and an urgent entreaty was made to the public to be on the watch for Madame Touvois, a woman of middle height and full, fine figure, with hair a light red and curling, and eyes brown, not beautiful but handsome, thought to be traveling disguised.

  There was no note in any of the papers of Miss Tolerance’s role in uncovering the plot.

  She was happy to have it so; notoriety was not an asset in her profession, and she had received far too much publicity in testifying against Versellion. Still she was bemused at how totally Mr. Heddison (who, she suspected, had called in the press as soon as she had left Madame Touvois’ rooms) had taken credit for the resolution of the case. One thing pleased her: two reports mentioned that discovery of the treasonous conspiracy had completely removed any suspicion in her husband’s death from the poor Widow d’Aubigny, who had been taken up for questioning before the direction of the investigation had been changed and the true culprits discovered.

  Miss Tolerance sipped her coffee and ate her bread and butter. When she had finished her meal she prepared to go out. She must give her reckoning to William Colcannon and return the chevalier’s box to Anne d’Aubigny. The box might well go into the privy house again, but that was none of her affair. Miss Tolerance washed leisurely, put her hair up, and laid out her blue twill walking dress. She was putting on her stockings when Jess appeared at the door with a letter on a tray.

  “Just delivered, miss. By a important footman, Cole says.” Important, coupled with the rolling of Jess’s eyes, suggested pompous.

  Miss Tolerance thanked the maid and asked her to request Cole to bespeak a hackney carriage for her. She finished dressing before she took up the envelope. It was of heavy laid paper, un-crested, addressed to her in a uniform copperplate which suggested a secretary’s hand. Perhaps an offer of new employment, she thought. With the Widow d’Aubigny’s business all but finished new employment would be welcome.

  But the envelope contained a brief note in language that was unexceptionable and noncommittal, expressing the gratitude of His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland. From the number of banknotes which had been enclosed with the note it was clear that the note intended less to convey thanks than to insure silence. Miss Tolerance sat for some minutes looking at the banknotes spread across her lap, weighing practicality against scruples. The amount she was being offered would have kept her quite comfortably for a year. She folded the banknotes into her reticule, took up her coat, and descended to the waiting hackney.

  When she applied at Cumberland’s apartments in St. James’s Palace she was put again in the blank, chilly room where she had last waited. Miss Tolerance had resolved to be, quite against her mood, as bland and pleasant-spoken as she could be with the duke. It was not the duke who joined her, however. This was a neatly dressed man of middle height and build, with close-cut brown hair of a medium shade, and features so unremarkable that one might forget what he looked like, almost while looking at him.

  “Miss Tolerance?” The forgettable man bowed.

  She curtsied. “Yes, sir? And you are?”

  “You may call me Mr. Smith,” he drawled. Miss Tolerance had his measure by the end of the sentence: a man who believed that her equivocal position licensed insolence. She would not rise to the bait.

  “Smith is not your true name, I take it?”

  “No more than yours, Miss Tolerance. It will do for our purposes. Will you tell me why you have come?”

  Miss Tolerance opened her reticule and bought out the packet of banknotes. “I received this from His Highness this morning. I preferred to return it myself, to ensure no farthing went astray.”

  Smith looked at the money. “Was it not enough?” he drawled.

  Miss Tolerance spoke with a politeness which ought to have inspired anxiety in the forgettable Mr. Smith. “You mistake me, sir. It is far too much. I will be quite adequately paid for my efforts by my own client.” She extended the notes to Smith. He did not take them.

  “The money is an expression of my master’s gratitude. You have no reason to return it.”

  “Nothing I have done has been in your master’s service.”

  “But what you have done has turned out very well for my master, and he wishes to thank you.”

  “Turned out well? With his mistress murdered in the street?”

  “Ah, but you found the persons responsible, did you not? And my master is now regarded by the public with some sympathy—a novel situation, you must admit—both as a bereaved lover and as the target of that wicked plot.”

  “According to the newspapers I had nothing to do with the resolution of the case,” Miss Tolerance said drily.

  “If the men who run this nation were made to rely upon the newspapers to know the truth, England would be in a sad case, Miss Tolerance. The papers are for manufacturing opinion, not telling the truth. My master is well aware that it was you who—” Smith paused. “It was you who removed the obstacles the French had thought to throw in his way.”

  “Obstacles. To His Highness’s bid for the regency?”

 
; “Of course. More immediately, obstacles to the passage of an important bill he supports.”

  “The Support Bill.” Miss Tolerance’s distaste was obvious.

  “Indeed. With the passage of the Support Bill the army will be given the money it requires to extinguish the French menace from the face of Europe—”

  “At the cost of stirring up revolution here at home? If I have helped secure passage of that bill, I will take no pride in it, sir.”

  “You disapprove, Miss Tolerance? Well, we are fortunate that policy is not made by women. Your soft hearts do not accord with the resolve necessary to statecraft.”

  Miss Tolerance closed her eyes and drew a long, deep breath. When she had subdued her temper she smiled.

  “Mr. Smith, I killed a man last night. Please do not condescend to speak of my resolve or the softness of my heart. You may give His Highness my condolences upon his loss when you return his money.” Miss Tolerance regarded Smith’s bland face and could not resist the impulse to disturb its smiling arrogance. “It is particularly convenient for His Highness that the branches of amour in which Mrs. Vose specialized did not become known to the public.”

  The effect of her words was everything she could have wished. Smith’s bland smile vanished. He had all the appearance of a man on the brink of outrage. “Do you suggest that you would make known—if the money is not sufficient to guarantee your discretion—”

  “Mr. Smith, I am not a blackmailer, nor am I given to plots and intrigues. My soft heart feels for the people who will suffer if your master succeeds in his object—and for the late Mrs. Vose. Your master has nothing to fear from me: I shall make nothing public. I shall continue to think, and feel, a great deal, however. As I remarked to him upon the last occasion when I called here, the mere fact that some of my services may be hired does not mean that I can be bought entire.”

  Smith bridled. “You would have me believe you are insulted by the money?”