Miss Tolerance pressed a half crown into Joe’s hand. “Perhaps someone could inquire if I might have a word?”
Without turning, Joe gestured behind his back and called out, “Becky! Go see!” A woman from the salon—tired and creased in a white muslin gown most likely intended to create an impression of despoilable innocence—rose and trudged heavily up the stairs toward Mrs. Virtue’s rooms. Joe hurried her on with a casual slap at the woman’s posterior; she gave a titter by rote but did not look back.
After a few minutes the woman returned and jerked her head toward the stairs. “She sez yer t’coom on ooop,” the whore murmured, and went back to her seat in the salon.
Joe grinned again and stood aside. Miss Tolerance suspected he would like to make the same gallant gesture to her as he had made to his messenger a few minutes before. She gave him a level glance; he raised one eyebrow, his grin widened, and he retired to the doorway again. Miss Tolerance continued up the stairs unmolested.
Like the streets outside her door, daylight deprived Mrs. Virtue of a good measure of her mystery. Miss Tolerance found the madam reclining on a divan, propped upon a pile of somewhat grubby pillows and wearing a frowzy negligee of copper-colored satin. The flame-colored hair was largely concealed under a highly ornamented cap, tied rakishly with a bow under one ear; the exquisitely applied maquillage that had passed in candlelight for a fine complexion was blurred and faded.
“You come back to us, Miss Tolerance? Did you not find Sir Humphrey? And will you take a cup of chocolate?” Mrs. Virtue’s accent was more apparent this morning—foreign, but neither French nor Dutch, the two languages best known to Miss Tolerance. The woman waved at an old-fashioned Sevres chocolate service on the table nearest her elbow, and despite her dislike of the stuff, Miss Tolerance accepted a cup of chocolate as a useful prop for her negotiation.
“I did find Sir Humphrey, ma’am, but he directed me to you again.” She sipped the chocolate and was surprised to find it heavily sugared and far more palatable than the usual bitter brew.
Mrs. Virtue’s sculpted eyebrow rose. “Sir Humphrey directed you to me? Then perhaps I will now know what it is, this object you are seeking?”
“Sir Humphrey informed me that he had given the object—a fan with gold sticks and a painted scene upon ostrich skin—to you some years ago.”
Mrs. Virtue made no pretense of consulting her memory. “He did,” she agreed. “A very pretty thing. Is that what your employer wanted?”
“Do you have it, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance asked neutrally.
“I have all the gifts that were ever given to me, my dear. They are for the security of my old age. So,” she said briskly, “what is the worth of this fan to your employer?”
Miss Tolerance recognized the opening gambit of a seasoned negotiator. She smiled. “If it is the object I seek, what would be an acceptable price?”
Mrs. Virtue laughed. “As much as possible, my dear! I collect that a thousand is probably too much?” She did not wait for her guest to agree, but began to reason aloud in a singsong voice. “If he is paying you to find the fan, then it is of more than common interest to him. Which means it might be of more than common interest to other parties as well—although one must wonder why. It is a pretty thing, but not out-of-reason expensive. Say a hundred pounds for the thing itself. But of course, I have kept it safe all these years, and that must be worth something.”
Miss Tolerance smiled politely.
“Ah, I hate to place a value upon sentiment, do not you, Miss Tolerance? But I think—perhaps your employer would pay as much as four hundred?”
Miss Tolerance made a great show of considering the figure. “I think,” she said slowly, as if the matter required some stretch of the imagination, “I think that with persuasion, his generosity can be brought to extend that far.”
Mrs. Virtue nodded and put her chocolate cup down. “Well, then it seems we are both fortunate today.” She rose from the bed—uncorseted, her body strained at the seams of the satin negligee, but the effect was less of blowzy overripeness than of comfortable sensuality—and disappeared through a door behind the divan. She came back a few moments later with a fan and handed it to Miss Tolerance.
“You will wish to assure yourself it is the fan you seek, yes?”
Miss Tolerance opened the fan and turned it over in her hands—gold sticks, tiny rubies and diamonds at intervals along their length; a landscape of cypress trees, sheep, and distant mountains against a cerulean sky painted upon the ostrich skin of the fan—a relic of the last century, rather dry and in need of oiling. Everything just as Trux had told her.
“All is in order?” Mrs. Virtue asked. She held her hand out for the fan.
“It does indeed appear to be the item I am seeking.” Miss Tolerance kept the fan, turning it over and over as if she were still examining it.
“I presume you did not come here with four hundred pounds in your pocket,” Mrs. Virtue said. She took the fan from Miss Tolerance’s hand and smiled. “When I have the money, I will be happy to release it to you.”
“I can probably bring you the cash this evening, once I speak with my employer. I would, of course, prefer to take the fan with me—it will certainly make a better argument for disbursing the full amount that you require.”
Mrs. Virtue laughed. “The best argument for that is that I will not release the fan for any less than four hundred pounds. Indeed, if there is some difficulty about the price, I can easily sell the fan to the next person who seeks it. It matters nothing to me whose money I take.”
“Is someone else seeking it?” Miss Tolerance asked blandly. “I don’t recall having said so.” In fact, the memory of Lord Balobridge’s insistent interest in the fan, and her suspicion that the viscount had a spy in her aunt’s house, made her determined to bring the fan away with her now. “I should like to present my client with his prize this evening, ma’am. Is there no way I can persuade you to let me take it?”
“If I am to trust a woman I have never seen before, an oh-so-respectable woman in breeches who wanders the night doing errands for anonymous gentlemen … I really think I must require an additional sum. As … what is the word? As security of my cooperation. Five hundred, total?” Mrs. Virtue held the fan just out of Miss Tolerance’s reach, as if she were teasing a child.
Miss Tolerance swore a silent oath, but her own smile did not waver. “Is a few hours’ patience worth one hundred pounds?” she asked mildly.
“I became more sentimental when I held the fan in my hands. And as I say, there is a risk that I will never hear from you—or your employer.”
Miss Tolerance silently weighed her own series of risks and rewards, and at last made an offer to Mrs. Virtue. “If I can be certain that you will not have another burst of sentimentality before I return with your money, I can offer you my own note as security. For four hundred and fifty.”
The old courtesan laughed. “Your note? Has an agent like yourself the wherewithal to offer such a sum?”
Miss Tolerance rose from her chair. “You are not the only one who saves against the rigors of old age, ma’am. If you have pen and paper to hand, the matter is resolved in just a few minutes.”
Mrs. Virtue regarded her visitor for a few moments, then nodded. “You do not do this easily, whatever you say. Which makes me believe the money is there, and you could lose it. Very well. Four hundred and fifty. How soon can your note be redeemed with cash?”
Miss Tolerance scrawled the required note and tucked the fan into the pocket of her waistcoat, offering her hope that she could return that evening with the funds to redeem the vowel. With thanks, she excused herself and made her way downstairs; as she left the house, it began to rain. She hired a hackney and settled back to enjoy a pleasant sense of accomplishment, only slightly marred by anxiety at the risk she had taken in leaving her note with Mrs. Virtue.
She found Mrs. Brereton’s establishment in a state of uproar. She had gone first to her own house in hopes of fi
nding a note from Versellion; finding none, she turned to the big house, intending to retrieve her coat and ask Matt if he had been given a message of any sort. Instead, she was met at the kitchen door by the scullery maid, who burst into tears at the sight of her—by the evidence of her red-rimmed eyes, not the first she had shed—and ran past her into the garden. The cook, her own face drawn and tight, said nothing, only nodded Miss Tolerance through the green baize door to the public rooms.
Mrs. Brereton herself stood in the middle of the hall, seemingly frozen to that spot. Several of the ladies of the house lined the gallery of the upper stairway. All showed signs of tears or vaporish hysteria.
Miss Tolerance went at once to her aunt’s side. “My God, what’s amiss?”
Mrs. Brereton turned to her niece with a blank, stark expression. “Matt’s dead,” she said simply.
Miss Tolerance was conscious of a buzzing in her ears, and the sensation that her knees might suddenly refuse to bear her weight. It took her several long moments to make sense of her aunt’s next words.
“They’re bringing his—they’re bringing him back to us. I’ve had Keefe—Keefe is—he cleared the salon for him. I shall have to ask Mr. Hallet at All Soul’s about burial … .” Her voice trailed off as the front door of the house opened and Keefe, together with Cole and two men Miss Tolerance did not know, silently carried a litter into the house. The corpse had been covered with a rough blanket.
“What happened?” Miss Tolerance asked. Neither she nor her aunt seemed able to tear their gazes away from the door of the salon.
“He went out this morning,” Mrs. Brereton said. “Early, on some errand of his own. From what the Watch said, he was set upon, robbed, and left for dead—” Mrs. Brereton broke off, watching as Keefe paid the porters with a few coins and a murmured word of thanks. “We shall have to dress the body—he was so vain, he would hate to appear in anything shabby.”
From a great distance, Miss Tolerance heard herself asking calm, quite rational questions. “Where was he set upon? Does the Watch have any idea who attacked him?” With her aunt following, she went into the salon to view the body.
When she pulled the blanket off the corpse, Miss Tolerance drew a sharp breath. Mrs. Brereton reached out a hand to comfort and steady her niece, quite misunderstanding what had caused the reaction. The facts were bad enough: Matt had been beaten brutally, then slashed across the throat and left to bleed to death. His clothes were stiff with blood, his handsome, boyish face misshapen, and his hands, when she inspected them, were crossed with cuts, as if he had held them before his face, unable to defend himself in any other way.
He was wearing her own dark green Gunnard greatcoat.
“We shall be closed tonight,” Mrs. Brereton was instructing Keefe. “Sarah?” She had turned back to her niece. “What are you doing?”
Miss Tolerance paused in the process of going through all of Matt’s pockets. “I have a great deal of work to do, Aunt. Not least is to find out who wanted Matt dead.”
“Wanted him dead? My dear child, it was footpads, a robbery—”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I don’t believe so, Aunt. Look: he still has his pocketbook, and that vulgar gold ring he so delighted in. What footpad would have missed taking them? And he was wearing my coat—the idiot!—and he was about my errand. I think he was mistaken for me, and I intend to know by whom, and why.” She stepped back into the room and embraced Mrs. Brereton. “I should be of no use to you here. When the … arrangements … are made, please let me know.”
For the first time in all the years her niece had known her, Mrs. Brereton looked her age. “Sarah, you’re not leaving?”
“Aunt, I must,” Miss Tolerance said firmly.
“Then be careful, Sarah. Please.”
Miss Tolerance smiled grimly. “I’m less decorative than Matt, but far better able to care for myself. I’ll find who did this, Aunt, I promise.”
Not until she had attained the privacy of a hackney and given the driver directions did Miss Tolerance give vent to her feelings in tears, and even that very natural reaction was brief. Her grief at Matt’s death was consumed by rage—at Matt, for borrowing her coat unasked; at herself, for believing, despite her conversation with Lord Balobridge, that no danger could attach to being her messenger; and at whoever had been the agent of Matt’s death. Miss Tolerance had long ago schooled herself to keep anger under rein; Charles Connell had taught her that such emotion was useful only as a fuel for action—not as its substitute. Still, she was grateful for the opportunity to master her emotions in private before arriving at her destination.
She presented herself at Versellion House, only to be informed that his lordship was expected to return to Richmond that evening. Miss Tolerance thanked the footman civilly, walked back to her stables, and hired again the patient horse which had been her companion so often recently. It was coming on dark, and despite the best efforts of the horse patrols on the highways to London, some risk attached to riding unaccompanied out to Richmond; she did not accomplish the ride at a full gallop, but caution and the tumult of her emotions made her set a brisk pace. She arrived at the house before the earl did.
The butler, summoned to deal with the scandalous female waiting in the same tiny withdrawing room to which she had been shown on her last visit, recognized her at once, made her comfortable, and brought a tray of port and biscuits, which masculine refreshment he clearly believed matched her attire.
It was nearly an hour before she heard Versellion’s voice in the hallway, and the butler murmuring to him urgently. A few moments later the earl himself appeared, smiling cordially. He wore a rain-spattered greatcoat, and his hat was still tucked under his arm.
“My dear Miss Tolerance, had I known that you were here, I would assuredly have cut my business short.” He stripped off his gloves, shrugged off the coat, and handed them and his hat to the butler, who hovered behind him. “Can I persuade you to take some refreshment with me? And can I hope,” he continued, as the butler bore away his belongings, “that you have news?”
Miss Tolerance had had some time to compose herself, and to decide what she wished to say, and to ask of her client.
“I do have news, sir. Several sorts. I have secured the fan for you, although its release will require a payment of four hundred and fifty pounds—I gave my own note in order to take it away with me.”
Versellion instantly understood the import of the statement. “You have only to tell me to whom the payment must be made and I will have it delivered, and your note returned to you.” He held out his hand as if to receive the fan.
“Thank you, sir. But before I can give you your property, I would like the answer to some questions.”
Versellion’s eyes narrowed. “From our earlier interview, Miss Tolerance, I had taken you for a woman of some integrity. Must I revise my view? Do you now intend blackmail?”
Miss Tolerance met his glare with her own unbending look. “My lord, did you receive a note from me this morning?”
“A note? No. I’ve been in Town the last day or so. If something was sent here—”
“It was sent to your house in St. James’s Square. There is no possibility that a note might have been delivered without being shown to you?”
“None,” he said firmly. “My staff know me too well to believe I would tolerate such a thing. Miss Tolerance, take me with you. Explain what this is all about, and what it has to do with my fan.”
“A friend of mine was killed this morning—apparently before he could deliver the note to you. As the note was not upon his person when he was discovered, I must assume he was killed for the note itself—the murderer took nothing else. And I suspect he was mistaken for me—I was attacked the other night when I returned from my visit to you here. You will understand that the fan’s significance has become a matter of pressing concern to me.” She was very pleased that her voice betrayed nothing of her fury.
On his part, Versellion sat across from her, the
suspicion quite gone from his countenance. “My God, Miss Tolerance, are you certain that your friend’s death has something to do with your business for me?”
“Given the circumstances, what else am I to think?”
“What did the note say? Could the thieves have learned anything from it?”
Miss Tolerance smiled without humor. “My fee includes discretion. I put no particulars in the note, only that I desired a meeting and hoped to bring your matter to a conclusion within the day. Matt died for nothing.” She leaned forward and rubbed her hands over her face, suddenly exhausted.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “You are tired and distressed. And hungry, I think. Will you not let me help? First, let me discharge the debt you incurred in my name, so that you needn’t be distracted from your purpose.” He rang, and the butler appeared. A few brief instructions and the man reappeared with a strongbox. Versellion counted out in bills and coin the full amount of the debt, made a package of it, and asked Miss Tolerance to address it.
“Have Leeward deliver this, and see that he does not return without the note Miss Tolerance left on my behalf. Tell him not to wear livery, take the black carriage, and that I’ll expect him back in the morning.” Versellion spoke with the easy authority of rank, and a note of sympathy for the sorts of distractions Leeward might discover in Cheapside. “When that’s been accomplished, lay a cover for Miss Tolerance at dinner.”
“I cannot dine with you,” Miss Tolerance protested. “It would do you no credit, and would delay my inquiries. I am in deadly earnest, sir. I need to know what this fan is and why several people are so eager to claim it. Two people are dead—”
“Two! Dear God, who is the other?”
“An elderly woman in Leyton who helped me discover Mrs. Cunning’s whereabouts. She was bludgeoned to death, sir, hot upon my heels. So you will understand why I must know what the significance of the fan is. It touches upon my honor and my safety.”
Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Page 13
