Marianne shook her head. “That she would not. But it was he who came a-purpose to start a fight, and he didn’t much like that you wouldn’t take his bait.” She paused, her hand upon the knocker of the door. “It bothered you, though, I saw that right enough. That he called you a whore.”
Miss Tolerance considered with whom she was speaking and measured her words. “It bothered me that he thought I could be bribed to tell a client’s business.”
“Oh, yes, no one likes to be accused of that,” Marianne said matter-of-factly. The door opened and she stepped inside. “It’s as Mrs. Brereton says: even a whore has her reputation to think of, and her perhaps more than other folk.” She smiled, handed her parcel to Cole, and started up the stairs. Miss Tolerance was left with the uncomfortable feeling that there was more to be said upon the subject.
Miss Tolerance took a chair to Tarsio’s an hour later, a more anonymous and thus safer conveyance for a woman in London alone. She was deposited at the door under the watchful eyes of Steen, the doorman, and went directly to the Ladies’ Parlor, which, at this hour, was somewhat deserted, the hour being too early for the actresses who frequented the club after the theaters had let out. She ordered a bottle of claret and two glasses, and sat reading the Gazette.
Trux arrived well past their appointed time. Miss Tolerance, hearing the whispered conference with which he was directed to her, raised her head and watched him advance through the empty room as if he were the center of all attention. His amour-propre had been firmly reinstated, and he appeared as ready to condescend to Miss Tolerance as ever he had done. Miss Tolerance noted now what she had not seen that afternoon: a blotch of purple bruising near Trux’s left ear, which she imagined extended well up into the scalp.
“Good evening, sir. Will you take a glass of wine?”
Trux stood over her for a moment, bowed curtly, and spread the tails of his coat to take his seat. He took no wine until he had inspected the bottle and nodded sagely.
When both of them had sampled the claret and found it drinkable, Miss Tolerance broke the silence which had fallen between them.
“Can you give me any idea, my lord, why Sir Henry Folle believes that I have been investigating in the Southwark stews?”
She had expected Trux to become defensive. Instead, “That was Pre; he swore he saw you there and came to Folle to tell him—”
Miss Tolerance raised her eyebrows. “Sir Randal is another of Folle’s creatures?”
“Another? Do you imply that I am one?”
“Why should you think so, sir? I have had occasion in the last week to encounter persons who appear to be working against my client; I had come to the conclusion that Sir Henry might be one of those opponents, just as you, of course, are my client’s friend.”
She placed no satirical emphasis upon the statement, yet Lord Trux appeared more uneasy than ever. He changed the subject.
“I am surprised to see you do not wear black gloves—I had understood that your house was in mourning. A very sad thing, from what I hear.”
Miss Tolerance wondered how Trux would have heard of Matt’s death.
“I only learned of it in a chance way,” Trux went on. “Had I not known the name, I doubt I would have attended to what I did hear.”
Now she permitted herself a little surprise. “Did you know Matt, my lord? Then you will remember he was a very sweet, good-natured fellow. I cannot imagine why anyone would kill him—and such a savage death, beaten as he was. His face was nearly unrecognizable.”
Trux blanched. “I had not heard he was beaten.” He swallowed. “But you do not wear mourning for him?”
“The events of the last week have kept me very occupied, my lord. All my ribbons are being changed to black, but that’s at the convenience of my aunt’s seamstress; I mean no disrespect to my friend. But now—you had called for a report upon your friend’s business.”
“Then there is progress to report?”
“There has been, but as your client made himself known to me—as you will have realized from our meeting in Oxford—is there really any sense in reporting to you rather than him?”
Trux looked nonplussed. Had he not understood, in meeting the two of them together, that she and Versellion were in each other’s confidence? As Miss Tolerance awaited his response, a disquieting thought occurred to her. Was it possible that Versellion had never been the “friend” for whom Trux acted? That the person for whom Trux had acted had been Balobridge or Folle, and that Versellion had neatly inserted himself into the tale and won her to his service? Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. Was I blinded by his charm and those damned dark eyes? Or—
“I suppose you are correct,” Trux said. “But as I had engaged you to find the fan, and as, when I encountered you and Versellion in Oxford, he said nothing upon the subject, I could not be certain that he had revealed himself to you. And I must admit” —he smiled unpleasantly—“to a certain amount of curiosity in the matter.”
Miss Tolerance closed her eyes upon her relief, then opened them again and stared directly at Lord Trux. “I understand completely. But I hope you will have the justice to acknowledge that satisfying the curiosity of a man so deeply in the confidence of Lord Balobridge and Sir Henry Folle would hardly reflect the discretion which so pleased you when you hired me.”
There was sweat again on Trux’s upper lip. His pinch-nosed condescension had changed almost comically to bewilderment.
“I know that the gentlemen with whom we had our disagreement in the Physick Garden were your hirelings,” Miss Tolerance ventured. “But were the others yours? The men who attacked us on the Richmond road, and the ones who pursued us? No?”
Trux shook his head. He looked as if he were entranced, staring at Miss Tolerance with the fixed expression of a rat regarding a snake. “No. That was …”
“Balobridge or Folle?”
There was no subtlety in Trux. He sighed heavily. “I suppose Versellion must have realized sooner or later.”
“That you had left his camp? I rather think so; a drastic conversion, if you will forgive my saying so, Lord Trux. Not only have you attempted to have a man murdered—”
“Not murder! I would never condone murder, even for—it was only to—”
“Not only have you attempted to have your former patron murdered, but you have turned cat in pan, switched parties entire—a chance step at such a time, and one that might see you labeled as an opportunist, even if you escaped hanging as murderer.”
“They were not hired to murder him!” The words rang loud in the empty room. Trux looked around him, then continued more quietly but with some intensity. “Just to stop him returning to London. Balobridge persuaded me that changing parties was to my best advantage—”
Comprehension dawned on Miss Tolerance. “By which I apprehend he used the threat of some bit of old scandal to motivate you. I think that must be one of my Lord Balobridge’s favored tricks. But you did not hesitate long or hard—nor did you ask for Versellion’s help.”
“That’s an easy thing to say, but I had no idea where Versellion was, and less faith that he would assist me. Things are at a delicate place with me, and the wrong gossip could ruin me. Versellion never valued me as he ought, let me be his errand boy, waiting until he should have a bone—or a pocket borough—to throw at me.”
“And Lord Balobridge has been more immediately satisfying? Was it he who hired the men who attacked Versellion in Richmond?”
Trux pursed his lips. “You’re not the only one can keep a secret to advantage.”
“I see. Then it was Folle?” Trux’s expression gave nothing away. Miss Tolerance tried one more shot drawn at random. “My lord,” she asked gently, “was it a … friendship … with Matt Etan that Lord Balobridge used against you?”
Three women, laughing, entered the room at that moment. Trux lurched forward in his seat, and his head swiveled around to see who the noisemakers were. Then he turned back to Miss Tolerance, plainly exerting himsel
f to regain countenance. When he spoke, it was as employer to a hireling.
“You will tell me nothing of the matter for which I hired you?”
“As I am already in contact with Lord Versellion, for whom you were acting, such a report is redundant, my lord. But please: will you not let me help you in dealing with pressure from Lord Balobridge?”
“I am convinced that my future lies with the Crown party, Miss Tolerance. If you can be of no real assistance to me, I will take my leave.”
He rose from his chair, trembling perceptibly. Miss Tolerance rose also, and they exchanged courtesies. Her dislike of the man was as firmly established as ever, but now she was aware as well of a strong sense of pity for a man whose ambitions so far outstripped his ability to attain them.
Fourteen
After Lord Trux’s departure, Miss Tolerance called for paper, pen, and ink. Her first thought was merely to write a report to Versellion, but upon consideration she decided it would be safer to meet with him. That her spirits lifted at the thought was, she reminded herself, nothing to the point. She wrote a brief note to request an appointment, couched in businesslike terms. Her only concession to romance was to subscribe herself Sarah rather than her usual ST. The note completed, she left Tarsio’s long enough to find an idle street-sweep and dispatch him to Versellion House with the note, sixpence, and the promise of another sixpence should he return to Tarsio’s with a reply for her. This accomplished, she returned to the Ladies’ Salon and took up the Times and her claret glass.
To an observer, Miss Tolerance appeared wholly absorbed in her perusal of the Times, but this was not true. Her eyes passed over the pages unseeing, her mind occupied in unsettled meditation. She read the text of the Shipping News twice before realizing that it was not the Dueling Notices. The arrival of a footman with the news that an unsuitably grubby boy had appeared at the service door asking for Miss Tolerance was a welcome distraction. She followed through the back halls and found her messenger waiting in the torchlit mews, one hand extended for the promised sixpence, the other clutching a grubby paper. Miss Tolerance exchanged coin for paper and ordered the boy to wait; stepping back into the house, she requested the cook to give the boy a plate of food and lay the charge to her account. This done, she returned to the Ladies’ Salon.
Come tonight. I will wait for you here. The note was unsigned and there was no crest to identify its sender, but she recognized Versellion’s brisk writing.
Miss Tolerance took up her bonnet, asked Steen to order a chair for her, and left the club. The hour was now close upon nine; crested carriages thronged the streets carrying girls attending parties, men off to their clubs to reduce their fortunes playing at whist and faro, dowagers superintending the mating dances of their daughters and sons. There were also, as she knew, pickpockets, dollies, and elbow shakers moving among the crowds. She was struck with a sense of moving through two worlds and belonging to neither.
The chair arrived at Versellion House.
She was not made to wait for Versellion; indeed, she was barely in the house when he appeared on the stairs and took her into his custody. His smile, more than his words, bespoke his pleasure in seeing her.
“You have made some progress in my inquiry?” he asked for the benefit of the listening servants. He brought her up to a small saloon on the first floor, saw her seated, and offered her wine. “Have you eaten? Will you dine with me? Excellent.” He rang for the butler, gave orders for covers to be laid in half an hour, and saw the door closed behind the man. Then he stepped back to her and drew her up, into his arms. The kiss was long.
“I had begun to think you regretted this,” Versellion said lightly. His breath stirred her hair. “I should hate to think you’d had your way with me and now meant to abandon me to my fate!” Miss Tolerance heard the tease in his voice and, a moment later, as if he had only just parsed the meaning of his words, the dismay. “My God, I did not intend, I only—”
She laid a finger across his lips. “You were joking. I take no offense. Indeed, it has been a day for such comments, most not nearly so sweetly meant.”
“What, has someone said something to hurt you?”
“Would you dash to my defense?” She laughed and let her head rest on his shoulder. “I hope you will not. Making our liaison public would only make matters worse.”
“Worse for whom? Sarah, of all people in the world, I should have thought such conventionalities were beyond you. Are you afraid to ruin my reputation?”
“Say rather that I am afraid to ruin my own.” Despite her inclination to linger in his embrace, Miss Tolerance freed herself gently and took her seat again. “I have been reminded more often than I like of how little separates me from the great number of Fallen Women. Humphrey Blackbottle offered to find me a wealthy gent to keep me; your cousin Folle greeted me loudly in Manchester Square, calling me whore. You will pardon me if I am easily moved on the subject of my reputation today.”
At the mention of his cousin, Versellion’s smile vanished. His expression became fixed and icy, and Miss Tolerance was aware, suddenly, of a resemblance between him and Sir Henry Folle. Then, in a breath, the rage dissipated and his expression became one of concern.
“Christ, Sarah, I’m sorry. Had you spoken to him? Balked him in some way?”
“I cannot say there was any logic to it. He approached me; he appeared angry, but I don’t know what he thought to gain. Perhaps to frighten me into some compromising admission? He did not.” Turning away from the unpleasant memory of Folle’s rage, Miss Tolerance noted, “I have also had a remarkable interview with Lord Trux this evening.”
“Trux? What did he say for himself?” Versellion poured out claret for both of them and sat beside her.
“He owned—after some prodding—that he has indeed gone over to Lord Balobridge’s camp—and not reluctantly, I gather. He fancies himself ill used by you.”
“Ill used? How?” Versellion appeared as surprised as he might upon learning that his neckcloth considered itself ill treated by his wearing of it.
“It appears he had lost faith that you would ever do anything to further his ambitions. He and Lord Balobridge—”
“That idiot! I’d have found a place for him in the government once this crisis was over.”
“Well, either Trux’s faith in your assistance was not strong enough, or he was not satisfied that the crisis will be resolved to the benefit of the Whigs. I am strongly of the impression that money is an issue for him—”
Versellion scowled, impatient. “Of course it is, he’s hip-deep in creditors. But he’s landed himself a neat little heiress; I had supposed he was delaying the duns while the banns were posted.”
“What a happy match for the woman who is providing the money,” Miss Tolerance murmured. “Whatever his ambitions, I’m not certain Trux would have arranged the attack in Oxford without something greater at stake, some pressure, perhaps. I suspect Lord Balobridge has got hold of some ancient scandal about Trux and threatens to brew a new broth of it. If he—” She stopped.
“What?”
“I apprehend that Trux was acquainted with Matt.”
“Matt?”
“Matthew Etan, one of my aunt’s … workers. The man who was killed when I sent him to you with a message.”
“I wasn’t aware that your aunt ran a molly-house,” Versellion said. He frowned. “Are you saying that Trux and this gussie were—”
“Stop,” Miss Tolerance said loudly. Versellion looked at her, obviously startled by the force of the word. She went on a little more gently. “I won’t hear such names, not even from you. Whatever Matt was, he hurt no one. And he was my friend. As for the rest: Trux knew his name, and that he had been killed; everything else is but supposition. For a moment I wondered if he might have been complicit in Matt’s death, but …” She shook her head. “He was too upset when I spoke of the manner of it. And you saw him in Oxford; Trux could no more beat a man to death than he could fly. He says the men he hired w
ere told only to see you did not return to London.”
“You believe that?”
Miss Tolerance sipped her wine. “He believes it. He would not tell me who hired the toughs who attacked us on the Richmond road. I suspect it was Balobridge; Trux would have peached on someone he feared less. But I have no evidence, and evidence is what we need.”
Versellion reached across to push a curling strand of hair off Miss Tolerance’s forehead. “You have been hard at work. I am afraid you have had little time to think of the fan.” The hair tucked back, he continued to stroke the skin and hair by her temple. Miss Tolerance felt her cheeks flush.
“You underestimate me.” She reached up, captured his hand, and returned it to his knee. The smile she gave him was, she hoped, both sympathetic and businesslike. She described her trip to see Mrs. Cook in Greenwich, and the subsequent visit to Blackbottle’s Clink Street brothel. “It appears that the fan in our possession is the one we sought, and that it went almost directly from Mrs. Cunning’s possession to Mrs. Virtue’s. Whether it ever held a message or token that would be a threat to you or your family, I cannot say. Mrs. Cook swore she knew of no secrets to the fan when your father gave it to her; she is not the most astute observer, but I think she tells the truth as far as she knows it. As for Blackbottle—”
“Can you trust his word?”
“I had to tread delicately, as I did not want him to infer more from the questions than he gave me in answer. I don’t doubt he’d try to turn matters to his own advantage if he could. He directed me back to Mrs. Virtue, the bawd from whom we bought the fan. Tomorrow I’ll see her. I wonder too …” She paused to think.
“What?”
“If I should not seek out Mr. Hawley, who seems so absorbed by the topic of peas. The Times portrays his correspondence as a code designed to overthrow the government, if not support a French invasion; as he is not yet in prison, either the actual evidence is weak or he has powerful friends. I must say that the letter we saw did not appear to be coded—but whatever the message’s meaning, I’d like to know how it came to be in your fan.”
Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Page 22
