“The Prince of Wales? Was this a chance meeting or by design?”
“Accident, a damned unfortunate chance. His Highness spoke with us for a few minutes—polite piffle, you know the sort of thing. But in the course of the conversation, he nudged Folle as one who is in on the joke, and asked if he would see Folle at Versellion’s ball tonight. ‘Your cousin means to speak to me—means to cut your party quite out, hey?’” Lord Balobridge pinched his nose. “I have known the Prince since he was a boy, and still I am not certain if he is a clever man who sometimes plays the fool, or a fool who makes inspired moves. Had he thought for a month, he could not have said anything better calculated to cause trouble.”
“I take it Sir Henry did not take kindly to the Prince’s comment?”
“I thank God Wales moved on soon after—Christ knows what Folle might have said in his presence else. Miss Tolerance, the man was mad. He was crazed with rage, shaking with it, walking along Bond Street with his hands fisted, muttering to himself like a Bedlamite. If I could make plain to you—he paced along, his voice first low, then loud, and what he said to me made so little sense I am almost afraid to credit it—muttering of Versellion, and you, and The Old Woman. Then—and this was the more frightening—he stopped. As suddenly as one might snuff a candle! He smiled at me and said he would see me at Versellion House, and that he was quite looking forward to it.”
For a moment Miss Tolerance and Lord Balobridge sat quiet, each considering what this might mean. A bird sang outside in the garden, and distantly Miss Tolerance could hear a woman’s voice on the street, hawking violets.
“Clearly, my lord, you believe Folle to be dangerous,” Miss Tolerance said at last.
The old man looked Miss Tolerance squarely in the eye, an edge of anger replacing the fear in his voice. “Do not you, Miss Tolerance? I think he means to do something to keep Versellion from cementing his interest with the Prince tonight.”
“What could he do that would not do his cause more damage than Versellion’s?”
“Kill Versellion,” Balobridge said baldly.
Miss Tolerance looked at him in dismay. “At a ball, in full sight of hundreds of people—including His Royal Highness? What does he think he would gain?”
“He is not thinking. It’s gone far beyond that. Now he does not care that our party takes the prize, so long as he can keep his cousin from it. Not all my persuasions could calm him, and then he was gone, before I thought to have him restrained.”
Miss Tolerance imagined Sir Henry Folle walking the streets of London like a rabid dog, waiting for the moment when he could tear out the throat of his hated cousin. Indeed, the image fit easily with her idea of Folle and his crimes, but she considered the source and frowned.
“My lord, you have all my admiration, but I think that altruism has no great part of your nature. Why are you here? If Folle killed Versellion, would not your party be that much closer to fixing its interest with the Prince?”
Balobridge attempted a shocked demur, then stopped. “’Twould be a false benefit, Miss Tolerance. Folle kills Versellion, and the sympathy of the people, and very likely Prince and Parliament, will be with the Whigs. It would be as well to turn the nation over to Bonaparte—the result would be the same, ruled by the whim of tradesmen and farmers—”
“Better to let the tradesmen and farmers starve at the whim of the peerage?”
Lord Balobridge spoke through his teeth. “Argue philosophy with me another time, Miss Tolerance. Whatever my politics, I do not want to see your employer slain.”
Miss Tolerance caught her temper. “No more do I, sir. But I learned from Lord Trux that you were behind an attack on the Richmond road that purposed to kill him. Perhaps you would explain why you wanted Versellion dead on the Richmond road, but do not want him dead tonight?”
Balobridge smiled unpleasantly. “Dead tonight, at the feet of the Prince of Wales, with half of London privy to the details? At the hands of a man known everywhere to be my protégé? Miss Tolerance, lowering as it is to admit, I have set something in motion that it seems I no longer control.”
This admission Miss Tolerance found more compelling than any demur that had gone before. “You have no idea where Folle is?”
Balobridge shook his head. “I have men watching his house—I am quite willing to hold him there, should he return—but he has not appeared yet. I may be able to stop him, Miss Tolerance; I am not without resources. But should he elude me—I do not like to think what will happen.”
“Tell Versellion not to let him be admitted,” Miss Tolerance suggested.
“I have sent a note to his aunt, who acts as hostess for the party. But Julia Geddes has always had a soft spot for Folle; I fear she will not listen. Miss Tolerance, your credit with Versellion is greater than mine. I tell you all this in hope that you will persuade him to be on his guard—”
“Deny his cousin the party, only to find there was no danger and he has given Folle a grievance in London’s eyes? Or better still, delay his conference with the Prince so that you might speak with him first?”
Balobridge rose from his chair, leaning heavily on his walking stick. His doggish face was pale, his lips compressed into a line; the tip of his nose was red and there were small, feverish patches of color on either cheek. “I had thought better of you, Miss Tolerance. I have explained my motives as much as I care to do; regardless of whether you believe me or not, Versellion is in danger. You may act as you see fit.” The old man turned on his heel and went to the door. Miss Tolerance watched him start across the garden and called to him.
“My lord—I will do all that I may.”
Miss Tolerance wrote out a note, outlining Balobridge’s story for Versellion, and took it across for Cole to bring to Versellion House. “Go yourself, please, and give it to no one other than the earl himself,” she instructed. Then she wrote out another note, directed to Sir Walter Mandif, and sent it off, too.
At seven o’clock Miss Tolerance inquired if Cole had returned from Versellion House yet, and was surprised to learn that he had not. Keefe brought her a note, a reply from Sir Walter in which he thanked her for her information, but noted that as Folle had as yet committed no crime for which there was ready evidence, his own hands were neatly tied as to action. But should you think of a way in which I may assist you—Miss Tolerance balled the note up in her fist and tossed it into the fire.
At half past seven Cole appeared, wearing the look of dejection common to hirelings who have defaulted of a command. “I never did see the earl, Miss Sarah. Waited all this time, and finally Lady Julia’s maid come in to say that my lord was very busy, and if I had a message, I’d best give it to her. I didn’t think I should do that, so home I come. I’m that sorry, miss.”
As Miss Tolerance assured Cole that it was not his fault, she was already calculating what was best to be done. Possibly there was no danger. Balobridge might have overreacted or, worse, schemed to force her or Versellion into overreacting. Folle might well have rethought his anger, perhaps decided to avoid the party altogether. Versellion had sworn to rehire the bodyguards he had let go; they would see to him.
But if not?
“Wait a moment, Cole,” she said, and wrote out another note.
Sir:
If you wish to assist me, will you serve as my escort to the ball at Versellion House this evening? I shall be ready to leave Manchester Square by 9 p.m., if you will call upon me then. I realize this is short notice, but I hope you will believe me that I do not make this request lightly. Your very humble servant …
Miss Tolerance read it over, deploring the melodrama of the request, but sanded it, sealed it, and sent Cole off with it to Sir Walter Mandif. That done, she went upstairs to her chamber to take the blue ball gown out of its bandbox and approximate the appearance of a woman of virtue and means.
A a quarter after nine o’clock, Keefe returned to announce the arrival of Sir Walter Mandif. The magistrate wore evening dress and an inquiring quirk t
o his eyebrow, but bowed politely over Miss Tolerance’s hand and presented his compliments upon her appearance. With little time, no hairdresser, no more jewelry than a chain and locket for her neck, and gloves and a pair of slippers, she had borrowed from her aunt Miss Tolerance had managed to create a version of herself that was demure yet presentable. She thanked Sir Walter for his help and explained more fulsomely what the situation with Folle was.
“How do you imagine we will gain entry to the last great party of the season? I was not invited; those are not the circles in which I move,” Mandif said.
Miss Tolerance smiled. “I am known to Versellion’s staff; unless he has specifically forbidden me the place, which I do not believe to be the case, I think they will admit me.”
“Well, then.” Sir Walter helped her to arrange a scarf over her shoulders and offered his arm. “My carriage is waiting in the street. We will arrive unfashionably early … .”
“’Tis my first ball,” Miss Tolerance said. “I do not wish to miss anything.”
The ballroom at Versellion House was not large, and might have passed under other circumstances for a large gallery or salon; but it easily supported musicians, tucked in a corner below ornamental galleries, and could hold two dozen couples—if they did not mind scraping elbows as they moved through the sets. There were as well a profusion of smaller public rooms on the ground and first floors, all brightly lit and slowly filling with guests. The gardens behind the house had, as well, been opened for the ball. Miss Tolerance, despite a note of pleasure deep within her—eight—and—twenty and it was her first ball!—still damned the party for having so many rooms in which Sir Henry Folle might have secreted himself.
Sir Walter Mandif had given their names—Miss Tolerance had, for the evening, reclaimed the name Brereton—and the footman bowed them in with a raised eyebrow but no hesitation. Lady Julia Geddes, receiving guests at Versellion’s side, smiled vaguely at these people she did not recognize, but asked no questions. Versellion had heard her name announced; any surprise he felt at her arrival was well in hand by the time she and Sir Walter reached the earl to make their bows.
“My lord, may I present Sir Walter Mandif, the magistrate of whom I have spoken?” Miss Tolerance put as much meaning as she decently could into her words. Versellion bowed and thanked Sir Walter for bringing Miss … he hesitated, then brought out the name Brereton instead of Tolerance.
“To what do I owe this charming surprise?” he murmured.
“I was warned that there might b—”
Miss Tolerance’s warning was cut short as Lady Julia demanded Versellion’s attention. “Edward, see who is come!” Miss Tolerance and Sir Walter moved away.
She had planned to watch Versellion herself; she proposed that Sir Walter make a round through the public rooms to see if Folle was anywhere among them. When Sir Walter pointed out that he did not know what Folle looked like and was thus useless for the purpose, Miss Tolerance sighed, took his place, and began to wander seeming casually through the refreshments room, the card room, and the other chambers where an enterprising murderer might be waiting. The competing needs for thoroughness and speed warred in her, complicated by the need to play the part of a woman wandering aimlessly through a party seeking acquaintance.
At the end of an hour, having persuaded herself that Folle had not yet arrived, Miss Tolerance returned to the ballroom, which by now was crowded and stickily hot. Sir Walter lounged against one wall watching the dancers, among whom the Earl of Versellion numbered.
“No sign of Folle, I take it.”
She shook her head agian.
“Would you like to dance?”
Miss Tolerance shook her head again. “You’re very kind to ask, sir, but I doubt I remember how. My last dancing lesson was rather more than ten years ago. Safer to remain a wallflower.”
“Not at your first ball!”
She smiled. “If they are all as hot as this one, ’tis likely to be my last, as well.”
He laughed at that, and for a little time they chatted as they watched, in an attitude so very casual that an observer might have deduced that they were lovers seeking to disguise the fact. Miss Tolerance was enough entertained that she did not at first notice when Sir Henry Folle entered the room. The footman’s voice pronouncing his name brought her to full alert.
Seeing him, Miss Tolerance was immediately convinced of the justice of Lord Balobridge’s concern. Folle, tonight, appeared both intense and precariously balanced; his eyes burned as he looked around the room. Indeed, he appeared so agitated to her that she wondered that Lady Julia could greet him with a placid smile and a kiss on the cheek.
“That is Folle,” she murmured to Sir Walter.
“Then at last we know where we are: your man is here, Versellion has not yet been assassinated. How are we to proceed now? Follow Folle about? Wait until he produces a pistol or takes a sword down from the wall, or—” Sir Walter did not finish the thought. The footman was announcing the Prince of Wales and his party.
The musicians ceased their playing. The dancers stopped, all eyes turned to the doorway. A tall, fat man with several orders pinned to his coat appeared in the doorway and there was a burst of applause, which he waved away amiably. The Prince made his way across the room to Lady Julia through a line of curtseys; by the time Wales had reached his hostess, Versellion had joined them. In watching the Prince, Miss Tolerance had briefly lost sight of Folle. Now she saw him, edging toward the Prince and Versellion through the crowd.
Miss Tolerance began to move, too, calculating at what point she would intersect Folle’s path, and how fast she would have to go. They were only a dozen paces from Folle’s target when she caught his arm. He turned to her blankly, as if he didn’t recognize her. By now the crowd had resumed their conversations and the musicians their playing; there was nothing remarkable to see about Miss Tolerance and Folle—except for his expression when he recognized her.
“Take your hands off me, you bitch,” he said, deep in his throat. “You will not stop me.”
Miss Tolerance, just as cold, tightened her grip. “Someone must stop you, Sir Henry, before you do something stupid.” She relaxed her features and moderated her tone to a slight whine. Give him something to believe, she thought. Greed or betrayal. Better yet, both. She would play the part Folle expected of her.
“You want to hurt your cousin? Fine. I’m none too fond of him myself right now. But rather than the violence you plainly intend, I can give you a weapon far more elegant.”
“What weapon? What are you talking about?” Folle asked.
Miss Tolerance pulled Folle about so his back was to Wales and Versellion. “I know the secret of the fan,” she told him. “And it will bring him down. But I will not tell you here, where Versellion can see. He will know I gave it to you if he sees us speaking. There is a row of withdrawing rooms along the conservatory hall; I will be in one of them in a few minutes’ time. Bring your pocketbook.”
She permitted him no time to argue; if he was going to take her bait and permit her to lure him from his quarry, she must be as mysterious as possible. She returned to Sir Walter, explained what she was attempting, and asked that he keep Folle under his eye until the man had joined her in the withdrawing room.
“And then?”
“Pray for me. I have not the slightest idea what I shall tell him.” Miss Tolerance smiled. “If your dignity will admit of listening at doors, you can hear what I do—perhaps Folle will say something useful.”
On the ground floor, a hallway ran between the salons and led to a conservatory which, in its turn, led to the gardens. Nearest the conservatory there were several small rooms suited to close conference, each no more than a dozen feet square, furnished with a divan, a pair of gilded chairs, a side table, and a branch or two of candles. The first of these was occupied, by the sound of it, by a man and woman engaged in a quarrel. The door to the second appeared to be locked; no sounds issued from it. The third room was unoccupied; Miss
Tolerance entered, seated herself, and waited an anxious few minutes until the door opened again. It was Folle, and Lord Balobridge was directly behind him.
“You see, there she is. Now, what have you to tell me? If I find this is all a trick—”
“Why would I trick you? Your cousin owes me my fee and some other considerations as well, and shows no sign of paying. A woman in my position must tend to herself first.” Miss Tolerance pushed the note of hurt and anger back into her voice. “If you can guarantee my fee—”
“Anything you like,” Folle snapped. “Was there correspondence in the fan? Was it treason?”
“Treason? No, there was nothing about treason in that fan—whyever should you think so?” She went to the door and locked it. “There. Now we shan’t be interrupted. May I inquire how you came to learn of the fan in the first place?”
Lord Balobridge spoke: “I should think you knew that already, Miss Tolerance. Trux told me about your hiring, and about the fan.”
She nodded. “And, of course, you knew only what Trux told you. Well, as it turns out, it was never a fan we sought. It was a woman.”
Folle was pacing the short length of the room, hands clenched behind his back as though he feared them capable of independent action. “A woman?” He set his teeth together and looked toward the door.
“Before you return to assassinate your cousin, sir, will you permit me to explain?”
Perhaps it was the bald statement of his intention that stopped him; Folle turned back, rocked on his heels, and nodded. Miss Tolerance began her recitation, hoping to God that Sir Walter Mandif was where she had told him to be.
“I began as you did, believing what we sought was a fan. I started, upon information, in Leyton, where I spoke with two women, hoping for assistance in finding Deborah Cunning, to whom the fan was given thirty years ago. By diligent investigation—I really am quite good at my work, Sir Henry—I was able to discover Mrs. Cunning‘s—now Mrs. Cook’s—address, and spoke with her, only to find that she did not have the fan, that she had sold it years before to Mr. Humphrey Blackbottle, of whose establishments you have spoken to me several times.” Miss Tolerance smiled. “I did, at last, procure the fan—at which point the men sent by Lord Balobridge to assassinate Versellion” —she nodded politely at Balobridge—“drove him, and me, out of the city for a time. Try as we might, we could not discover anything about the fan which explained its importance, and I began to wonder if we had, indeed, the correct fan.
Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Page 31
