Point of Honour (17 page)

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.

S
he found Mrs. Brereton’s establishment in a state of uproar. She had gone first to her own house in hopes of finding 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.”

N
ot 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.”

“Miss Tolerance, I give you my word. The fan is significant only to me and my family.” His voice was as steady as the dark gaze which transfixed her; had he been perhaps a little less open, she would have trusted him more. As it was, Miss Tolerance recalled Lord Balobridge, and reminded herself that both these men were politicians, bred to persuade.

“Have you a contentious family, my lord?” she asked in the same even, sincere, and reasonable tones he had employed. “Is there no one of them that has reason to want the fan? I should hate to think you are telling me less than the full sum of the truth.”

“You are asking if I lie?” The earl’s countenance did not change, but his tone became pointedly formal. Miss Tolerance took this to mean she had scored a point. She prepared herself for the possibility that Versellion would shortly have thrown her out of the house. After a long moment, the tension she read in his face eased; he appeared to come to some decision.

“Miss Tolerance, I have perhaps gone about this business in the wrong way, but it touches upon my family honor, and upon public matters I had as lief keep quiet. I still do not believe that anyone in my family could be responsible for the dreadful events you mention—your friend’s death and the death of that poor woman. But … I have still your promise of discretion?”

Miss Tolerance assured him that he did. Versellion rose and began to pace up and down the length of the small room.

“These are perilous times, Miss Tolerance. Perhaps more so than you are aware. The war drags on, the effect on the economy is catastrophic, it would take so little—” He held up a hand as if to forestall interruption. “I am not preparing an oration, I promise. But there are events—”

“My lord, you are the second person in as many days to lecture me on the perils of our times. I understand it to mean you have no intention of telling me what I need to know. And as far as the events to which you allude—I assume you mean the Queen’s illness?—unless you are prepared to tell me what your fan can possibly have to do with the matter, I am not prepared to be put off by their mention.”

“What have you heard of the Queen’s illness?”

“Very little, in fact, sir. Only that she was ill—an apoplectic stroke, I believe. And nothing since that time.”

He sighed. “I suppose it was inevitable that it would get out. But not yet, damn it. Miss Tolerance, I will be as forthcoming as I can, but I pray you will tell no one what I tell you. The Queen’s life is despaired of; if she lives, she will not be fit to rule. The King is old, blind, fitfully foolish. There will have to be another Regent chosen, and it’s a matter of some moment to my party and the Tories as to whom that will be. I spent the morning canvassing for votes, and this afternoon at Carlton House talking to His Highness—”

“Wales? But his marriage removed him from the succession.”

“It did.” Versellion sat again, speaking as if he were rehearsing his thoughts aloud: upon the Duke of York’s death, the Duke of Clarence became heir apparent. But Clarence, quarreling often with the Queen Regent, had been wholly compromised by his mistress; he had ten bastard children and not one legitimate heir. By comparison, Wales, a widower with two legitimate children whose greatest crime had been to marry a Catholic widow, and whose worst excesses had been curbed by his late wife, was a far more savory choice. Both parties were in a race to secure the Prince’s assurance of support—the Tories because they were in power, the Whigs because they were not. The Whigs were able to pursue the Prince with reminders of his old support for their ideals, and his friendship with Charles Fox. “But many of my party are for ending the war; the Prince stands with his mother in this, that Bonaparte must be stopped. As it happens, so do I.”