The Sleeping Partner (7 page)

Miss Tolerance bit her lip, gained a firm hand upon her own temper, and smiled. “Will you dismiss me so out-of-hand, aunt? I am here, now.”

“I do not want you now!” Mrs. Brereton snapped. “You are never here when I want you.”

“But you know what my life is like, aunt. And I did visit with you yesterday before I went out.” Miss Tolerance saw that her aunt was not mollified. “May we not make an appointment to dine tomorrow? I will promise to be there.”

“Had I not better invite you to dine, you mean.” Mrs. Brereton was grudging.

“No, indeed. If you wish to come to my cottage for dinner, I will lay on the best possible meal—”

“Don’t be stupid, Sarah.” But Mrs. Brereton appeared more diverted than affronted by the notion of dining in the cottage. “What would you serve me? Gruel and tea? Bread and butter?”

“Connell used to say I made a very tasty stew.”

“God preserve me. I don’t doubt your fencing master ate anything placed in front of him, like most men. No, I’ll thank you to come dine with me—if you can undertake to cease jaunting about the city for an evening.”

“I rarely jaunt,” Miss Tolerance said again. “I would be delighted to dine with you. We dress, of course?”

“My dear child, just because we are Fallen is no reason to neglect the habits of civilized society.” The unevenness of Mrs. Brereton’s smile made her look rather melancholy, but Miss Tolerance knew this was one of the remaining physical signs of the stroke from which her aunt had otherwise recovered. “Wear that pretty green gown, and I will—”

What Mrs. Brereton intended was not to be known; one of her girls appeared in the doorway at that moment. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

“What is it, Clara?”

The whore, a slender girl with bright eyes and a tumble of dark curls, was apologetic. “There’s a problem in the yellow saloon. Two gents is—are—asking for Lisette and neither one will give way. She says Mr. Creevey was her appointed for the evening, but Mr. Sainsbury says she promised him, and they’re a bit in their cups and—”

“A schoolroom quarrel!” Mrs. Brereton frowned. “Cannot Marianne sort this out? It seems to me I gave her authority to do just that.”

The girl flushed. “Marianne’s with a gent, ma’am. Keefe might—”

But Mrs. Brereton had risen to her feet. “One does not ask a servant to mediate between gentlemen, Clara. Keefe is only to be involved when a client requires a show of force.” She turned to her niece. “I don’t suppose you would deal with this, Sarah?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Like Keefe, ma’am, I am only to be involved when the client requires a show of force.”

“How do you know this is not such a time?”

“Given that Clara entered the room at a decorous walk, and the only clash she mentions is one of dates rather than steel, I deduce that no threat presently exists. You do not need me to interfere, aunt.”

“Well, I wish you would. You might save me the exertion of going down stairs. “

“Untangling a quarrel like this will be best done by you, aunt. I have no standing in this house. Nor do I want any,” she continued before Mrs. Brereton could make her inevitable comments about the desirability of Miss Tolerance interesting herself in the business. “I will leave you to your business, aunt, and promise faithfully to dine with you tomorrow evening.”

Mrs. Brereton sniffed. “Go away, then.” She offered her cheek for a kiss, then followed Clara out the door to deal with Messers Creevey and Sainsbury.

Chapter Four

Miss Tolerance woke early, broke her fast, dressed, set her cottage in order, and left Manchester Square on foot. An idea had come to her as she waited to sleep the night before. Mrs. Brown would not give Miss Evadne’s real name, but there was no doubt that possession of it would make finding the girl easier, and she had not forbidden Miss Tolerance to seek that name out. It was a quarter-hour’s walk to Duke of York Street; the morning was fine and the streets full of tradesmen and vendors bent upon provisioning the well-to-do. She enjoyed the walk.

Duke of York Street runs from Jermyn Street to St. James’s Square. Miss Tolerance went past tobacconists and haberdashers on Jermyn Street who at this hour were engaged in taking down the shutters and making ready for the start of business. When she turned the corner onto Duke of York Street she could see, at street’s end, the pleasant greenery of the square beyond. The street itself was lined with substantial houses, a few set back a little from the street but most modern enough to front directly on the flagged sidewalk. If Miss Tolerance had had any doubt that her quarry came from a family of substance, her first stroll down the street put paid to it. The occupants of these houses might not all be wealthy as the rich themselves define the term, but compared to the vast majority of London and the nation they were wealthy enough. The houses were all well kept, of stone or old pink brick, broad enough to admit of parlors on either side of the entry, and climbing three or four stories above the street. In front of two of them footmen had emerged to sweep the sidewalk, causing no little consternation to the crossing-sweeps stationed at the corners, underfed boys too young to be put to better use, who eked out pennies sweeping the ordure and muck from the path of the better fed.

Miss Tolerance strolled leisurely to the corner, made a circuit of St. James’s Square, and walked back up Duke of York again, wondering to which of these houses Miss Evadne belonged. What the Devil was the girl’s surname? Thinking of her as Miss Evadne made the girl sound like a child; it made Miss Tolerance feel like a cross nursemaid to call her so. As she neared the corner her attention was drawn by an altercation between a porter and several of the boys in grimy togs, regarding possession of the sidewalk. Miss Tolerance was seized by inspiration, and paused to admire a wrought iron fence while she waited for the dispute to be resolved.

When at last the porter withdrew from the fray, Miss Tolerance approached the knot of crossing-sweeps who stood gloating in victory. As she neared them the three largest boys broke off celebrating and elbowed each other out of the way, begging to sweep for her. Miss Tolerance shook her head, but before the boys could slink away muttering their hopes that the stingy mort would tread straightaway in a fresh clod of horseshit, she informed them that she might have silver to spend upon a clever boy who kept his eyes open.

In an instant the half-dozen boys assumed expressions of such angelic, open-eyed character that Miss Tolerance was hard put not to laugh. “Do you gentlemen regularly sweep this street?”

There was some snickering at her use of the word
gentlemen
, but all of the heads bobbed in agreement.

“And do you consider that you are familiar with the people who live here?”

This caused some confusion: none of the boys was rightly certain what they were to make of the word familiar, and several of them feared they were being accused of something. Miss Tolerance cleared up the matter by asking if any of them thought that, if they were shown a picture, they might recognize from which house the person had come.

The largest of the boys, apparently the leader, looked round at his small troop, then nodded to her. “Yes, miss. I think so.”

“Well, then. Kindly look at this and tell me if either of these two ladies is familiar to you.” She took the portrait from her reticule and, holding on to it firmly lest the temptation to make away with the frame prove too strong, showed it to them. The boys studied the picture with grave attention; this was a new game to them and they seemed determined to play fair at it.

Finally the largest boy raised his head, looked around to his mates and, on some signal of group agreement, pointed to a good sized house of gray stone across the street and half-way to St. James’s Square.

“You are sure?”

The heads bobbed in ragged agreement. Miss Tolerance dispensed a penny to each of the boys, which caused a second ripple of bobbed heads, and mumbled
thankees.
Miss Tolerance took a tuppenny piece and held it up between gloved fingers.

“Can any of you tell me the name of the people who live there?”

The leader turned to his mates, eyebrows lifted as if to encourage an outpouring of information which did not come. “Noffin’?” he prodded. The boys looked back and forth between the coin and the house; she watched each one consider and abandon the idea of a lie.

“Never mind it,” Miss Tolerance said bracingly. “What can you tell me about the people who live in that house? How many are there?”

“Fambly or servints?” the leader asked.

“For now, just the family.”

“There’s your young ladies,” one of the smallest boys piped up. “Only the sittin’ one in the picher, she ain’t always ‘ere no more.”

“Catch-fart! She’s married! ‘Er ‘usban’ come to visit wiv’er.”

Miss Tolerance was required to head off a quarrel by reminding the boys of the question under discussion.

“The one that was standin’ in the picher, she live here,” the small boy reported.

“Yeah, and ‘er da, too,” said another boy, in the tone of one who is telling a tremendous joke. Miss Tolerance looked down her nose at him and his merriment subsided. There was some subsequent discussion of the nip–farthing ways of the men of the house, who never paid for a sweeping.

“Nah, the young gent pays,” a sandy-haired boy offered. “‘E’s aright. Ast me once ‘ow many we ‘ad at ‘ome, and ‘f we got enough to eat.”

“Whot ‘e want to know that for?” the leader objected.

The sandy-haired boy shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe ‘e wanted to invite us all over for Sunday dinner.” This was met with a roar of merriment.

“When is the last time any of you saw the younger lady?”

This question caused a good deal of head-scratching and twisting up of faces. In the end the consensus was that it had been more than a week. “The young ‘un, miss? Spec’ she’s gone to the country,” one of the boys said. “A-huntin’ of foxes or summat, ‘ey, miss? They cuts the tails off,” he added with relish. The other boys were much impressed with this bit of trivia. Miss Tolerance wrenched the topic back to the family in the stone house.

“I have a task for as many likely boys as I can find. I need to have that house carefully observed, and I will pay each boy who works for me…” she paused thoughtfully. “Thruppence a day upon my errand.”

“What we observin’ for, miss?” the tall boy asked.

“To see who comes in or goes out, over the next few days. But you must be careful that no one in the house knows what you are doing—including the servants. I will need a report each day of the visitors that come to the house. Can any of you write?”

After a moment of silence one of the smaller, grubbier boys raised his hand. This occasioned a chorus of ooohs, half-taunting and half-admiring, from his fellows.

“I can’t spell so good, missus, but I know me letters. Me mum taught me ‘fore she died.” The boy, who gave his name as Ted, eyed his mates with some anxiety, but being orphaned apparently legitimized his literacy.

“Excellent. Then each morning you and—what is your name?” she indicated the ringleader.

“Bart, miss.”

“Ted and Bart shall gather up all the information and make up a report and leave it for me with the porter at Mrs. Brereton’s house.” She gave the direction. “He will give you your money. If you do not distribute the coins to all your mates, I shall hear about it.”

Bart nodded. “But what about sweepin’, miss?”

“Sweeping?” It was necessary for Miss Tolerance to reassure the boys that she did not wish them to stop sweeping, and more particularly that she did not require a cut of whatever money they took in. She had no interest in developing a syndicate of street-sweeps. She had the boys recite their instructions again, and left them to their watch. Not one of the boys had expressed any curiosity as to why she wanted the house watched. Clearly the motives of a madwoman with money to spend were less important than each boy getting his share.

Having put spies in place in the vicinity of Miss Evadne’s home, Miss Tolerance took another turn up the street and around the green in St. James’s Square. Upon her return she observed her agents at the corner of Jermyn Street sweeping the crossing and keeping covert watch upon the gray stone house. Pleased by the sight of youth at work, Miss Tolerance continued to the next part of her chore: discovering Miss Evadne’s family name.

Miss Tolerance extracted a slip of paper from her reticule and clutched it in her hand, peering at it with a good counterfeit of myopic anxiety. As she progressed along the street she squinted at the doors of the houses, looked to count their number, peered again at the paper. When a stout man in a leather apron backed his way from the tradesman’s entry of the house next door to that of her quarry, Miss Tolerance bustled up to him and asked, in the most agitated tones, whether this was number 11.

“Nah,” the man said shortly. He was carrying an empty cage; from the skirl of white feathers that eddied in the bottom of the cage it was evident he had been delivering poultry.

“Are you certain?” Miss Tolerance was insistent. “I am positive they said—Oh, dear. Are you certain that isn’t number 11? Where the Pontroys live?” She permitted her voice to tremble a little.

The poulterer regarded her with an expression of exasperation and dismay. “H’aint no Pontroys live there, miss. Naow, you’ll escuse me?” He hefted the cage and started up the stairs.

“Well, who does live here?”

“Family name of Hampton,” the man said.

“Hampton? No, that’s not right. Well, what of this one?” She pointed to the gray stone house. “Is that where the Pontroys live?”

“That’s Lord Lyne’s ‘ouse, miss. No Pontroys there, neither.”

“But I don’t want Lord Lyne. I was told specifically—” Miss Tolerance’s pitch climbed. “They told me number 11, Mrs. Pontr—and that’s not even number 11, you stupid man! Whatever shall I do?” Miss Tolerance turned her back on the poulterer and stalked off toward St. James’s Square, muttering unhappily.

When she turned the corner she tucked the scrap of paper into her reticule, called a chair, and gave the direction of Tarsio’s.