“Aye. When he told me, I tried to find the money myself—only made things worse. Before it’d been mere debt, but now—I think if he could have cast me off me then without a farthing he would have done. But there’s the name, the damned family name, had to hush it all up, my gaming debts had to be paid. He found the money somewhere, and it all would have been well except somehow someone had noticed—and it all came out—”
“What came out?”
“At the War Office. Never play cards with a man you work with. I marked my cards, see. Only the once, when I didn’t see any other way out of my debt. But cheat once and you’re a cheat forever. Can’t have a cheat in the War Office. Drunk or whoring or on the lookout for the Bailiff is no scandal, but cheating! I was asked to leave the post. Quietly.” Thorpe shrugged. “The old man can barely look at me. I haven’t touched cards since,” he said, like a boy offering mitigation. “But he won’t forgive me. He set great stock in my holding that post.”
For the second time in as many days Miss Tolerance felt the teasing sensation that some bit of clarity was just beyond her reach. “It was the loss of your position at the War Office that distressed him?”
Thorpe shrugged again. “Damned odd man, my father. All about the family name for him. I nearly brought the family to scandal; I suppose his cutting Evie off is his way of seeing it don’t happen again.”
“You make it sound very cold-blooded, Mr. Thorpe.”
“Say hot-blooded, rather. If you had seen him, all anxiety that the news would out and all the world be privy to the disgrace! And then Clary invites a stranger into his business!”
“Sir?”
Thorpe inclined his head in a sketch of a bow. “Yourself, ma’am. When my father says something is at an end, it is. And yet there you were, refusing to let the matter die.”
As if his choice of words struck him as unfortunate, Thorpe addressed himself to his coffee. Miss Tolerance considered the web of information and impression in her mind. Finally, “Mr. Thorpe, was there some benefit that accrued to your father from your position at the War Office?”
“What? Can’t think of any. He liked knowing what was being planned—he’d grill me on it, approve or disapprove based on what happened a hundred years ago. I think he hoped I’d give Castlereagh a scolding on his behalf, or at least pass along his advice. My father believes England would have been done with Bonaparte by now were he prosecuting the war.”
Miss Tolerance thought of Mr. Boddick at the Wheat Sheaf and smiled. “So do half the men in this city, Mr. Thorpe.”
“Half the men in the city don’t have an ear in the War Office.”
“Are you saying you told Lord Lyne things he should not have known?”
Thorpe looked up from his coffee with an unexpected glint of steel in his expression. “I may be a drunk and a cheat, but I’m neither stupid nor a traitor. I gave the old man no secrets. Half the nation knew of the plan to sink Bonaparte’s fleet before it was rebuilt; the damned ships were sent off with bands and ladies waving kerchiefs.”
“Chatham’s expedition?” Everywhere she turned of late there was Walcheren or its vestiges.
Thorpe had not heard her. “…and I told him so. The old man got properly exercised, muttering about the lessons of history.”
“He was distressed?”
“More incensed. Wrote a long letter out, told me to give it to Castelreagh. Who, I don’t doubt, threw it in the fire. I certainly never heard that the Secretary said aught to my father.” Thorpe’s coffee was gone. He hefted the coffee pot, put his hand against the side. “Cold. What has all this to do with Evie?”
“I do not know yet, Mr. Thorpe. Perhaps something useful. It is my experience that seemingly unrelated events do, sometimes, when laid together properly, tell a story.”
“And that story will answer all?” With increasing sobriety Mr. Thorpe’s habitual sneering demeanor was reasserting itself.
“I trust my intuition, sir, and my intuition says it will.”
Henry Thorpe pinched the top of his nose and closed his eyes. “Then find my sister, Miss Tolerance.”
A mist too fine to be rain but too wet to be fog had settled over St. James’s Square. Miss Tolerance pulled the collar of her half jacket tight, wishing she wore the Gunnard greatcoat that fell to her ankles. She had donned a favorite walking dress, hoping the day would turn fine. That hope defeated, she decided to return to Manchester Square, change into men’s clothes, and hire a horse to ride in relative comfort to Pitfield Street. Mr. John Thorpe might not like the example she set for his charges, but she would be warm and dry and more attentive to her day’s work.
A hackney carriage delivered her to Manchester Square. As her aunt’s house would at this hour be bustling with the tumult that followed a night’s successful business, she decided to avoid the brothel altogether. She went down Spanish Place to the garden door. Or would have done, but an electric sensation between her shoulder blades told her she was being followed close by. She turned. The man blocking her return to the square was tall and broad-shouldered; he wore a greatcoat of brown wool, stained and rumpled, and a shapeless hat pulled over his eyes. The fellow did not mean to be recognized or described to any other party, but Miss Tolerance knew him.
“Mr. Worke?” She kept her voice as level as she might.
Worke’s full, sneering mouth twitched. “Know me, d’you?” He hefted a walking stick in his left hand.
“I have a memory for faces.” Miss Tolerance looked past Worke to see that the street was empty. He had no confederates waiting to assist him, which was good; she saw no one she could summon to her aid, which was not. “What brings you to Manchester Square?” The ivied garden wall rose beside her, the gate to the garden too far to reach before he overtook her. Calling out might bring assistance, if someone chanced to hear her cry.
Worke scowled at Miss Tolerance.
“Is it a coincidence that we meet today, sir? Or is there some way in which I can be of assistance?” She had no knife or sword, and—she damned herself—she had come out without her pistol in her reticule. It would have to be her wits. Miss Tolerance took a step back toward Spanish Place. “I do not generally conduct business here; perhaps if you will accompany me to Tars—”
Worke stepped forward. He reached for Miss Tolerance’s shoulder, his hand meaty and strong; blocking it would be as good as a declaration of hostilities. “You’re goin’ nowhere,” he said. “Not without you tell me what I’m wishful to know.”
Ignoring the hand on her shoulder Miss Tolerance drew herself up and said crisply, “This mysterious manner does neither of us good, sir. State your business and perhaps I may assist you.”
“You’ll tell me.” Worke squeezed her shoulder. The pressure was so painful it was all Miss Tolerance could do not to cry out. “You will tell me.” He was as much interested in causing pain as in answers, she thought. If she pretended her shoulder did not hurt he would doubtless redouble the pressure. If she squealed it would please him, no doubt, but how would that benefit her?
“Take your hand off me,” she said quietly.
Perhaps without realizing it, Work relaxed his hand just a little; Miss Tolerance dropped her shoulder, twisted out of his grasp, and retreated a few feet toward the gate. The big man looked at his hand as if it had betrayed him, and stepped forward.
“I have friends just beyond this wall,” she told him. “Can you say as much? I dislike to disturb my neighbors, but I will cry out if you force it.”
The big man looked to his left and his right. Then, startlingly, Worke grinned. His teeth were uneven and yellow; the smile ferocious. “No one to hear. Now, missy, what you done with my box?”
“Box?” Miss Tolerance’s bewilderment was genuine.
Worke stepped forward again. “Don’t play the innocent. You took a box from Tommy Proctor’s crib an’ I want it back.” He moved to grab her shoulder again. Miss Tolerance dodged out from under his hand, but in so doing she fetched up against the wa
ll of Mrs. Brereton’s garden. Worke’s hand came out to bar her way, and he loomed over her, confident in his ability to intimidate.
“I took no box.” It was only the truth.
“Hell you say. I went round to Tommy’s and they tol’ me you come took away the box of—of mine. I’ll have back.”
Miss Tolerance suspected that the news that his box was safe in the hands of a Bow Street magistrate would enrage Worke further. The big man took a step forward. Then Worke reared up and spun, shaking his shoulders violently. Miss Tolerance jumped away and for a moment saw a shaggy head just behind Worke’s own. With a great shrug he shook his attacker off, but now something—it appeared to be a large dog—hung from Worke’s leg. He pivoted on one foot, shaking the other to free it from what she saw now was a boy. Bart, the leader of the crossing-sweeps, clung ferociously to Worke’s leg with arms, legs, and—yes, with his teeth, too. Worke, bellowing, swung his leg around until he could smash it, and the boy, against the garden wall. With his next kick Bart went flying, hit, and dropped to the base of the wall. His eyes were open and he was conscious, but blood flowed from under his hair and curtained his cheek.
Worke bent over his leg, where the trouser was torn and there was blood. Miss Tolerance dodged past the man to get to the boy; his hand swept out to grab her in vain.
Bart was panting; blood slid into his mouth, but when he looked up at Miss Tolerance his eyes focused. “D’I stop ‘im, miss?”
Miss Tolerance would have reassured him, but there was no time. Worke straightened up and brandished his walking stick. “The box, you whore, or I’ll finish dashin’ that-un’s brains out.”
Miss Tolerance placed herself between Worke and the boy. “You will have to kill me to do it, and then how will you know where your box of bark is?”
At the mention of the contents Worke checked. Then, “You’ll gimme that box or I’ll murder ye both!” Worke lumbered forward. Miss Tolerance did the only thing left to her: she kicked the man as solidly as she could between the legs. It was not a direct strike: she had enough experience with such tactics to know that. It hurt him, though. Worke staggered back, the stick in his hand fell with a clatter, and he crouched over his pain. Rather than stay to see what damage she had done, Miss Tolerance pulled Bart to his feet and made for the garden door, hoping to be through it before Worke recovered.
She did not see what occasioned the sudden bellow behind her. Not until she had the door open and Bart pushed before her into the garden did she turn. Keefe, with Ted behind him, held Worke by the scruff of his neck like a truant schoolboy.
“Everything all right, miss?” Keefe, unruffled, might have been asking how the weather did. Worke, on his knees before Keefe, hung there. The flesh round one eye was swelling and his lip cut open.
“Thank you, Keefe. It seems you have matters in hand.”
Ted circled round the two men to peer into the garden. “Bart! Your ‘ead’s busted!” He pointed with delighted horror at his friend’s gory crown.
“Not broken, I think,” Miss Tolerance said. “But in need of bandages and a beef steak. Keefe, may I leave this—” she gestured at Worke—to you?”
“Aye, miss. I’m happy to take him off your hands.” He shook Worke gently. Worke glared about him, and Miss Tolerance suspected that very soon his belligerence would return unless he was made aware of the uselessness of it.
“The box, Mr. Worke? Did your informant tell you I was only one of a party who went to Mr. Proctor’s rooms? The others were a magistrate and a Runner. The box is at Bow Street; if you inquire there I’m certain they will be delighted to discuss the matter—and Tom Proctor’s death—with you.”
This information appeared to knock the remaining air from Worke; his mouth worked soundlessly and he looked side to side as if he feared someone else might have heard the news. Keefe hauled him to his feet unresisting and turned him toward the Square.
Miss Tolerance urged Ted before her into the garden. Looking back, she saw Bart’s cap and Worke’s walking stick lying on the walk; thoughtfully she collected them, locked the garden gate, and shepherded the boys into her cottage. There, over his protests, she stanched the bleeding from Bart’s head wound, urged him out of his jacket, and inspected him for other damage. Ted, awed by his leader’s bravery as much as by his injuries, kept up a delighted patter about the bully’s size and ferocity, until Bart told him curtly to give over.
There was a moment where Miss Tolerance thought violence would break out again. To forestall it she sent Ted to ask for a piece of steak for Bart’s eye.
“Thank you for coming to my aid,” she said gravely. She had put the kettle on, and now poured a little warm water into a basin and took up a rag to clean his face.
The boy shrugged away, but Miss Tolerance held him firmly in place.
“Y’re welcome to it.” He was sullen. Then a grin broke across his face. “We’re in business t’gether, like. Can’t let ‘im ‘urt a partner.”
“Very true. Speaking of business, I collect you had come to bring a report?”
“Yes, miss. Nothin’ much yesttiday except the red-haired man come in the evening and got turned away.”
Miss Tolerance stopped dabbing and regarded the boy. “Did he?”
“Yes, miss. Round about lightin’ time. ‘E come stumpin’ down the street, mad as the duck’s dinner.” The boy’s eyes gleamed through the gore. “An’ that was before ‘e even clapped the knocker. Footman come to the door, tuck a look at the ginger-man, shook ‘is ‘ead and woulda closed the door, only the ginger-man put ‘is boot in the way, like. Couldn’t ‘ear what was said, but the red-headed man was that angry. So the servint got the door closed, but the ginger-man slammed on the knocker so ‘ard I thought ‘e’d strike it straight through the door. Servint come and opened the door again, wiv another bloke be’ind, both shakin’ their ‘eads. Dunno if the Lord was out, or just wan’t in to Ginger, if you take me.”
Miss Tolerance assured Bart that she did. “Did you see all this yourself?”
“‘Appen I did,” he said proudly. “Ted wrote it all down for you, miss.” Bart pulled a grubby twist of his paper from his pocket and offered it to her.
Miss Tolerance put it aside as, at that moment, Ted returned Keefe just behind. The porter carried a large tray with cheese, bread, several small pies, a pitcher of milk and, in state on a china plate, the requested beefsteak.
“Thought as how the young’uns might like something to eat after their exertions, miss.”
“Very well thought of, Keefe. I thank you.” It was clear that a bond of some sort had been forged between the porter and her spies. Miss Tolerance put aside the stained rag, having done as much for Bart as she could, and offered him the steak, which he clapped to his face at once.
“Please eat, boys,” Miss Tolerance urged.
It was not to be thought that any conversation might be had while the youngsters applied themselves to their meal. Bart’s wound began to bleed again as he ate, and it was all Miss Tolerance could do to keep the gore from mixing with his milk and meat pie. She took the food from his hands, bound his crown in a rakish bandage, then let him reunite with his meal.
“You may tell your fellows you were a hero today. And you as well,” she told Ted. “For fetching Mr. Keefe.”
Ted, crumbs of cheese adhering gummily to his teeth, grinned. “Best adventure I ever ‘ad, miss.”
Miss Tolerance poured him more milk.
When the boys had finished everything on the tray to the last crumb of pie crust, Miss Tolerance paid them their stipend with an additional vail for heroism. This new source of income impressed Bart despite the shaking he had sustained.
“P’raps you’d like to ‘ire us on full time, Miss. As—” he sought for the word. “Some’un to guard you, like?”
“You propose yourself as my bodyguard?”
“Done good for you just now, ain’t we?”
Miss Tolerance regarded Bart’s bloodied collar and the bandage o
n his crown and wondered what his mother would make of the idea. “I cannot waste your talents on brute force,” she said. You are more useful to me in your present assignment.”
Bart was determined. “There’s the other’ns for that, Miss.”
“But without your leadership—”
“Well, yeah. They’d be ‘opeless wivvout I tell ‘em what to do.”
Miss Tolerance smiled. “Just so. Bart, I must ask you to remain my secret weapon.”
“Secret weapon? Well, I might do, I s’pose.”
The boys left; Miss Tolerance sent Keefe to bespeak a hack at the stables and changed from her walking dress to the breeches, coat and boots that were better suited for travel on horseback through the city.
“What did you with Mr. Worke?”
The porter looked pleased. “Told him if he ever come round here again or thought to touch so much as a nail in your shoe, I’d break his crown for him.”
“I hope he was suitably chastened?”
Keefe nodded. “There’s them that remember me from my prize-fighting days, Miss Sarah. Happen that ‘un did. He won’t come round no more.”
Miss Tolerance thanked him. She did not doubt Worke would avoid Manchester Square. Thoughtfully she picked up the walking stick Worke had dropped and ran her thumb over the handle, a rough carving of an elephant’s head. It was proof that Worke had already attacked her once, and well away from Keefe’s observation. Striking at her on Threadneedle Street might have been the clerk’s own idea, but she did not believe Worke had approached her here on his own authority. It was time to confront Abner Huwe and insist that he call off his dog.
She took the cane and set out, not for Pitfield Street and Mr. John Thorpe, but for Fox Street and Amisley and Pound Drayage. She wore her small sword and carried her pistol, half-cocked and ready, in the pocket of her Gunnard greatcoat.
Miss Tolerance urged her hired mount through the busy streets, east past Gray’s Inn toward Shadwell, thinking of Worke’s attack upon her and the reason for it. He had demanded the coffer of cinchona bark, and spoken of it as his own. But when he learned the box had gone to Bow Street his reaction had been fear, and not, she thought, fear of the Runners. Miss Tolerance thought he was afraid of what Abner Huwe would do when he learned where the box had gone.
The Sleeping Partner Page 23