Petty Treason (11 page)

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Authors: Madeleine E. Robins

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Sir Andrew, his relief poorly concealed, was guiding Miss Tolerance toward the door. “I think you show excellent common sense. There, now. I shall have Hemmings procure a hackney coach for you, shall I?”
Their farewells were accomplished with relief on Sir Andrew’s side and a good deal of sodden gratitude on Miss Tolerance’s. It was not until she had reached the confines of the carriage that she permitted her shoulders to straighten, and succumbed to the laughter which had threatened to destroy her imposture.
She was not surprised that the chevalier had not been well liked, or liked at all, at his office. His propensity for deep play was known there, and his losses as well (had his luck been better, she doubted his job would have been threatened). As to his memberships in Tarsio’s and Brooks’ clubs: the wonder was not that d‘Aubigny had been cast out of Brooks’ but that he had been admitted at all. Miss Tolerance would very much have liked to speak to someone at Brooks’, but she had no contacts there. This made it very simple to know where her next destination must be. She rapped on the carriage roof and ordered the driver to take her to Tarsio’s.
As the coach approached Henry Street, Miss Tolerance saw Steen, Tarsio’s night doorman, heading toward the club. She rapped at once for the driver to stop, called out to Steen to hold a moment, and paid the fare. Steen, a little surprised to be hailed in the street by an apparently respectable woman, brightened when he recognized Miss Tolerance, and agreed at once to her request for a few minutes’ conversation before he reported for work.
“It will not make you late, will it?” she asked. “I should dislike to put you in trouble with Mr. Jenkins.”
Steen assured her that he usually arrived early, and that the club’s manager would, in any case, wish him to accommodate one of the club’s favorite members. Miss Tolerance privately doubted
that Mr. Jenkins would be concerned with accommodating her unless a coin found its way to his pocket.
“Now, miss, how can I help you?” Steen asked politely, when they had settled by the fire in a nearby tavern which catered to upper menservants.
“I need some information about one of Tarsio’s members,” Miss Tolerance said.
“A
member
? Ah, miss, you know I can’t!”
Miss Tolerance was familiar with the rules of a game which required that Steen must proclaim his unwillingness to betray the secrets of his workplace, and that she must overcome his scruples with a soothing application of silver. “Since the member is deceased, Steen, and I am investigating his death, I honestly think even the chevalier would not blame you for rendering assistance. Perhaps this will assuage your honor?” She slid a coin across the table.
Steen did not look at the money, but placed his hand over it and regarded Miss Tolerance with an expression of sincerity. “Then it’s the Frenchman you’re talking about?”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “The Chevalier d’Aubigny. I cannot think why I never knew he was a member.”
“Kept different hours from you, miss. Only come late in the evening, for the deep play. He wasn’t the sort to come chat in the Ladies’ Salon. One of the burgundy-and-guinea set, so to speak.”
“Who else makes up that set?”
Steen looked uneasy. “There’s a good number of ’em, miss. Can’t name ’em all.”
“Of course not. But had he any particular friends or cronies I should speak to? Always keeping your name and the name of the club from the conversation, of course.”
Steen considered. At last, “Another Frenchman, Beauville—they was thick, miss. At play and drinking. And w—I overheard them talking some times about—” The man reddened. “Talking about the girls in that cat-smart in Green Street, too.”
“Cat-smart?”
“
You
know, miss. Mrs. Lasher’s.” When Miss Tolerance did not immediately understand he continued with a tone of desperate
embarrassment. “A birchery. A whipping house. They was talking about how—
agreeable
Mrs. Lasher was, and another called Jenny Striker. There was another Frenchy, a woman, they spoke of too, but she didn’t sound like a whore.”
“Camille Touvois?” Miss Tolerance suggested.
“Madame Too-wah,” Steen agreed. “They seemed to think she was a rare bit.”
“So I have heard,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “Would you by any chance have Mr. Beauville’s direction, Steen?”
The footman shook his head. “Mr. Jenkins would know, a-course, but I don’t know he’d give it to you.”
Miss Tolerance agreed that that was highly unlikely. “Can you tell me anything more about Mr. d’Aubigny?”
“Not much, miss. He wasn’t an openhanded fellow, nor an agreeable one, that I can say. Brimful with consequence. I wouldn’t wish no one to die the way he did, but I can’t say I’m bothered that he’s gone.”
Miss Tolerance noted that this appeared to be the universal sentiment in the matter. Steen pocketed the half crown Miss Tolerance had passed to him, hoped they would see her soon at Tarsio’s, and took his leave. Miss Tolerance, reflecting that each new turn seemed to limn the chevalier’s character more grimly, decided that she must pay call at Mrs. Lasher’s in Green Street.
This, she reflected, had become a highly instructive afternoon.
M
iss Tolerance was no innocent, and was familiar with the general run of brothels in London, but she had never before set foot in a house exclusively run for the pleasure of flagellants. It was a pursuit which baffled her: if one was neither a criminal nor a schoolchild, what possible reason could there be to be whipped? She had not been caned since she was seven or eight (although her father had threatened it, upon learning of her love for Charles Connell), and certainly she had never sought such punishment. Her first impulse was to return to Manchester Square to take up the armor of her masculine garb, but to do so would be to lose the momentum of inquiry she had achieved. She left the coffeehouse and walked to Mrs. Lasher’s. Whatever the character of the house, she reflected, its address suggested that it catered to the gentry. Indeed, when she reached the address Steen had given her, she found the trappings of respectable commerce not unlike those at Mrs. Brereton’s establishment: well-maintained property, polished brass, and a doorman in clean livery.
Miss Tolerance applied to see the brothel’s manager.
“Mrs. Lasher’s occupied, miss.” The doorman, with condescension suited to the household of a duke, looked Miss Tolerance
up and down and made it plain he was unimpressed with what he saw.
Miss Tolerance smiled politely. “Then perhaps I may wait for her. I only need a few minutes of her time.” She patted the reticule at her side meaningfully. “I would be very appreciative.”
With a boldness that belied both her drab, respectable costume and her pleasant demeanor, Miss Tolerance planted herself in the foyer. It was smaller than that in Mrs. Brereton’s establishment, and less lavish in its appointments, but the smells were predominantly of beeswax and blacking, and it was well lit.
“I shall wait here.” She took a straight-backed chair stationed outside a withdrawing room and smiled up at the doorman, who was obviously perplexed by the novelty of this visit. He left her alone in the hallway; Miss Tolerance could hear tones of urgent conversation beyond the stairs. After a few minutes more a hardfaced older woman in unrelieved black appeared before Miss Tolerance and asked her business. Miss Tolerance had her measure at once, and met cold dismissiveness with authority.
“I need a few minutes of Mrs. Lasher’s time, on urgent business. No, I am afraid I cannot trust the matter to anyone else. No, I shall stay here until she can see me.”
The woman sniffed, went away, and returned after a quarter hour, when she appeared surprised to see Miss Tolerance still there. She left again, returned after another quarter hour or so, and this time asked Miss Tolerance to follow her. She led Miss Tolerance up the stairs. Whatever the specialty of the house, Miss Tolerance reflected, the fundamental noises and comments audible through the closed doors seemed much the same as at Mrs. Brereton’s. The woman on the landing above, in a costume like a Hussar’s uniform, complete to the tall shako on her head, carrying a riding crop, was novel.
“In here,” her escort said. Miss Tolerance brought her attention back, murmured her thanks, and went in. She found a plump older woman seated on a sofa, gently dabbing with a sea sponge at welts on the back of a younger woman who sat, naked from the waist up, beside her. A tray at her feet held a basin of bloodstained water, another sponge, and several jars of ointment. Both
women were chatting unconcerned, as if such wounds were not worth commenting upon—and in this venue perhaps that was so. The older woman spared a glance for her visitor, then returned to her work.
“Mrs. Lasher?”
The older woman looked up again. She wore a frilled cap perched on brazen hair, and a girlish dress which displayed too much well-worn bosom. The half-naked girl stared at Miss Tolerance curiously but seemed unself-conscious in her own undress.
“I’m Mrs. Lasher.” The woman lisped slightly. “Are you come looking for work? If you are, I must tell you at present we have all the girls we need. Unless you have a
specialty
.” She looked Miss Tolerance up and down, much as the footman had done.
“I haven’t come seeking employment, ma’am.”
The madam’s face hardened. “Then what? Come to beg me to send your man home?” Her tone was mocking. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told others, girlie: if your man got at home what he gets here—”
“I’m sure that’s all true, ma’am, but I’m afraid you misread me. I merely require information about one of your late clients.”
“Information?” Mrs. Lasher put the sponge aside and began to dab the girl’s welts with a greenish salve. She took her time, finished her work, draped a robe gently over the girl’s shoulders and wiped her hands. “You’ll do, Jen. Off you go.” She waited until the girl had departed, then turned back to Miss Tolerance. “And who would
you
be?”
“I am Miss Tolerance, ma’am. I’ve been asked to inquire into the death of one of your late patrons.”
Mrs. Lasher’s small black eyes narrowed. “A death? We’ve had no death here.”
Miss Tolerance hastened to reassure her. “Of course not, ma’am. But I was told that the Chevalier d’Aubigny—”
A look of mingled apprehension and relief crossed the madam’s face. “Oh. Him. You’ll pardon if I got a little wary, missy. A woman in my business is prey to all sorts of rumors. Truth to tell, since I heard the chevalier’d got killed I’ve half expected someone to come round. I never expected it would be a woman,
though.” She looked at Miss Tolerance with renewed curiosity. “Why ain’t it the Runners? How comes a female to be poking around in this business. Tolerance, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sarah Tolerance. I earn my living asking questions.” Miss Tolerance smiled politely. “Am I correct that the chevalier was one of your patrons?”
Mrs. Lasher nodded. “Was. ‘E started out to come regular.” Having established an equality of footing, her pretense to genteel speech diminished. “We weren’t quite what was’e was lookin’ for.”
“Indeed, ma’am? How so?”
The older woman leaned forward confidingly. “Some men come here, they want to be lashed, scolded, taken down a bit. Some want to do the whipping. They all want to
play
. The chevalier, though, what he really liked was too rich for our blood. A real brute, ’e was. I had to keep a girl in the room to chaperone, otherwise ’e’d go too far. ’Ad is own gear for it and all—”
“Gear?” Miss Tolerance’s imagination failed her.
“Aye. A regular kit he had, and would pay well to use it. Not just whips, neither. Most of my girls wouldn’t, not after one time with ’im. At the last I had to tell ’im ’e was welcome for a civil whippin’, but we couldn’t tolerate the rest. That was the end of ’im and us. I hadn’t seen ’im in near a year. You’ll hear the same story at all the birching houses in town. We talk among ourselves, see. That’s how ‘is sort ends up: thrown out of the quality houses and having to find poor girls that’s desperate enough to take his money. Now the chevalyer, ’e set a woman up for his private use.”
“Did he?”
“Din’t she come around ‘ere about a month ago and tell me herself, asking could I use ’er some time? ‘E run out of money, I imagine. Josie’s a good looker and willin’, and if she was good enough for the chevalier, I figgered she’d do for us.”
“A month ago? Before he died, then.”
“Must have been,” Mrs. Lasher agreed.
“What about the chevalier himself? Can you tell me anything about him?”
Mrs. Lasher shrugged and her raddled chest heaved. “A lordly one, wasn’t he, nothin’ too good for ’im.” She rose, clearly feeling the interview was at an end.
Miss Tolerance thought back to what Steen had told her. “Was he ever accompanied by a friend, Mrs. Lasher?”
The madam pursed her lips in a parody of reticence. “I dunno as I should say. The chevalier’s dead, and never mind to ’im. But—”
“Let me try again. I was told that the chevalier came here with a Mr. Beauville. Do you know where I might find him?” Miss Tolerance took up her reticule as she spoke. The gesture was not lost upon Mrs. Lasher.
“‘E and the chevalier was thick as thieves,” she agreed. “Though Mr. Beauville’s tastes din’t run so rich. When Josie’s here ’e comes to see her—for a bit of civil fucking, mind, and nothing nasty. We don’t take names and addresses, miss.”
“Perhaps I might speak to Josie, then.”
Mrs. Lasher shook her head. “She don’t live on the premises. Sees ’er callers by appointment, you might say. Can’t say when she’ll be back.”
Miss Tolerance asked for Josie’s address but received only a frown. Miss Tolerance did not press. For the moment Mrs. Lasher had said what she was comfortable saying. It would not do to lose her good will and future cooperation. Miss Tolerance opened her reticule and extracted a note.
“I hope I may call upon you again some time, if further questions arise.”
Mrs. Lasher looked at the note and pursed her lips. Finally she nodded. “Will you find your way out? I’ve some tidying to do here.”
Miss Tolerance nodded, curtsied and left.
Night was fully fallen when she emerged from Mrs. Lasher’s. She had accomplished a good deal that day, but there was one intriguing path of inquiry left to her: Miss Tolerance was obliged to admit herself strongly drawn, by private curiosity as well as necessity, to investigate the chevalier’s association with the salon of Madame Camille Touvois.
About Madame Touvois Miss Tolerance knew only what was repeated as
on dit
in her aunt’s establishment, or reported in the social notes of those gazettes that covered the
moyen
, as well as the
haut ton
. She knew, for example, that Madame Touvois occupied
a set of rooms in Audley Street and, for her evening parties, kept them filled with a lively mix of poets, politicians, pamphleteers, peers, painters, playwrights and women of all sorts. She knew there was frequently music, or the reading of poetry; that essayists and pundits were said to polish their epigrams there, and the conversation was reputed to be wide-ranging, vigorous, and radical in tone. She did not imagine it would be too difficult to insinuate herself into such a gathering.
Miss Tolerance returned to Manchester Square to dress for the purpose. It took some ingenuity to devise a costume fashionable enough for such an evening but not so fashionable as to draw attention. Upon this errand she was determined to stay in the background, whence her best observations might be made. She settled upon an evening dress of moss-green silk, a particular favorite of hers. With her dark hair pinned up with a beaded ornament and her warmest cloak wrapped around her, and armed with no invitation but her own wit, she set out for Audley Street.
She gained entry to the party without much ado, mingling with a crowd as they entered the building. Once inside she left her cloak with a weary attendant at the door and proceeded in to the party.
The apartment was made up of several large rooms, all quite crowded. By the evidence of plates and cups already emptied and abandoned throughout the first room, Miss Tolerance understood a refreshment table to be located further in. She assumed the hopeful expression of one in search of sustenance, which gave her license to move through the party without the need to speak to anyone. A group of writers expounded upon the perfidy of publishers; a throng of somberly dressed men debated the government’s handling of the war, their boisterous pessimism fueled by gin punch. An intense young man with a soft collar and sloppily tied kerchief attempted to attract her attention. A young woman in sheer silk and deep décolleté was arguing passionately upon the subject of girls’ education with a man whose eyes did not once rise above her collarbone. A tall, spare man of middle years was listening to the views of a substantially younger man with very bad skin; they appeared to be debating the War Support Bill and whether it would cause outright starvation among the peasantry;
the older man kept his hand on the younger one’s shoulder, kneading it possessively, and it appeared his thoughts were upon hungers which would not be solved by a good harvest.
It was, all in all, very much what Miss Tolerance had expected.
In the last and largest of the rooms she found a table piled with cakes, fruit and savories, and a man dispensing cups of punch and lemonade. Across from the refreshments a group of men were clustered; from the center of the group distinctly feminine laughter issued, cutting through the masculine noise. Casually Miss Tolerance worked her way to the edge of the crowd, whence she saw a woman holding forth with great animation upon the crimes of the current French regime. This, Miss Tolerance surmised, was her hostess, Madame Camille Touvois.
“—The property of the poor? May the Good God preserve us from sentimental optimists! The poor have no property! The only right the poor have in France, Mr. Allen, is to provide more fodder for the cannons.”
Madame Touvois turned to hear a murmured question, then threw back her head in a great laugh. She was not a beauty, Miss Tolerance observed. Her features were irregular, her hair was sandy-colored and coarse—from the sheen of candlelight upon it Miss Tolerance gathered it was unruly and had taken a generous amount of pomade to subdue—and her skin a little sallow. However, she was amply supplied with that confidence and vivacity which made beauty inconsequential. Her eyes were handsome, dark, and compelling. Her mouth was small and neatly shaped, with small white teeth. When she smiled, Camille Touvois looked as though she were poised to bite something.

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