Point of Honour by Madeleine E. Robins

wish no more than you to breech my aunt’s promise of discretion to her clients, but if you can say—”
    Cole shook his head. “Ain’t one of the clients, miss. Not the meat of it, anyway. But one of ’em-I shan’t say which, it’s as much as my job’s worth—he says … it’s the Queen Regent, miss.”
    Miss Tolerance raised her eyebrows. “Take me with you, Cole. Queen Charlotte is one of my aunt’s clients?”
    The footman blanched. “God save me, no, miss.” He appeared to boggle at the thought for a moment, as Miss Tolerance did herself. “No, miss. Only that one of the gentlemen told—and was overheard, and the maid—” The footman grew more and more confounded, trying to authenticate the story without implicating anyone in the house.
    “I need not hear who overheard what, or told whom. But what is this news of yours?”
    “The Queen’s took sick, miss. Might be like to dying, an apoplexy, Lor—the gentleman said. He’d been up all night at Kew Palace, and ridden back at dawn to meet at Whitehall—then come here for a bit, for the release, if you take my meaning.”
    “I do, thank you.” Miss Tolerance let out a long, low whistle. “If the Queen Regent dies, it’ll be a nasty scrum, won’t it? Old Mad George may live on for another twenty years while his sons scramble to rule the country.” She shook her head. “Well, we must pray for her recovery. There’s certainly nothing you or I can cure ourselves. Thank you, Cole.” She smiled in dismissal and the footman bowed himself out the door. Miss Tolerance’s ruminations on the subject lasted only a few moments more, long enough to wonder whether the “Lord” was of the royal party or opposition. The political maneuverings of the Whig and Tory factions and their puppet princes might bring her business in the future, but for the moment her concern must be for Lord Trux and his fan.
    She opened the letter and found it was, as she had hoped, from one of the shop clerks she had spoken to the day before.
     
I believe the person your seeking goes now by the name of Cook, not Carter. Mrs. Cook lives in considable reduced circumstances, and sends the broidery she does for us from Greenwich, by a messenger comes from an inn there, the Great Charlote. I have reason to believe she is the person you axed after. One of the clerks has been here for five-and-twenty years says Mrs. Cook was once a patron of our establishment in her better days, and a notable Beauty.
Hoping this will be sufficient, I remain, etc.
     
    Miss Tolerance sighed. It would have been pleasant to discover that Mrs. Cunning, now Mrs. Cook, lived close enough by that she would not need to hire another hack. It would have been pleasanter still to discover that Mrs. Cook was absolutely Mrs. Cunning and no other, before she went through the trouble and expense of the ride. She looked at the clock and decided that by the time she had procured another horse and ridden out to Greenwich, it would be early evening—not the best time to be in an unfamiliar town looking for an unknown woman, particularly as Greenwich, home to the Royal Naval College, was often thick with seamen home on leave and ripe for the happy prank of chasing down an unaccompanied woman.
    Regretfully, Miss Tolerance decided the day must be written off. In the wake of her brief interview with Lord Trux the night before, she was more than a little conscious of the fact that this day had yielded nothing remarkable in the way of progress. Still, there were sometimes such days; tomorrow would doubtless be better.
    Miss Tolerance took up her writing desk, sharpened her pen, and put out a few sheets of paper. She wrote a series of notes. First, to the stables asking them to arrange the hire of another horse for the morning. Next, a reply to the shop clerk who had so obligingly provided Mrs. Cunning’s whereabouts, sending her thanks and a half-crown note. And finally, a note to Lord Trux detailing what she had accomplished.