The Sleeping Partner by Madeleine E. Robins

afternoon at Number 7, Duke of York Street. I shall await your visit eagerly.
    CB
     
    Miss Tolerance read the letter twice, folded it, put it in her reticule, and finished her tea. This was curious: by summoning her to her father’s house Mrs. Brown was giving up that anonymity which had been so crucial a few days before. Miss Tolerance could only conjecture what this meant. Had more information had turned up regarding Miss Thorpe’s seducer? Perhaps Lord Lyne had thought better of his harsh stance regarding his daughter. She looked again at the note; it was rather more abrupt in tone than she would have expected from Mrs. Brown, such suggested some excitement of mind. Might the girl have returned on her own? Had there been some new development? Miss Tolerance put on her gloves; the only way to know was to call upon Mrs. Brown.
     
    At the corner of Duke of York Street Miss Tolerance saw Bart and his fellows still at the corner; several of the boys were tussling, but one of them stood with an air of abstraction, ignoring his fellows and ostentatiously not staring at the Lyne house. Pleased, she put her hand to the brass knocker.
    The door was opened at once. Miss Tolerance was ushered in by a servant in black broadcloth; sensitive to the ways in which upper servants assess a household’s visitors, she was pleased that, after observing her walking dress, hat, and boots, the footman appeared to find them and their wearer acceptable. The man took Miss Tolerance’s name and left her to wait, briefly, by the door. The house was pleasantly warm and smelled of beeswax and verbena. Miss Tolerance was admiring a cluster of nautical prints when the footman returned.
    Whatever had transpired in his few moments away, the man now looked unsure of himself, or perhaps of his visitor. Even his voice, as he bid her follow him, was uncertain. Miss Tolerance put herself on guard and followed the man up the stairs. On the first floor he guided her along the hall, opened a door, and departed with speed. Miss Tolerance, as much forearmed as she could be, entered.
    The room was gloomy. Miss Tolerance made out green walls, brown sofa and chairs, a case of books bound in brown and green leather, and more of the nautical prints she had seen downstairs. Spread out upon a large table was a map of the continent, held at the corners with books. There was a good fire in the grate and a branch of candles on a well-ordered desk, but no natural light. A man stood facing the fire. Despite the warmth of the day his hands were stretched out as if to warm them.
    “Come in.” He spoke to the fire. “Do not stand there all day.”
    “I beg your pardon,” Miss Tolerance advanced a little further into the room. “I was looking for Mrs. Brown.”
    “Hah. Is that what she called herself? Yes, I know who you’re looking for.” The speaker turned. He was an older man of middle height, his sparse light hair combed forward over a high forehead, his eyebrows thick. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles pushed well up on his nose; the eyes behind them were cold. “I know all about it.”
    “I am happy to hear it, sir.” Miss Tolerance curtsied. “Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain to me. Have I the honor to address Lord Lyne?”
    The man gave a bark of laughter. “You know that, d’you? My daughter thinks she has been very clever, but I see you know all about her.”
    “Hardly that, sir. But you cannot expect me to enter a house unknown to me without a little inquiry into its owner.” Miss Tolerance kept her tone mild. “My lord, if I was summoned here by your daughter—”
    “You were not,” the man snapped. “I wrote that letter, bid you come so I could tell you to your face to cease your interference in my household.”
    “Ah, I see.” Miss Tolerance kept her tone neutral. “Does Mrs. Brown know that you have done so?”
    “Why should I tell her? I am telling you. Hi, there!” Lyne craned his neck to look past Miss Tolerance. “You,