ma’am.”
Mrs. Harris appeared unsurprised by this answer, but an edge came into her voice. “What, do you think it is some sort of illness you have, my dear? Come, come, even ladies will have their fun, and when they find that they must pay the piper the come to me to—”
“You mistake me, ma’am. I am not here to avail myself of your services.” She took a breath. “Perhaps we should start anew. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Tolerance, and I was sent by Mrs. Codfinger, who said that she had seen you in conversation with a young woman I am seeking to find.”
Mrs. Harris frowned. “I don’t talk about the ladies that come to me, Mrs. Tolerance—”
“ Miss Tolerance.”
“ Miss Tolerance?” The woman shrugged. “Well, Miss Tolerance, do you think, if word got out that I gabbed, I’d ever see another penny for my services?”
As discretion was one of the most important aspects of Miss Tolerance’s own services, she was sympathetic. “I do understand, ma’am. But I do not believe this young woman came to you to avail herself of your—your services. She has run away from her family, and I am attempting to return her to them.” Miss Tolerance extracted the portrait from her reticule and handed it to the other woman.
Mrs. Harris held the picture out, almost at arm’s length, and squinted at it. Just for a moment Miss Tolerance thought she saw recognition in the older woman’s expression. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry you’ve come for nothing, miss. They’re both pretty girls, but I’ve never seen either one of ‘em. The shorter one looks a bit like Daisy Quiller, from three streets over, but she’d never have the brass to pay for a picture like that.”
She returned the portrait to Miss Tolerance.
“Why would Mrs. Codfinger have told me she had seen you with the girl, ma’am?”
“What would I be doing chatting up girls? I’m not in that business.” Mrs. Harris’s disdain was complete. “Rosie Codfinger’s souse enough to imagine any number of things. She’s also the sort would enjoy sending another person off chasing cat-phantoms. I’m that sorry for your time and trouble but I can’t help you. I’m sorry for the girl,’ she added more feelingly. “Gentle-bred thing like that probably don’t know the first thing about what she’s got herself into.”
“My fear is that she is learning, ma’am.” Miss Tolerance rose. “You are quite certain you have never seen her?”
Mrs. Harris stood also. “What, are you calling me a liar? I said I han’t seen her, and that’s God’s truth.” She raised one square hand as if taking her oath. “Now, you’ll oblige me by leaving. I have business to attend to.” She crossed her arms as if to present the sturdiest obstacle possible to continued conversation. Miss Tolerance curtsied and departed.
It appeared that Mrs. Harris had been a waste of her morning. Miss Tolerance went out past Martin and his friends, who had returned to examining the carrion on the front step, and reluctantly moved aside to let her pass. Miss Tolerance sought out her hackney coach where it waited for her.
As she returned to Tarsio’s late that afternoon, Miss Tolerance calculated that she had visited seventeen coaching inns that day, with nothing to show for it except her own growing conviction that Miss Evadne had not left London, with or without a companion, by stage. Unless the girl’s seducer was wealthy enough to hire a private chaise—and Miss Tolerance had not the resources to send inquiries to every posting house on the northern roads—it appeared likely that her quarry was still in London. It was a pleasant thing to have ruled out the rest of England, she thought, but not much comfort when she considered all the places in London where a runaway couple might hide.
No messages awaited her at Tarsio’s. Miss Tolerance bespoke dinner in one of the small withdrawing rooms and went up at once to write a report to Mrs.
Mrs. Harris appeared unsurprised by this answer, but an edge came into her voice. “What, do you think it is some sort of illness you have, my dear? Come, come, even ladies will have their fun, and when they find that they must pay the piper the come to me to—”
“You mistake me, ma’am. I am not here to avail myself of your services.” She took a breath. “Perhaps we should start anew. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Tolerance, and I was sent by Mrs. Codfinger, who said that she had seen you in conversation with a young woman I am seeking to find.”
Mrs. Harris frowned. “I don’t talk about the ladies that come to me, Mrs. Tolerance—”
“ Miss Tolerance.”
“ Miss Tolerance?” The woman shrugged. “Well, Miss Tolerance, do you think, if word got out that I gabbed, I’d ever see another penny for my services?”
As discretion was one of the most important aspects of Miss Tolerance’s own services, she was sympathetic. “I do understand, ma’am. But I do not believe this young woman came to you to avail herself of your—your services. She has run away from her family, and I am attempting to return her to them.” Miss Tolerance extracted the portrait from her reticule and handed it to the other woman.
Mrs. Harris held the picture out, almost at arm’s length, and squinted at it. Just for a moment Miss Tolerance thought she saw recognition in the older woman’s expression. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry you’ve come for nothing, miss. They’re both pretty girls, but I’ve never seen either one of ‘em. The shorter one looks a bit like Daisy Quiller, from three streets over, but she’d never have the brass to pay for a picture like that.”
She returned the portrait to Miss Tolerance.
“Why would Mrs. Codfinger have told me she had seen you with the girl, ma’am?”
“What would I be doing chatting up girls? I’m not in that business.” Mrs. Harris’s disdain was complete. “Rosie Codfinger’s souse enough to imagine any number of things. She’s also the sort would enjoy sending another person off chasing cat-phantoms. I’m that sorry for your time and trouble but I can’t help you. I’m sorry for the girl,’ she added more feelingly. “Gentle-bred thing like that probably don’t know the first thing about what she’s got herself into.”
“My fear is that she is learning, ma’am.” Miss Tolerance rose. “You are quite certain you have never seen her?”
Mrs. Harris stood also. “What, are you calling me a liar? I said I han’t seen her, and that’s God’s truth.” She raised one square hand as if taking her oath. “Now, you’ll oblige me by leaving. I have business to attend to.” She crossed her arms as if to present the sturdiest obstacle possible to continued conversation. Miss Tolerance curtsied and departed.
It appeared that Mrs. Harris had been a waste of her morning. Miss Tolerance went out past Martin and his friends, who had returned to examining the carrion on the front step, and reluctantly moved aside to let her pass. Miss Tolerance sought out her hackney coach where it waited for her.
As she returned to Tarsio’s late that afternoon, Miss Tolerance calculated that she had visited seventeen coaching inns that day, with nothing to show for it except her own growing conviction that Miss Evadne had not left London, with or without a companion, by stage. Unless the girl’s seducer was wealthy enough to hire a private chaise—and Miss Tolerance had not the resources to send inquiries to every posting house on the northern roads—it appeared likely that her quarry was still in London. It was a pleasant thing to have ruled out the rest of England, she thought, but not much comfort when she considered all the places in London where a runaway couple might hide.
No messages awaited her at Tarsio’s. Miss Tolerance bespoke dinner in one of the small withdrawing rooms and went up at once to write a report to Mrs.
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