The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (12 page)

Vinnie smiled. “No wonder you decided to visit us.”

The comment was made with innocuous good cheer, but it reminded Agatha of her true purpose—to discover whether the woman next to her was a murderess—and she felt heat suffuse her cheeks again. Awkward and embarrassed and discomforted by the unfamiliar sense of duplicity, she exclaimed, “You clever miss!”

The statement was patently absurd, both in its content and its delivery, but rather than cry foul, Vinnie assured her that her watering hose invention was much more impressive, a fact that was immediately proven with a demonstration. If anyone had told Lady Agony Bolingbroke that she would enjoy watering a row of orchids with the Brill Method Improvised Elasticized Hose, she would have laughed in her face. Yet, as she applied the reassuringly sturdy contraption to
Cypripedium calceolus,
she discovered that the activity was entirely pleasing. There was something childishly fun about playing with someone’s new invention, and she giggled as she pictured the expression on her father’s face when she spoke with authority on recent innovations in watering hoses.

Agatha was so diverted she didn’t realize the conservatory had new occupants and jumped when she heard the unexpected drawl of Lord Addleson. “I really must insist that you stand back, Lady Agatha, for that shade of puce does not do your complexion any favors.”

Although Lady Agony prided herself on the issuing of stinging set-downs, although she had made her name by dispensing cutting rejoinders, she once again found herself at a loss. Her first thought—her only thought—was that there was nothing near her that could be called puce. The walls were lilac, the floor tiles were jonquil, the desk to the side was mahogany, the chair next to it a deep royal blue. The flowers themselves were a vibrant mix of hues far too many to catalog, and although the lady’s slipper she was watering at that moment could be described as a purplish pink, no one in his right mind would designate the shade as puce.

Then again, Viscount Addlewit could hardly be described as being in his right mind.

Yet she was the one standing there dumbfounded like a nick-ninny.

The situation was intolerable! Oh, it very much was, for he was a nodcock who could not lift his eyes above his own expertly tied cravat. His only talent, aside from picking the perfect pattern to match the tassels on his boots, was catching her unawares. To be sure, it was a very impressive accomplishment because aside from these few brief moments of vulnerability, her guard was always up.

Caught now, with a hose in her hand and a childish whisper still in her heart, she turned Miss Harlow’s invention on Addleson. She sprayed him boldly with the device, moving the stream methodically from the top of his head to the tip of his shoes, making no effort to pretend the soaking maneuver was an ill-judged move on her part. Everyone watching knew it was intentional.

When she was satisfied that her victim had been thoroughly drenched, when even the droplets of water clinging to his blond locks had droplets of water clinging to them, she carefully laid the hose down next to the
Cypripedium calceolus
.

“Don’t look now, my lord, but your waterfall does not go with your Waterfall,” she said, although in fact she did not know enough about cravats to identify the knot he was wearing as the Waterfall.

Calmly, Agatha turned to her host, as an apology was very much in order. Even she, with her negligible social graces, knew it wasn’t the thing to soak one’s fellow guest to the bone. In truth, she
was
sorry to have created a scene in the Duke of Trent’s conservatory. She did not know what had come over her—except she did know and suspected she would do it again.

Standing on her dignity, for it seemed to her to be the only thing she had left, certainly not the high ground or the upper hand, she stiffened her shoulders and raised her head to meet Miss Harlow’s horror head on. But there was no horror, only bubbling mirth, and all at once, like the shot of a pistol, the room echoed with laughter. It reverberated not just with the hilarity of Vinnie or her sister or even the duke, who had always seemed like an imposing figure to Agatha, so high in the instep and formal, but with Addleson’s as well. Her victim seemed particularly amused, his hand clutching his side as he gasped out raucous chortles of delight. Perhaps the water had dissolved the last wit he had left.

Determined to quit the company as quickly as possible, Agatha did not wait for her host to settle down but rather offered her apology over the laughter. She did not know if Miss Harlow heard her, for she could barely hear herself over the noise, but she took Vinnie’s abrupt nod as acceptance and excused herself from the room.

She had just passed through the front door when she heard Addleson call out, “Wait, Lady Agatha!”

On a sigh, she walked down the steps and stopped. She had known this moment was coming. Despite the seeming amusement, no gentleman, especially not a dandy of the first water like Lord Addlewit, could let such an insult stand without issuing his own stinging set-down. She did not cavil at the treatment, for the pleasure she had felt in soaking him was worth any number of harsh words.

Dutifully following instructions, she waited patiently for him at the bottom of the staircase. When he was near, she took a deep breath and turned to face his ire.

“Miss Harlow tells me you arrived in a hack. Please allow me the pleasure of escorting you home,” he said.

If Agatha were to try to capture the absurdity of the scene for display in the front window of Mrs. Biddle’s, she would draw her own eyes as wide as saucers and have her jaw scrape the ground. She had never in her entire life been as shocked by anything as the viscount’s generous offer. He could not be sincere in his efforts.

No, she realized, he wasn’t sincere at all. He merely wanted the time and comfort of the journey home to properly take her to task. She was not such a fool as to fall in line.

“Thank you,” she said calmly, “I can find my own conveyance home.”

“I do not doubt it,” he said, seemingly not bothered by the puddle forming at his feet, “but there is no reason for you to make such an effort when my carriage is out front.”

Naturally, she was struck by how reasonable he sounded, as if he had no thought in his head other than her comfort, but she was not fooled by it. “Given that I have just soaked you with a hose, I think avoiding an angry reprimand is a very good reason to make the effort.”

Addleson’s lips twitched as he affected a look of surprise. “I reprimand you?” he asked, as if the idea were as outlandish as eating pie on the moon. “My dear, you overestimate my fondness for dry clothes.”

He had a way about him, Agatha conceded as she looked in his eyes, all but gleaming with amusement. There was something likable about his absurdity, in the humor he found lurking in every corner of a conversation. But having just wielded the hose, she knew better than to accept his pose. “And you underestimate my intelligence. Good day, sir,” she said firmly as she marched down the front walk.

Addleson caught up to her in a few easy strides. “Please, Lady Agatha, please,” he said, his tone modified to reflect—or affect—actual concern, with none of its usual mockery. “I promise you I’m not in the least put out by your actions. I’m not entirely sure what I did to warrant such a reprisal, but I don’t doubt that I deserved it. I know I can be provoking.”

Because his manner was so different, Agatha stopped and considered him thoughtfully. The gentleman standing before her bore little resemblance to the fop she had known previously. Indeed, he seemed like another person entirely. She didn’t know how someone could alter himself so completely.

“Truly?” she asked, still suspicious. But what purpose did he have in deceiving her? If he wanted to vent his spleen, he could do so right there on the quiet street. “You are not angry at the damage I have caused to your clothes or your dignity?”

Now his smile was as genuine as his tone. “I have plenty of both and put little stock in either.”

Standing there, the sunshine dappling the walkway, Agatha found herself oddly entranced by his good humor and goodwill. His temperament appeared to be exactly as it ought, and his intelligence seemed to shine brightly in his eyes.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“Of course,” he added with a hint of the old drawl as he led her to his carriage, “I can’t speak for my valet, who cherishes his own dignity, which you have decidedly wounded with your actions. He’s also very passionate about tailoring and may try to hold you accountable for what he will see as a deeply personal humiliation. Be warned, he is a terrifying Frenchman with a creative vocabulary. If Boney had him as aide-de-camp, he would have not only prevailed at Waterloo but conquered all of Europe as well. We should be grateful that he chose instead to concern himself with the cut of my jacket.”

“I shall consider myself warned,” Agatha said, settling comfortably in his well-appointed vehicle.

“The secret to dealing with Girard is to wait until he is almost boiling over with rage and then compliment him on his—and this is the very important part—swallow-tail coat. Again, I can’t emphasize enough the importance of singling out the swallow-tail coat. During the five years in which I’ve made careful study of the phenomenon, I’ve praised his waistcoat, his trousers, his linen and the style of his hair. I even once observed that the pure soundlessness of his dull leather shoes was divine and it did not mitigate his ire one single bit. The only thing that works is admiration for the swallow-tail coat, which is, I believe, why the Waterloo scheme would have ultimately failed, for Girard would immediately cease commanding the troops to preen. Now, come, let me hear you try it.”

Agatha did not respond. Why would she when he was so obviously teasing her? Surely, he didn’t genuinely believe she would practice making nonexistent conversation with his valet.

“It’s a precautionary measure only, I swear,” he added, raising his right hand as if taking an oath. “Needless to say, I won’t divulge any details about my soggy state, but servants talk, you know, and they have an uncanny way of finding things out. It’s the very devil! Even if Girard does discover your name, I won’t reveal your address. But he is a resourceful little man, with the aforementioned battlefield skills, and in the unlikely event that he does manage to track down your whereabouts, I want you to be prepared. So do say it with me, ‘Your swallow-tail coat is humbling to behold, Mr. Girard.’ Note: That is a general compliment that works well for me, but you should, of course, feel free to tailor it to your preferences. You may be as free and easy as you like. I assure you, there’s no wrong way to say it.”

As he instructed her on what to say, Agatha could not help feeling as though he was making a May game of her. He claimed not to put too much stock in his dignity, but would he not feel some of it restored by the loss of hers? It was a reasonable suggestion, and she thought such a devious and frivolous revenge would suit a man like Addlewit.

And yet it was the frivolity of the enterprise that was most appealing, for the viscount seemed so eager, so hopeful she would play along, it felt churlish not to comply.

“Very well,” she said, swallowing her alarm. “That is a very nice swallow-tail coat, Mr. Girard.”

Immediately, he shook his head, “No, that was the wrong way to say it.”

Agatha crossed her arms over her chest and bit back an angry retort. Convinced now she was being mocked, she calmly repeated his words with pointed inflection: “There’s no wrong way to say it, eh?”

“Your skepticism is fully justified, but please bear with me as I clarify my terms, for I should have made a distinction between a compliment and effusive praise. The latter is what’s called for here. So while your compliment was very elegant and refined and exactly what you want to say to Mr. Brummell should you be seated next to him at a dinner party—and do file it away in the case of that eventuality—it would in no way defuse the situation should an angry Gaul turn up on your doorstep. Let’s try one more time, shall we?”

Agatha almost said, “No,
we
will not try one more time,” but the absurdity of the situation stopped her, for she was riding in a carriage with a gentleman who was still dripping from the soaking she had given him. Addleson’s sogginess wasn’t even the truly shocking part . Rather, it was the fact that Lady Agony was conversing in private with a gentleman.

It was an unprecedented development.

“I am in awe of your swallow-tail coat, Mr. Girard,” she said sweetly, “for it is the most magnificent example I have ever seen.”

Addleson nodded appreciatively. “Now that was perfect. You cadence and formulation were exactly right. In five years of toadying to my valet, I have never done better.”

To her surprise, Agatha felt a blush creep up her neck at his approval. “Your point is well made, my lord.”

“What point?” he asked, surprised.

“On the usefulness of effusive praise,” she explained, feeling more than a little foolish for how effectively it had worked on her. She neither wanted nor sought his good opinion, and the triviality of the subject made it entirely meaningless. And yet she was blushing.

The viscount laughed. “You won’t let me get away with anything, will you?”

He posed the question in his familiar teasing drawl, but Agatha said earnestly, “No, I don’t let anybody.

She knew at once her answer was too serious for the circumstance, for Addleson’s gaze sharpened and he tilted his head to the side.