The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (13 page)

Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, she said, “I did not expect to see you at the duke’s house.” Of course she was aware of the incongruity of Lady Agony questioning the sociability of another person, but it was all she could think of.

Rather than archly reply that
he
hadn’t expect to see
her,
which, she felt, he would have been entirely within his rights to do, he said, “My cousin suggested I seek out Trent’s advice on a political matter, given his breadth of experience..”

“You are taking up your seat in the House of Lords?” she asked because she was engaged in a conversation and it was what any thoughtful human being would naturally say next. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt another wave of embarrassment wash over her as the image of him literally carrying his seat flashed through her mind.

It was not, she discovered, a comfortable sensation to talk with the object of one’s ridicule before the object knew of the ridicule. Prior to this exchange, she had assumed it would be the same as talking to the object
after
he or she knew, as she had that afternoon with Miss Harlow. Yes, she felt a little awkward at being the author of some personal discomfort to the other party, but despite one tiny deception as to the identity of the artist, all the cards were on the table. Nobody had secret information about the future.

Now she did and it made her feel like a sharper.

Fortunately for her, Lord Addlewit did not take anything seriously. “Having achieved my life’s goal of sartorial perfection—you will note that even soaking wet, this topcoat holds its shape—I’ve decided to turn my attention to less pressing matters such as reducing the duty on silk handkerchiefs.”

“So having achieved your life’s ambition, you will now devote yourself to helping others rise to the same level of excellence,” she observed, aping his drawl. “How very public spirited of you.”

Addleson’s lips twitched. “Surely not the
same.
I am a member of Parliament, Lady Agatha, not a worker of miracles. If I could work wonders, my clothes would be dry by now.”

Ah, yes, there it is, thought Agatha, the scold for her ill treatment of him. She had known he could not pass an entire carriage ride without making some effort to elicit guilt. He would be happy, though clearly not surprised, to know his comment had the desired effect, deepening her discomfort. Lady Agatha Bolingbroke was not only a sharper but a cad as well.

How charming.

Unwilling to address his remark, for she could neither defend the attack nor apologize for it, she looked out the window as the familiar landscape of Duchess Street slipped by. She was almost home and would pass the rest of the journey in silence.

The viscount seemed content with her plan, for he made no further comment either, and only claimed her attention when they arrived at her town house.

“Ordinarily, I would insist on escorting you to your door, but in the interest of avoiding awkward questions about my sodden state, I think it’s best that we say good-bye here,” he explained as the carriage rolled to a stop. “You have been delightful company, Lady Agatha, and I appreciate your condescending to let me convey you home.”

As nobody had ever described Lady Agony as delightful, not even her father, who was genuinely fond of her, she had to assume he was mocking her again. His tone suggested otherwise, for it lacked the sardonic edge that usually infused his words, but his eyes—those baffling, puzzling, confusing eyes that she had found impossible to depict last night—remained amused and detached. For the sake of her art, she stared into his eyes, determined to memorize the expression so she could re-create it on canvas. She didn’t often choose random members of the
ton
as subjects for her portraits, but Viscount Addleson’s elusive nature offered compelling challenges.

But even as she resolved to render the gentleman in oils, she decided she did not like him. There was nothing novel in this conclusion, as she disliked a great number of individuals, starting with but not limited to pompous American naturalists, but she usually liked people in whose company she had passed a pleasant interval. Addleson, with his instruction on how to word a swallow-tail-coat compliment to his valet, had amused her. More than that, he had cajoled her into frivolity, an accomplishment so rare she valued it a great deal higher than sartorial perfection.

The pleasantness of the interval was undermined, however, by her inability to comprehend his true nature. His character seemed to shift from moment to moment, and while this elusiveness made him an interesting subject, it made him an unappealing companion. It was one thing to laugh at one’s French valet, for who had not been amused by the capricious ways of their servants, but it was another thing entirely to laugh at one’s peers.

Agatha realized that a charge of hypocrisy could be laid at her feet, for did she not regularly laugh at her peers in Mr. Holyroodhouse’s cartoons? But there was a difference, and although she couldn’t quite put her finger on the exact nature of the disparity, she knew it had something to do with the detachment of her work. Her drawings were not personal attacks against people; she was merely rendering for general consumption an idea that already existed in society. She did not pluck the Marquess of Huntly with her caricature; he had performed that service himself when he nominated Miss Harlow for admittance to his club.

Everyone must be accountable for his decisions, she thought, as she continued to stare into the viscount’s eyes.

And then she realized: She was still staring into the viscount’s eyes! Or must the activity, which had gone on for seconds or—
gasp!
—minutes, now be described as
gazing deeply
?

Agatha could not think of anything more horrifying and abruptly looked away to give the door handle her full attention. It was so unlike her to woolgather!

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, trying to recall the last thing he had said. Something about appreciating her condescension. Yes, of course. “And I appreciate your discretion in remaining here.” Even if he hadn’t been sodden, she would have insisted on seeing herself to the door, for anything else would have appeared amiable. “If you will excuse me, I’m sure my mother is wondering where I am. Thank you and good day.”

Unable to risk further contact, she kept her eyes trained down but even so, she knew his own eyes were amused. Everything amused him, and as she exited the carriage she reaffirmed her dislike of him. How disagreeable to be around someone who was entertained all the time.

After he helped her down, he tipped his hat and said with misleading solemnity, “Good day to you, Lady Agatha.”

Addleson immediately retook his seat in the carriage, but his horses did not pull away, and although she knew herself to be provoked, she did not turn around as she walked to the front door. She was so uninterested in his movements, she didn’t even peer through the peephole.

After handing her pelisse to Gregson, she found her mother in the drawing room flipping through a fashion magazine. Lady Bolingbroke looked up with a pleasant smile. “Ah, there you are, Aggie. I do wish you wouldn’t spend the entire morning painting in your dreary studio, as social calls are much more conducive to one’s health and happiness.”

“I was out paying a social call,” she said for the simple delight of watching her mother stare at her in amazement. Given that she usually spent whole days painting in her dreary studio, she wasn’t at all taken aback by her mother’s reaction. Amused, she sat down on the settee and poured herself a cup of tepid tea. “I visited Miss Harlow.”

“You
visited
the duchess?” Lady Bolingbroke asked, agog. “You
went
to her house and
chatted
with her?”

“Well, I chatted with her grace only briefly, but I did have a nice coze with Miss Harlow,” she explained, recalling with surprise how much she’d enjoyed her one-on-one with the horticulturalist. In truth, she had expected the experience to be long and tedious, but it had been quite pleasant. Sadly, and perhaps inevitably, the visit had ended on a sour note, what with her dousing the Duke of Trent’s guest, and she rather thought Miss Harlow had compounded Agatha’s faux pas by laughing uncontrollably. As her hostess, Vinnie should have smoothed over the awkward moment, not exacerbated it.

Recalling the incident again, Agatha felt the insult keenly.

Still trying to understand her daughter’s unprecedented sociability, her ladyship smiled hesitantly and dropped the magazine on the cushion next to her. “Did you? Did you
really
?” she asked suspiciously. When Agatha stared blankly at her, she tittered and shook her head. “I am so pleased. To be honest, I had a feeling an unconventional woman like Miss Harlow would have a positive effect on you. I know you think I have little patience or respect for your art, but I do understand how important it is to you. That is why I thought Miss Harlow would be such a good example. She has her inexplicable interest in drainage pipes and yet still enjoys social functions. It is possible to do both, Aggie dear.”

“Of course, Mama,” she said obligingly, wondering if she had unintentionally opened herself up to an extended lecture.

“She is so successful at striking a balance between her arcane interests and society that she has managed to nab not one fiancé but two,” Lady Bolingbroke added, her tone bright with admiration. “You will admit, it’s an impressive accomplishment, particularly when one is swathed in the unflattering colors of mourning.”

Agatha, whose interest in the conversation had been perfunctory, suddenly sat up in her chair. Her mother’s observation had been remarkably accurate: It was unusual for a woman in widow’s weeds to attach another suitor, for she was constrained not just by her own grief but also by the ugliness of her garments and the strictures of society. No gentleman wooed a lady in mourning.

If Huntly could not have wooed Miss Harlow while she was in mourning for Sir Waldo, perhaps he had wooed her before she’d entered it. Could she have won over a new parti while still attached to the old? She would certainly not be the first or the last woman to treat a beau so cavalierly. But what cause would she have to kill the poor man? Surely, it was better to be known as a jilt than a murderess.

But Miss Harlow wasn’t known as a murderess.

Could her motives be that monstrous? Agatha wondered.

“Huntly is, as you know, an exceptional catch. Her first fiancé, though an agreeable enough fellow, was only a baronet. Huntly is a marquess, which is a vast improvement, if,” her mother hastened to add, “one thought of marriage in terms of social advancement. I assure you, I do not. Your father and I are not particular in our requirements for your husband, merely that he be from a family of good standing and have a comfortable income. We do not require a title, though if you feel that is the only way you may be happy, we will support you in every possible way.”

Agatha had no doubt of her parents’ support. She had been assured of it almost weekly from the moment of her come out. To her mother’s credit, that good lady had remained remarkably consistent in her requisites for a son-in-law. Even with her increasing desperation, she had never swayed in her insistence on an established family. Agatha rather thought her mother would be happy with a well-educated fishmonger by now.

“I had not heard of Miss Harlow’s engagement,” Agatha said, wondering if it could be true. As her mother observed, baronet to marquess was an impressive promotion. Was it impressive enough to kill for?

Despite her attempt to create a complete picture, the pieces of the puzzle simply did not fit, for it was impossible to imagine Lavinia Harlow as a coldhearted killer. She recalled her delight in showing off her improvised device for watering flowers—a hose made of an expandable leather that wouldn’t burst under pressure. Agatha could not imagine a more frivolous yet more functional invention.

“Yes, she and Huntly are to be married by special license any day now. Moray mentioned it to me last night. I’m not at all surprised. In truth, I don’t think anyone is, for obviously Huntly put her name up for your father’s club in an attempt to win her good opinion. An unconventional manner in which to woo a young lady, to be sure, but I would never question the choices of others,” she explained with an air of complaisance. “From the very beginning, in fact, I had no issue with her joining the society. Your father was entirely appalled at the notion of a female invading the inner sanctum, but I believed it was a fair trade for the duchess’s support. We have one of the oldest names in all of England, but it never hurts to be seen in the company of a duchess.”

Although Agatha found herself startled to discover why the hoydenish young duchess had suddenly shown an interest in her, she knew she should not be. She herself had speculated as to by what method her mother had wrangled an invitation to the theater, for she had known the event could not have occurred on its own.

Forewarned, she could hardly pretend to have her feelings hurt now.

“Oh?” Agatha said vaguely, hoping to elicit more information from her mother. It would never do to show too much interest, for Lady Bolingbroke might begin to wonder if she had said something wrong.

“Well, you’re an intimate of theirs now, so you know how close the duchess and her sister are. Naturally, the duchess wanted to do whatever she could to help ensure her sister’s acceptance, so she offered to lend us her support in exchange for your father’s vote. Your father was initially put off by the proposal, for he thought a tit-for-tat arrangement quite vulgar, but I pointed out how we make such exchanges all the time—shillings for candlesticks, for example—and the duchess increased her offer to two social events. Your father felt compelled to agree.”